Archive of Our Own

Getting in the swing
You come to look for a king
Anybody could be that guy
Night is young and the music's high

Ever since Melissa King could walk—really walk, not the clumsy, uncertain toddling of most kids but something quicker, more certain—she had wheels under her. 

Little pink Barbie ones at first, that rattled against hardwood floors and left faint scuffs like proof of her passing, until balance became instinct and motion felt less like movement and more like breathing, something automatic and necessary. 

Her mother—loud, laughing, alive in a way that filled every room she entered—came from the bruised, glittering world of NOVA Roller Derby, where women collided like weather systems and got back up grinning, and she passed that world down not as a hobby but as a birthright, so the rink became less of a place and more of a second home, its neon lights flickering like a heartbeat, its polished floor humming beneath Mel’s wheels like it knew her. 

The air always smelled like sugar and sweat and something metallic and Mel learned early that this was what love looked like. Her mother lacing up skates with quick, practiced hands, the low murmur of the crowd swelling into cheers, and the feeling of being exactly where she was supposed to be.

Becca didn’t move through that world the same way. Her body resisted rhythm where Mel’s leaned into it, muscles refusing the easy cooperation skating demanded, so the rink became something else for her—a place of edges and careful steps.

She’d grip the barrier as she shuffled along, music pulsing too loud and too bright, and sometimes it ended with the sharp, unforgiving kiss of the floor against her knees or palms, something that never felt like just a fall but a full-body overwhelm.

So they made sure Becca had somewhere softer to land, whether that meant retreating to Mee-maw and Pop-pop’s living room where cartoons on Boomerang played in bright, looping colors or setting her up with a task that made the world make sense. 

The concession stand became that space—structured, predictable, the hum of the soda machine and the repetitive rhythm of scooping popcorn turning into something almost soothing, where Mel translated the chaos of people into patterns Becca could follow, each transaction a small, manageable script that built something like confidence, something like pride.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

By eighteen, the rink wasn’t just home—it was purpose, direction, gravity—and Mel stepped into the New Skater Training program with the kind of quiet certainty that comes from having already lived a majority of your life on wheels, her body recognizing drills before they were explained, edges and weight shifts clicking into place like muscle memory waking up. 

There was a contradiction in her that no one ever pointed out—a hum beneath her skin, senses always dialed a little too high, the world too loud, too bright, too much. 

But on the track it narrowed, focused, like everything extraneous burned away, especially once she pressed in her earplugs and the noise softened into something manageable, the chaos filtering down to only what mattered—the crack of wheels on the floor, the sharp callouts, the rhythm of bodies in motion. 

She chewed through mouthguards like they were made of sugar, jaw working constantly, a grounding instinct she didn’t have words for, but out there—skates on, body moving—she wasn’t overwhelmed, she was electric, every nerve ending lit up in a way that finally made sense.

She was good—no, better than that—something almost unfair in the way her body moved, turning her into something fluid and unpredictable, limbs bending and twisting with a kind of effortless elasticity that made the other skaters laugh and shake their heads, calling her “Mel-astic” as she slipped through gaps that shouldn’t exist, all catlike grace and impossible angles. 

As a pivot, she stayed forward-facing, never bracing for impact the way others did, instead dancing just out of reach, letting hits glance off or miss entirely, her skates carving the floor in smooth, controlled arcs that felt more like drawing than fighting. 

It was art disguised as sport, survival disguised as play, and beside her mother—shoulder to shoulder, wheel to wheel—it felt like something unbreakable. 

They found a rhythm that would carry them forever.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

But forever is a fragile thing, and cancer doesn’t care about momentum or love or how perfectly someone fits into a world. So when her mother got sick—fast, brutal—it tore through their lives like a pile-up on the track, bodies colliding all at once, leaving everything scattered and unrecognizable in its wake. 

The rink went quiet without her, not literally but in the way sound loses meaning when the person you associate it with is gone, and Mel couldn’t step onto that floor without feeling like she was stepping into a memory that refused to stay in the past. 

She became what was left—caretaker, med student, sister, everything all at once—the weight of Becca’s needs and her own grief pressing in from all sides until there was no room left for derby, no space for anything that felt like before.

For a long time, she couldn’t even look at the skates.

And then, slowly, like testing the edge of something fragile, she started again—not the same, never the same—but smaller, quieter, rolling across the worn floor of her apartment where the sound was softer, contained, or out into the parking lot where the open air made it easier to breathe, the night wrapping around her like a second skin. 

Music blasted through her headphones—an odd, perfect mix of 80s roller disco and her favorite female rappers—until it filled every corner of her mind. 

And when she pushed off—when the wheels caught and carried her forward—something inside her loosened, something unknotted just enough to let her exist without the constant, crushing awareness of everything she was holding. 

She still did tricks sometimes, quick flashes of the girl she used to be, but mostly she just moved—back and forth, to and from, through the city in long, gliding lines—because motion meant freedom, and freedom, even in small doses, was enough.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

By the time she and Becca landed in Pittsburgh, life had reshaped itself into something functional but heavy, days packed tight with responsibility, exhaustion clinging to her like a second layer of skin, but skating stayed, stubborn and necessary, threading through her routine in quiet, persistent ways. 

She took the long way everywhere just to stay on her wheels a little longer, cutting through streets and sidewalks with practiced ease, the city blurring at the edges as wind rushed past her face, sharp and clean and real, a sensation she could anchor herself to when everything else felt like too much. 

At the park near her apartment, she claimed the empty tennis courts like they were her own private rink, circling and circling until her thoughts smoothed out into something manageable, the repetition turning into rhythm, the rhythm into something like peace.

Because when she skates—really skates—the world narrows to a single, perfect track.

There’s no past, no future, no grief pressing at the edges of her ribs or responsibility waiting for her when she stops, just the immediate, electric present. The grip of wheels against pavement, the subtle shift of weight in her hips, the awareness of every crack and curve beneath her feet, her body moving in constant, instinctive adjustment to stay upright, to stay in control, to stay free. 

It’s the only time everything inside her goes quiet, the only time the noise—external, internal, all of it—fades into something distant and unimportant, and for those moments, brief and fleeting but real, she isn’t carrying anything at all.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The air tastes like fall when Melissa King steps out of PTMC—cool and crisp, edged with the dry scrape of leaves skittering across pavement—and it fills her lungs in a way that feels almost medicinal, like something clean finally reaching places that have been stale all day. 

Her body still hums with the fluorescent buzz of the ED, with phantom alarms and overlapping voices echoing behind her ribs, but the second her skates hit the ground and she pushes off, that noise begins to dull into something distant and manageable. 

She’s got fifteen extra minutes before she has to pick Becca up from Middle Hill, and it feels indulgent—like stealing time she doesn’t really have.

She cuts toward the park without hesitation, wheels catching smooth pavement as she slips into motion, and when the basketball court opens up in front of her—sunlight pooling across cracked asphalt, metal hoops casting long shadows—she rolls straight onto it like it’s hers. 

The world narrows the way it always does, sound softening beneath her music until there’s only the rhythm of her breath and the steady glide of wheels, her body loosening into something fluid and instinctive. 

She spins, drops low, twists clean through transitions that feel like second nature, braid snapping against her back, limbs bending in ways that look almost unreal.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Across the park, near the wooden castle Penny has claimed as her own, Frank Langdon stands with one foot braced back, pushing both swings at once, one kid in each hand. The structure looms behind them—winding staircase, high platforms, splintered wood that makes his stomach tighten just looking at it—but Penny loves it, especially playing Rapunzel with Tanner, standing at the edge and throwing down the rope like it’s long blonde hair while forcing him to climb up over and over again. ‘

Frank usually stays up top with her until he has to call it—rope burn, common sense, liability—but Tanner would keep going forever if she asked, because he loves his little sister like that, the kind of love that says yes before thinking, even if it means getting his makeup done and his nails painted after an impromptu tea party.

“Higher, higher!” Penny demands, voice sharp and insistent, her legs kicking wildly as she leans back like she’s trying to touch the sky.

“This is as high as we’re going, Penny,” Frank says, steady, giving her just enough to satisfy but not enough to make his stomach drop.

There’s a beat of silence—rare, suspicious—before Tanner suddenly leans forward in his swing, attention snapping somewhere else entirely.

“Wooooah, Dad, look!”

Frank follows his line of sight—and then really looks.

She’s moving fast across the basketball court, spinning and cutting and twisting like the ground is working with her instead of against her, like she’s not fighting for balance but dancing with it, every movement sharp and controlled and just a little bit unreal. 

At first she’s just motion to him—speed and rhythm and something almost abstract, a figure too fluid to pin down, too distant to be anything but impressive. His eyes track her anyway, drawn in despite himself, trying to make sense of something that doesn’t quite feel real.

Her blonde hair is braided tight, whipping back and forth with each turn, and that’s the first thing that catches—something familiar in the way it moves, in the precision of it, like he’s seen that exact braid a hundred times but never like this. 

Her features come into focus slowly, piece by piece between spins, soft even from a distance, her body fully padded—knees, elbows, wrists—practical but still somehow… striking, the sunlight catching along the lines of her arms and the curve of her shoulders as she moves. 

He squints slightly, head tilting, something in his chest tightening with recognition that doesn’t quite land yet.

No, he thinks at first—because it doesn’t make sense.

Because the girl he thought he knew is always tired, always composed, always holding herself together like if she stops for even a second something might fall apart, and this—this is something else entirely, something lighter, freer, something that doesn’t fit into the version of her he’s built in his head. 

She spins again, closer this time, and for a split second her face is clear—really clear—and it hits him all at once, sharp and undeniable.

Oh.

Oh, shit.

It is her.

And suddenly he can’t look away—not because she’s unfamiliar, but because she is, and she isn’t, all at the same time—and the realization settles in his chest slow and heavy, like something shifting into place.

“How is she doing that? I want to do that!” Penny says, already halfway out of her swing before it’s fully slowed, sneakers skidding into the mulch as she twists toward the court, eyes wide and bright with want.

Frank reaches out automatically, catching the back of her hoodie before she can take off.
“Hey—no, no running up to strangers,” he says, crouching slightly, voice gentler but firm, pulling her back just enough to keep her in place—even though she’s definitely not a stranger.

“But Dad,” she whines, dragging the word out, bouncing on her toes now, already vibrating with impatience, “I just wanna ask! I wanna know how she’s doing the spinny thing—please please please—”

Frank doesn’t answer right away.

Because he’s just… staring.

He’s surprised, more than anything, to see her here—out, enjoying herself, doing something that’s entirely hers—because he knows how little free time she has. How she insists she’s okay with it even when it’s obvious she’s not. 

He was under the impression she had nothing like this, nothing just for her, and seeing it now—seeing her like this—makes something in his chest shift in a way he doesn’t quite name.

“Uh—no, my girl,” he says finally, crouching slightly, voice softer now. “We can’t just interrupt people when they’re enjoying themselves.”

Her mouth presses into a thin line, eyes narrowing just slightly in that way that is so unmistakably her mother, stubbornness settling in like it’s already won, and before Frank can react, she plants her feet, cups her hands around her mouth—

“HEY LADY—”

The scream cuts through everything.

“Penelope Lane,” he says, low and firm, that dad tone settling in without effort, one hand braced on her shoulder to keep her still, “we do not scream at strangers in the—”

A yelp cuts through his sentence.

Not loud, not drawn out—just sharp, startled, the kind of sound that comes out before someone can stop it—followed immediately by the harsh, unmistakable scrape of plastic skidding against pavement, a sound that hits something instinctive in his chest, something urgent and immediate.

The scream sliced straight through Mel’s music, through the careful balance she’s built, and her hands come up instinctively, yanking her AirPods out as her head whips toward the sound, her body shifting out of rhythm just long enough for something small—a rock, uneven pavement—to catch under her wheels. 

There’s no time to correct it, no chance to fall properly, not when her brain is already flipping into ED mode, attention hijacked by that sharp, familiar pitch of a child’s scream.

One second she’s upright.

The next, she’s not.

The fall is fast and ugly and completely uncontrolled—momentum pitching her forward hard, her skates slipping out from under her as she hits the pavement with a jarring, bone-rattling impact, hands catching wrong, arms scraping, her body twisting at an angle that makes it look way worse than it is but still hurts like hell. 

It’s not a clean derby fall, not the kind she knows how to make small and controlled. It’s aggressive, chaotic, the kind that leaves her sprawled and stunned and breathless.

“Oh fuck,” Frank breathes, already moving.

Penny gasps—louder, sharper this time—but Frank’s already halfway to his feet, turning fully now, eyes locked on her as he takes a step forward

“Don’t tell your mother I said that!” he adds automatically, even as his eyes stay locked on her, waiting—just a second—to see if she recovers on her own, because maybe she will, maybe she’s fine, maybe—

She’s not.

Mel rolls onto her back slowly, staring up at the sky like it might anchor her, clouds drifting lazily overhead in a way that feels almost insulting compared to the sharp, immediate pain lighting up her body. 

Her hands are raw despite the gloves, palms throbbing where the impact broke through, her forearms scraped raw and stinging, her glasses bent crooked on her face, and her hip—her hip is killing her, a searing, radiating pain that shoots up and down with every small shift. 

But most of all, she just hopes nobody saw her go down.

Behind him, Penny doesn’t move this time.

All that boldness drains out of her in an instant, shoulders pulling in, hands dropping to her sides as she stares at the spot where Mel went down, the reality of cause and effect settling in heavy and unfamiliar.

“Daddy,” Penny says, smaller now, all that boldness collapsing in on itself as guilt creeps in, her voice tugging at his sleeve, “go help her.”

For half a breath he freezes—because his kids are here, because he’s a father before anything—but training surges forward anyway, clean and commanding, overriding hesitation with something sharper and louder.

“Hey—eyes on me, both of you,” he says quickly, voice low but urgent, crouching just enough to meet them where they are, grounding them before they can panic. “I need you to be my helpers right now, okay? Daddy’s gotta do doctor things, so you’re coming with me, and you’re going to sit on the bench and stay quiet—can you do that for me?” 

He doesn’t wait long for the answer, because he knows them, knows the way they’ll follow if he sounds sure enough, and he scoops Penny up against his side while catching Tanner’s hand, already moving, already calculating.

The court feels too big suddenly, the distance stretching thin and tense as he closes it quickly, his breath sharp in his lungs, his focus narrowing until there is only her. She’s on her back, too still, eyes closed, skates still on, and something cold threads down his spine, sharp and immediate, his mind already building worst-case scenarios before he can stop it. 

“Mel—hey,” he calls, dropping beside her, his hands hovering for half a second before settling at her shoulders, firm and steady, anchoring her to something real.

For a moment, nothing happens.

Then she flinches under his touch, sharp and instinctive, and relief hits him so hard it almost makes him dizzy, his breath leaving him in a quiet rush he didn’t realize he’d been holding. 

Her eyes open slowly, unfocused at first, the sky still smeared across her vision in pale blue and white, her head ringing faintly, her body lagging a step behind reality.

There’s a shape above her.

A voice.

Familiar—but her brain hasn’t caught up yet, still sorting through sensation before meaning.

Then it clicks.

Blue eyes.

Dark hair falling forward just slightly.

Of all the people—

Her stomach drops in a way that has nothing to do with the fall, something sharper and more immediate curling low in her chest as awareness floods in all at once, heat creeping up the back of her neck despite the cool air, her skin buzzing with a different kind of discomfort now. 

He saw it—he had to have seen it.

Of course it’s him.

“...Hi,” she breathes, voice rough, eyes finally locking onto his as recognition settles in fully, something like relief flickering for half a second before embarrassment crashes in right behind it. “That was… not my best work.

Her body softens just slightly under his hands anyway, tension draining in careful increments despite everything, because it’s him, because some part of her trusts him before she even thinks about it.

He sees everything at once—, the way her glasses sit crooked, the angry red abrasions along her forearms—and it pulls something tight in his chest, something protective and a little too personal.

“Don’t worry about that,” he says, softer now, voice dropping into something steadier, something meant just for her. “Talk to me—what hurts?”

She exhales shakily, dragging a hand over her face before letting it fall back against the pavement. “Everything,” she mutters, voice rough but there, “but like… not in a broken way. More in a ‘my dignity just got absolutely obliterated’ kind of way.”

He huffs out a quiet breath that almost resembles a laugh, even as his hands move with practiced precision, already working. “Yeah, we’ll assess the dignity damage later,” he says, fingers careful as he reaches for her helmet strap. “Right now I’m more concerned about your body—any dizziness? Nausea? You hit your head?”

“No, no head,” she says quickly, blinking up at him, grounding herself in the steady blue of his eyes. “Just my hands, my arms, and—” she winces, shifting slightly, “—my hip is really mad at me.”

“Alright,” he murmurs, already filing that away, undoing the strap and easing the helmet off with careful hands. “Don’t move too much yet, okay? Let me check you out.”

He works methodically, removing her pads one by one, his touch firm but controlled, pausing whenever her breath catches, adjusting without thinking, his focus absolute. The skates come off last, his fingers steady as he loosens them, sliding them free, setting them aside like something temporarily irrelevant.

“At least I always wear my PPE,” she says after a second, voice lighter than she feels, trying to fill the space, to make it less her.

“Yeah,” he says quietly, a small laugh behind it, “guess med school drilled at least one good habit into you.”

She follows every instruction, answers every question, lets him guide her through it, even as blood beads along her palms and her forearms burn raw, even as her hip throbs deep and insistent. He doesn’t miss the way she minimizes it, the way she brushes it off, but he lets it slide for now, because she’s alert, oriented, present—and that matters most.

“Okay,” he says after a moment, shifting closer, sliding one arm behind her back. “Let’s see if you can sit up.”

She inhales, bracing, and he feels it—the tension, the hesitation—as she leans into him, her weight settling against his side, her warmth seeping through the thin fabric of his shirt. She manages it, barely, jaw tight, breath controlled, and he adjusts immediately, taking more of her weight without comment.

“Easy,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.”

The walk to his truck is slow, careful, her steps uneven, her body leaning into his more than she probably realizes, and he doesn’t rush her, doesn’t let go even for a second. When they reach the truck, he lifts her up without hesitation, hands firm at her waist, settling her into the bed like something fragile he doesn’t trust the world with.

“I’m fine,” she insists, almost automatically, even as she winces.

“Mhm,” he hums, not arguing, already reaching for the first aid kit. “We’ll let the doctor decide that.”

“Pretty sure I already did,” she murmurs, but she doesn’t stop him.

The antiseptic stings sharp and clean, the smell cutting through the air as he works, his fingers gentle but efficient as he cleans and dresses each scrape, each abrasion, his focus unwavering. The attention makes her shoulders tighten slightly, something restless flickering beneath her skin, and she redirects it the only way she knows how.

“You must be Tanner and Penny,” she says, turning her head toward them with a small, apologetic smile. “It’s so nice to finally meet you—I promise I usually look a little less… disaster-prone than this.”

Tanner steps a little closer, curious but careful, while Penny lights up immediately, all earlier guilt dissolving into excitement.

“That was so cool,” Penny blurts, eyes wide. “You were like—spinning and going really fast and you didn’t even fall until—well—” she pauses, grimacing, “—until you did.”

Mel huffs out a soft laugh, glancing down at her scraped hands. “Yeah, well. That part was less cool,” she admits, ducking her head slightly. “I’m really not that great, honestly—”

“That’s not true,” Frank cuts in, immediate and certain, not even looking up from what he’s doing. “Don’t do that—don’t downplay it. You were incredible out there, Mel. I didn’t even know half of that stuff was possible.”

The words land heavier than they should.

She stills just slightly, something shifting in her expression as it sinks in—and something warm and unfamiliar curls low in her chest, catching her off guard.

She glances at her watch—and everything snaps back into place.

“Shoot,” she breathes, urgency flooding back in. “I have to get Becca.”

She shifts to slide off the truck, wincing as her hip protests, reaching instinctively for her skates—but his hand comes up quickly, stopping her.

“Absolutely not,” he says, firm, leaving no room for negotiation. “You are not getting back on those.”

“I have to,” she argues, stubbornness kicking in just as fast. “I can get there in like a minute on skates—it’ll take me forever to walk, especially like this.”

“Then I’ll drive you,” he says, simple, decisive.

“You don’t have to—”

“I know I don’t,” he cuts in, softer now, but just as steady. “Get in the truck, Mel.”

She hesitates, then exhales, shoulders dropping just slightly. “Okay… yeah. Okay.”

The drive to Middle Hill is quick, the late afternoon light stretching long across the road. When she steps inside, Becca notices immediately, eyes catching on every scrape, every bandage, concern sharpening her expression.

“Mel,” Becca says, stepping closer, voice tight, hands hovering uncertainly. “What happened? Did you fall? Are you hurt?”

“I’m okay,” Mel reassures quickly, offering her a small, steady smile. “Promise—just a little spill. You remember Dr. Langdon? He just so happened to be there and helped patch me up.”

Becca’s face brightens at that, recognition clicking into place. “Oh! Yes—I like him,” she says, glancing toward the door, then back at Mel. “Are we going with him?”

“Yeah,” Mel says gently. “Change of plans—we’re getting a ride with him and his kids, okay?”

Becca nods immediately, already pleased.

Back in the truck, Frank flips up the center console, turning the front into a bench, and Mel slides in close beside him, Becca settling by the window, already turning back to talk to Tanner and Penny.

“What’s your favorite color?” Penny asks immediately.

“Purple,” Becca answers without hesitation. “And yellow. What’s yours?”

“Pink,” Penny says. “And also glitter.”

“That’s not a color,” Tanner mutters.

“It is a color,” Penny insists.

Frank glances over briefly, catching the way Mel smiles—really smiles—despite everything, and something in his chest settles, quiet and warm.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

They pull up to her apartment, and Becca hops out first, turning back with a bright grin.

“Thank you for fixing Mel Dr. Langdon,” she says sincerely.

Frank smiles. “Of course.”

He moves around the truck, helping Mel down carefully, hands steady at her waist.

“I can’t believe I’m not completely broken,” she says, a little breathless, a little amused.

“Yeah, well—I’m glad you’re not. ” he says, eyes scanning her again, concern threading back in, “You are okay, right?” His hands linger just a second longer than necessary, brushing lightly along her arms, and the contact sends a faint shiver across her skin.

“I’m okay, better now,” she says, softer.

“I had no idea you could do all that,” he adds, a little quieter.

She shrugs lightly. “I’ve been skating forever—derby, mostly. It’s… kind of my thing. Or it was.” She hesitates, then exhales. “I should probably get inside, ice my hip before I even think about making dinner.”

Something tightens in his chest at that.

“Take it easy tonight,” he says instead, voice gentler. “Ice, rest—come find me Monday and I’ll check you out again, okay?”

“Okay,” she says, nodding.

He helps her to the door, steady and careful, before stepping back.

“Thank you,” she says again.

“Anytime,” he replies. “See you at work.”

She disappears inside.

When he gets back to the truck, Tanner and Penny are out of their car seats, already whispering—loudly.

“Dad,” Tanner says, squinting at him, “you were staring at her. A lot.”

Penny nods. “Yeah. You like her,” teasingly dragging out each word.

Frank exhales, running a hand through his hair as he climbs into the driver’s seat.

“Seatbelts,” he says.

But he doesn’t deny it.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

An hour later, Mel is still curled into the corner of her couch, Kindle balanced in her hands, the soft glow reflecting faintly in her glasses while Elf plays brightly across the television. She’s just settling back into the rhythm of her story when a knock breaks through the space, sudden and out of place.

“I’ll get it!” Becca calls, already halfway to the door, her voice bright with curiosity as her socked feet slide softly across the floor.

Mel barely has time to react before the door opens.

“Uh—order for DoorDash?” the driver says, holding up a paper bag with a small, uncertain smile.

Becca blinks at him, then looks back over her shoulder. “Mel?”

Mel pushes herself up slowly, bracing a hand against the couch as she stands, her hip pulling for a second before easing, her steps careful but steady as she moves toward the door. “We didn’t order anything,” she says, confusion threading through her voice as she glances between the driver and the bag.

The driver checks his phone, frowning slightly. “Uh… this is 412C, right? Building three?”

Mel nods slowly. “Yeah… yeah, that’s us.”

She reaches for the bag, fingers brushing the warm paper, her eyes catching on the printed label sealed across the top.

Frank L.

There’s a pause—quiet, suspended—before something clicks into place.

“…yeah,” she says, softer now, something shifting in her expression as she takes it from him. “Yeah, this is mine. Thank you—have a good one.”

“Yeah, you too,” he replies, already stepping away.

The door closes with a soft click, and Mel stands there for a second, the bag still in her hands, the faint smell of chicken and fries rising up warm and familiar. Behind her, Becca leans closer, peering at the bag with interest.

“So… we did order food?” she asks.

Mel exhales quietly, a small, almost disbelieving smile pulling at her mouth.

“No,” she says softly. “We didn’t.”

· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The locker room hums low and fluorescent when Mel steps inside, the air sharp with antiseptic and detergent, metal lockers clicking softly like distant punctuation. Her body feels mostly healed but not forgotten, her hip a dull, pulsing ache beneath fabric, a bruise blooming like something alive under her skin. She’s early—earlier than she needs to be—but movement feels easier than stillness, easier than thinking too much about Friday.

Frank is already there.

He hears her before he sees her, the soft shift of footsteps against tile, and turns just as she rounds the corner, his expression settling into something focused before she can fully read it. “Hey—get ready, then come find me in Central Seven,” he says, already moving, already halfway out the door before she can respond, his voice leaving something unfinished hanging in the air behind him.

She watches him go for a second longer than necessary.

Of course.

By the time she reaches the room, the hospital has fully woken around her—voices layering over monitors, distant beeping and rolling carts, the constant pulse of the ED pressing in from every direction—and it steadies her just enough to step inside without hesitation. He’s there already, leaning slightly against the counter, arms crossed, posture loose in a way that doesn’t fool her for a second.

“Have a seat,” he says, nodding toward the exam table, his tone even, professional—almost too neutral.

She exhales through her nose, climbing up anyway, hands braced behind her. “Dr. Langdon, I’m fine,” she says, because she knows how this goes.

“I know,” he hums, stepping closer, not even acknowledging the argument as something worth entertaining. “I just want to make sure.”

His hands are steady when they reach her, clinical and practiced, fingers light as he tilts her chin, penlight flicking on, pupils narrowing under the beam. She follows automatically—track the light, answer the questions, breathe normally—and there’s something grounding about it, about slipping into the role of patient just long enough to not have to think.

“Any headaches, dizziness, or vision changes since Saturday?” he asks, voice low, attention sharp.

“No,” she says. “Just my pride.”

Something almost like a smile touches his mouth, brief and gone.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, moving on.

“Your hip,” he adds after a second, stepping back just enough to give her space that feels intentional. “Can I take a look?”

There’s a pause.

Not resistance—just awareness.

“Yeah,” she says finally, quieter, shifting slightly as she hooks her fingers under the hem of her scrub top, lifting it just enough to expose her side.

The bruise has spread—deep purples and blues bleeding into yellow, climbing up over the line of her scrub pants like something alive—and his expression tightens, just slightly, something controlled but unmistakable. His hand hovers for half a second before settling, fingers gentle, pressing carefully along the edge, testing.

“Tell me if this hurts,” he says, voice softer now.

“It all hurts,” she replies, breath catching when he gets too close to the center, heat flaring sharp and immediate.

“Okay,” he says quickly, adjusting, his touch easing, more careful now. “No instability, though. That’s good.”

His hand lingers just a second too long—not wrong, not unprofessional, but enough to be felt—before he steps back, giving her the space to pull her shirt back down, the moment folding neatly back into something clinical.

He redresses her wounds next, peeling back bandages with practiced ease, replacing them with fresh ones, his movements slower now, more deliberate, like he’s trying not to rush through something he doesn’t quite want to end.

“You mentioned roller derby,” he says after a moment, like he’s been turning it over in his head. “You still skating like that, or was that just… a surprise performance for the park?”

She huffs quietly, shoulders tightening just a fraction. “Used to,” she says, eyes flicking away. “Not really anymore.”

He doesn’t let it drop.

“You were good,” he says simply. “Like—really good. That didn’t look like something you just… pick up.”

She shrugs, smaller this time, like she’s trying to make it nothing. “I grew up around it. My mom skated. I just…” she trails off, then shakes her head slightly. “It’s not really a thing anymore.”

There’s something in the way she says it—closed off, final—and he hears it, recognizes it for what it is.

Still, he tries.

“I always wanted to learn,” he says, leaning back against the counter now, arms crossing loosely. “Used to be obsessed with Rollerball as a kid—like, fully convinced I was gonna grow up and do that.”

She glances at him, surprised despite herself. “Seriously?”

“Yeah,” he huffs, a small, self-aware smile pulling at his mouth. “Didn’t exactly have access to skates growing up, though. Kinda killed the dream.”

There’s a beat.

Then—before she can stop herself—

“I could teach you,” she says, the words slipping out easier than she expects, quieter at the end. “If you ever… have time.”

He looks at her for a second, like he’s deciding something.

“I don’t have skates,” he says finally.

“There’s a secondhand sports place a few blocks from here,” she replies, a little more quickly now. “They probably have some decent ones.”

He nods once, like that settles it. “Alright. I’ll check it out after work.”

Something shifts—small, but real.

“Alright,” he adds, straightening slightly, the moment closing as easily as it opened. “You’re all set.”

And just like that—

They’re back to work.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The park hums soft and golden around Mel as she waits by the tennis courts, wheels idly rocking beneath her, the faint rubbery scent of asphalt warming under the late afternoon sun. 

Becca is safe, happy, surrounded by people who love her, and the relief of that sits warm in Mel’s chest, braided tightly with a softer ache she doesn’t let herself linger on.

Four o’clock comes and goes.

By 4:15, doubt starts to creep in, slow and quiet, settling somewhere behind her ribs as she shifts her weight, wheels clicking faintly against the court beneath her. Maybe he got busy, maybe something came up, maybe this was one of those things that sounded good in the moment but didn’t survive the reality of their lives. 

She exhales, settling on the ground against the fence, telling herself it’s fine—of course it’s fine—when the low, familiar rumble of a truck cuts through the quiet.

She turns.

Frank’s truck pulls up just outside the court, gravel crunching under the tires, and something in her chest lifts so fast it almost makes her dizzy, a sharp, unexpected spike of something dangerously close to excitement. 

He steps out, casual, like this is nothing, like he didn’t just pull something loose inside her, and lifts a hand in an easy wave.

Mel stands too fast.

Her wheels slip under her for half a second, balance tipping just enough to make her stumble before she catches herself, arms jerking slightly, breath hitching in her throat. Jesus, calm down, she thinks, heat creeping up the back of her neck, forcing herself to steady, to smooth it out before he gets close enough to notice how embarrassingly eager that looked.

Too late.

“Please don’t fall again,” he says, already watching her, something halfway between concern and amusement threading through his voice.

“I won’t,” she shoots back, a little too quickly, a little too defensive, pushing into a slow glide toward him like she has everything completely under control.

He lifts the bag in his hand slightly—blue skates, helmet, pads—and her eyes flick down to it, something softer settling in her chest.

“You weren’t kidding,” she says.

“Yeah, well,” he shrugs, setting everything down, “I tried them on in the store and could barely stand for more than five seconds, so—expectations are low.”

She huffs out a quiet laugh, rolling to a stop in front of him. “We’ll get you there. Don’t worry.”

She shows him how to lace them tight, fingers moving automatically as she talks him through it, the familiar motions grounding her in a way that feels almost instinctive. He follows along, slower, less certain, glancing up at her occasionally like he’s checking if he’s doing it right, and she nods each time, small, encouraging, careful not to overwhelm him.

“Helmet,” she reminds, tapping the top of her own.

“Right,” he mutters, fastening it, then the pads, one by one, until he’s fully geared up, a little stiff, a little unsure.

She looks at him.

And something in her chest flips, light and unexpected.

He looks… ridiculous, objectively—fully padded, slightly tense, standing there like he’s preparing for impact—but there’s something about it, something endearing and earnest that makes her mouth twitch despite herself.

“What?” he asks, catching her expression.

“Nothing,” she says quickly, shaking her head, pushing the smile down. “Nothing.”

He narrows his eyes slightly.

“Alright,” she says, clapping her hands once, shifting into something more focused. “First rule—bend your knees. Always. You lock them, you fall.”

He nods, stiffly bending them just enough to count.

“More,” she says.

“I am bending them.”

“Still needs more.”

He exhales, bending further, clearly uncomfortable, clearly not used to the position.

“Good,” she says, softer now. “Now—don’t try to walk. Just shift your weight. Side to side. Feel it.”

He tries.

It is… not graceful.

He wobbles immediately, arms coming out instinctively, body tipping like something newly upright, balance completely foreign.

“Jesus—” he mutters.

“I’ve got you,” she says quickly, gliding closer, hands hovering near his arms without grabbing him, letting him find it on his own.

He doesn’t. He tips too far, wheels sliding, and goes down hard on one knee and then the other, the pads catching most of it with a dull thud. There’s a beat. He looks up at her. She’s trying so hard not to laugh. He shakes his head, pushing himself back up, a little slower this time, a little more careful.

“Okay,” she says, stepping in again, softer now, more intentional. “We’re gonna learn how to fall properly before we go any further.”

He gives her a look.

“That’s reassuring.”

She smiles faintly. “Trust me. You’ll want this.”

She shows him—how to drop low, how to let his knees take the impact, how to keep his hands in, how to make himself small instead of fighting it—and then makes him do it again, and again, until it starts to look less like chaos and more like something controlled.

“Think of it like—giving in early,” she says. “You fight it, it gets worse.”

“…that feels like life advice,” he mutters.

“Yeah,” she says quietly. “It kind of is.”

They keep going.

Step, shift, glide—awkward at first, then slightly less so—her voice steady, guiding, correcting, encouraging, his body slowly learning something it has no memory of. He looks like a baby deer for most of it—legs uncertain, balance questionable—but he keeps trying, keeps getting back up, and there’s something about that that makes her chest feel strangely full.

By the end, he makes it from one end of the net to the other. He even looks a little proud of it. Then he immediately loses it and goes down again.

“Okay, that was great,” she says quickly, laughing now, rolling toward him.

“Yeah, I’m calling that a win,” he mutters from the ground.

She offers him a hand this time, and he takes it without hesitation, their fingers brushing for a second longer than necessary as she pulls him up.

They’re both breathing a little heavier now, the air cooler against flushed skin, the moment stretching out in that quiet, easy way neither of them quite names.

“We should do this again,” he says after a second, like it’s already decided.

She nods. “Yeah. We should.”

He heads out not long after, peeling off the gear, tossing it back into his truck, offering her one last look—something unreadable, something warm—before he pulls away, the sound of the engine fading into the distance.

Mel stays.

Just one song.

She slips her headphones back in, the opening beat of her favorite—Dancing Queen by ABBA flooding her ears—bright, buoyant, impossible not to move to—and she pushes off, wheels catching smooth against the court.

Getting in the swing
You come to look for a king

And this time—

She doesn’t think.

Anybody could be that guy
Night is young and the music's high

She just moves.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

They keep coming back.

What begins as lessons becomes ritual, then habit, then something warmer and harder to name, something that settles into both of them like muscle memory. The tennis courts grow familiar beneath their wheels, chain-link glittering in late sun, old green paint peeling in soft curls, and Mel starts measuring her weeks by the sound of Frank’s truck crunching over gravel. 

He gets better—steadier, looser, less colt-legged and panicked—but he still can’t keep up with her, still can’t spin or cross over or make his body obey the music the way hers does.

He doesn’t mind.

That might be her favorite part, maybe more than the skating itself—that Frank never seems embarrassed by being bad at something when she’s there beside him, laughing and correcting and catching his elbow before he goes down too hard. 

He falls less now, but still enough to keep her attentive, enough that she’s always turning toward him with her hands half-raised, ready to grab, ready to steady, ready to pull him back upright with a grin she tries not to make too soft. 

And afterward, breathless and flushed and smelling faintly of sweat, they drift toward the diner nearby like it was always the natural ending, like bacon grease and burnt coffee and neon light were part of the ritual too.

They learn each other there.

Over fries gone cold and milkshakes sweating rings onto the table, over jukebox static and silverware clinking against chipped plates, they gather details piece by piece, the way people do when affection gets patient. 

Mel learns what Frank picks off his burger first, that he loves seeing the looks on his kids' faces when their eyes catch him in the crowd at their school events. How he tears the straw wrappers into tiny strips when something is bothering him. 

Frank learns that Mel always steals the pickle off his plate when he’s not looking, that she likes the smell of rain but hates being caught in it. That she gets quiet when conversations drift too close to things she hasn’t yet decided are safe to hand over.

And still, somehow, they keep handing things over.

Not all at once, but small offerings slid carefully across the table like fragile glass. Pieces of the ten months he was gone, the hollowed-out wreckage of his home life, the sharp edges he still presses his tongue against in private. 

Pieces of what those same ten months looked like for her—long days and nights spent at the hospital, constant trailed off conversations, excitement always cut short by the other person walking off. Going home after every shift with so much to say, still caught in her mind.

She tells him more about skating too, though never enough to feel bare, just enough for him to understand that this thing he stumbled into with her is not a hobby, not really, but an old language written into her bones by someone she still misses in the marrow.

By the time fall deepens into something colder, their friendship has grown roots.

It’s visible in the ease between them, in the way silence no longer needs to be patched over, in the way Frank reaches for her water glass when the waitress forgets a refill because he already knows she’ll be too distracted talking to notice. 

It’s visible in the playlists they trade back and forth like letters, songs becoming another form of confession, another safe way to say this made me think of you without having to actually say it. 

And beneath all of that—under the jokes, under the routine, under the easy companionship—something quieter keeps pacing in circles. Some undertone neither of them names because naming it might fracture the fragile luck of what they already have.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

That afternoon, the tennis courts are washed in thin gold light, the kind that makes everything look tender around the edges.

Frank is doing better today, pushing off with more confidence, knees bent properly now, shoulders less rigid, his body finally beginning to understand the shape of the movement even if it still resists grace. 

Mel skates backward in front of him for a minute, teasing, matching his clumsy speed with infuriating ease, braid swinging against her spine like a pendulum.

“You’re showing off,” he says, breathless but grinning.

“I’m teaching,” she corrects, skating in an easy half-circle around him. “There’s a difference.”

“Feels a lot like bullying.”

“You’re being dramatic.”

He laughs, the sound warm and rough and a little winded, and she feels it where she always does now—low in her chest, a small bright thing she has stopped trying to reason with. 

He still falls sometimes, still catches a wheel wrong or overcorrects and ends up crouched on the court muttering under his breath while she rolls up beside him, amused and a little fond and entirely too willing to offer him both hands.

“Come on, up you go,” she says.

“You enjoy this too much.”

“That’s not true.”

“It absolutely is.”

She doesn’t argue, because it absolutely is.

Later, when they’re both flushed and breathing harder, they drift toward the bench near the fence to tug off helmets and pads, and Frank reaches for his phone with the strange, careful look of someone trying to act casual about something he has absolutely rehearsed. 

Mel notices immediately—she always does, it’s easy with him. He clears his throat once, glances down at the screen, then back at her with a flicker of something almost boyish, something tentative under the confidence.

“So,” he says, wiping one hand on his jeans first, suddenly restless, “I was looking stuff up.”

Mel arches an eyebrow.

He huffs a laugh, then looks back at his phone. “There’s a rink about forty-five minutes outside the city. Not huge, but decent reviews. And—” He pauses just long enough to make her curious. “They’re hosting a bout this weekend.”

The word lands first.

Bout.

Not game, not match—the right word, spoken a little carefully, like he looked that up too.

Something in her stills.

He keeps going, not noticing yet, thumb moving across the screen before he reaches in his bag, holding two pink slips out in front of her. “I got us tickets,” he says, and there’s something so open in his face then, so quietly pleased with himself, that for one suspended second she can’t even breathe. “I figured it could be fun. You know, if you want to go.”

The screen glows between them.

Two tickets.

Her reflection ghosts faintly across the glass, pale and startled, and behind it the words blur as memory comes up too fast, too bright—rink lights flashing blue and red across polished floors, the sweet-burnt smell of concession popcorn, her mother laughing with a mouthguard hooked around two fingers, fishnets and bruises and lipstick, wheels rattling over concrete. 

It hits not like a thought but like impact, sudden and physical, a pressure wave through her ribs, and the whole park seems to go strangely thin around the edges.

Frank’s smile falters first.

Then disappears.

“Mel?” he says, softer now, phone lowering a little as he finally sees her face.

She swallows, but her throat is tight, stubborn, packed with too many things trying to rise at once. Her fingers worry at the strap of her helmet without meaning to, nails pressing into the worn fabric while she searches for something steady enough to stand on. 

When she finally speaks, her voice comes out quiet, almost flat with the effort of keeping it from breaking.

“I haven’t been to a rink since my mom died.”

The silence that follows is immediate and total, thick as wool.

Frank goes still in the way he does when he knows he’s stepped onto dangerous ground and would give anything to step back off it cleanly. “Shit, Mel—fuck, I’m sorry,” he says at once, words tumbling over each other, his face tightening with regret. “I should’ve asked first. I wasn’t thinking—I just, I saw it and thought—”

“No,” she says quickly, before he can drown himself in apology. “No, it’s okay.”

He stops, but only just.

She looks down at the phone still in his hand, then out across the empty court where the wind pushes a spiral of leaves into the fence and leaves them there, rattling softly. Her chest still hurts with it, still aches with the shape of that old grief, but beneath it there’s something else too—something steadier, less frightened than she would have expected. 

She presses her lips together once, then lifts her eyes back to his. “Actually,” she says, and this time the words feel truer as they leave her, “this is good. Thank you.” She draws in a slow breath, lets it out. “I think this is probably the push I needed.”

He watches her carefully, like he’s afraid to believe her too quickly.

“You sure?”

“No,” she says, and that earns the smallest, saddest curve of his mouth. “But I still mean it.”

Something in him eases then, not fully, but enough.

He slips the phone back into his pocket, and when they stand, there’s a gentleness between them that wasn’t there a minute ago, something newly aware, newly tender. They walk to the dine, their gear in the back seat of Frank’s trunk, their steps unhurried on the sidewalk, dusk beginning to gather in the shop windows. 

The sky above the street is the color of peach skin bruising toward violet, and the whole city feels held in that in-between light, that strange soft hour when things are easier to admit.

Inside, the diner is all warmth and chrome.

Coffee hangs thick in the air, rich and bitter, mingling with grease and syrup and the sugary smell of pie in a rotating case near the register. The vinyl booth sticks faintly against the backs of their legs, and when the waitress pours coffee for Frank, steam curls upward between them like something alive. 

Mel wraps both hands around her mug of tea just to have somewhere to put them, letting the heat seep into her fingers, and for a while they talk about nothing at all—traffic, work, how spectacularly bad Frank still is at stopping—until the quiet shifts and makes room.

Then she tells him.

Not everything, not all at once, but more than she has before. About her mother tying her skates too tight when she was little because “snug meant safe,” about the smell of her gear bag in the car, about sitting on rink floors with sticky knees and blue raspberry slushie tongues while watching her mother take hits that looked brutal and get up laughing anyway. 

About how the rink had been a playground and second home all at once, a place loud enough to drown out everything else, bright enough to convince you the world might be survivable after all.

Frank listens the way few people do.

He doesn’t try to soften it, doesn’t try to make it tidier than it was. He just listens, forearms braced on the table, coffee cooling untouched between his hands, his eyes on her like what she’s giving him matters more than anything else. 

And because he listens like that, she keeps going—about the diagnosis, about the speed of it, about how grief made the rink impossible afterward because every polished floor felt haunted, every whistle sounded like a voice she could no longer follow.

“I couldn’t do it,” she says finally, staring into the amber swirl of her tea. “I couldn’t even walk in.” Her laugh is small and humorless, the kind that comes from old hurt rubbed thin. “It felt like if I did, I’d turn around and expect her to be there.”

Frank is quiet for a beat.

Frank is quiet for a beat.

Then, quietly, “Yeah… I know that feeling.”

He gets her. He knows something about absences that keep pretending to be people, about rooms still shaped like someone who isn’t standing in them anymore. Mel looks up then, really looks at him, and whatever she sees in his face makes something in her unclench—not disappear, not heal, but loosen enough to breathe around. 

Outside, night presses dark against the windows, and inside, under the hum of neon and the clatter of dishes and the low ache of old music from the jukebox, they sit across from each other with all their unfinished things between them and don’t look away.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Frank stands outside Mel’s apartment, staring at her door like it might give him an answer. His hand hovers near the wood longer than it should, fingers flexing once, twice, his chest tight with something he refuses to name as nerves, telling himself he’s just waiting for the right moment. 

Eventually, he exhales, knocks, and the sound lands heavier than expected in the quiet.

The door swings open almost immediately.

Mel stands there like she’s been waiting—which she has—eyes bright, a little too alert, something buzzing just under her skin as she takes him in, and for a second he forgets how to speak. 

She’s not in scrubs, not in anything he recognizes from their routine, but something else entirely—knee-high striped socks over fishnets, a skater skirt brushing her thighs, an old NOVA shirt sliced across the back in horizontal slits that reveal flashes of skin with every small movement. 

He stares—blatantly, unashamedly—and the silence stretches just long enough for heat to rise to her cheeks.

“Ready?” she asks, voice lighter than she feels.

“Uh—uh, yeah, yeah,” he stumbles, stepping back, dragging his gaze away with effort. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

The drive starts quiet.

Not empty, not uncomfortable, but full—like the space between them is holding something heavier than conversation, something waiting to be acknowledged but not quite ready yet. Mel fidgets in her seat the closer they get, fingers twisting together in her lap, nails pressing into her palms, a soft, repetitive hum slipping out under her breath without her noticing. 

Frank watches it from the corner of his eye, the way her shoulders inch higher, the way her breathing shifts, shallow and uneven.

“Hey,” he says finally, softer, careful not to startle her. “You okay?”

She exhales, shaky.

“…no.” she admits, quieter now, the admission landing somewhere fragile between them.

She’s gotten better at that—at not defaulting to “I’m fine,” at not deflecting the moment the attention lands too close to her chest—and even now she can feel the old instinct pressing at the back of her teeth, waiting to be chosen. 

Her hands twist tighter in her lap anyway, fingers threading and unthreading until the knuckles pale, her gaze fixed somewhere just past the windshield like if she looks at him it’ll make it too real. The words sit heavy for a second, thick in her throat, before she finally lets them out, uneven and honest.

Frank doesn’t interrupt. He doesn’t rush to fill the silence, doesn’t soften it or redirect it, just lets it sit there, steady and unthreatening, like he’s giving her the space to decide how much she wants to say. 

“It’s stupid,” she says after a second, shaking her head faintly, though there’s no real conviction behind it. “I’ve been in worse places than this, I’ve handled worse things than this, but—” she exhales, sharp and shaky, “—this is hard.”

Her fingers curl tighter.

“I stood in my room for, like, forty-five minutes,” she continues, voice thinner now, stretched around something she hasn’t said out loud before. “Just staring at this shirt. I couldn’t—” she swallows, jaw tightening briefly, “—I couldn’t put it on.”

The car hums softly beneath them, the steady vibration grounding in a way that almost feels intentional.

“And then I finally did,” she adds, a quiet, humorless breath slipping out. “And I made it about ten seconds before I had to take it back off again.”

Frank’s grip on the steering wheel shifts, just slightly.

“Why?” he asks, gently, not because he doesn’t know, but because he wants her to say it.

She laughs—small, uneven, something that breaks more than it releases.

“Because it still smells like her,” she says, voice catching on the last word, softer now, like saying it too loud might undo something. “Or maybe it doesn’t, not really, but my brain says it does, and suddenly it’s like—” she stops, pressing her lips together, shaking her head once like she can physically dislodge the thought.

“Like she should be there,” she finishes finally, barely above a whisper. “Like I’m about to walk in and she’s gonna be waiting for me, telling me I tied my laces wrong or something.”

Silence settles again.

Frank exhales slowly, the sound quiet, controlled, like he’s choosing every piece of what comes next before he lets it exist between them. His hand shifts—just slightly—closer to hers, not touching yet, but near enough that she could close the distance if she wanted to.

“That makes sense,” he says finally, voice low and steady, the words simple but deliberate. “There’s nothing stupid about that.”

She huffs faintly, eyes still fixed forward. “Feels stupid.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “A lot of things do.”

There’s a pause.

Then, softer—

“It’s not just the rink, is it?”

It’s not really a question.

Her throat tightens.

“No,” she admits, shaking her head, her voice quieter now, worn thin at the edges. “It’s… everything that comes with it. The noise, the lights, the people—” her fingers flex again, restless, “—the version of me that existed there.”

He glances at her briefly, then back at the road.

“You don’t have to be that version again,” he says. “Not tonight.”

She doesn’t answer right away, because part of her knows that, and part of her isn’t sure she believes it.

“I just—” she starts, then stops, her breath catching, something deeper pressing forward. “I don’t know what happens if I walk in there and it doesn’t feel the same.”

The fear sits heavy in the car.

Quiet.

Unavoidable.

Frank nods once, slow.

“Then you’ll know,” he says simply.

She blinks, turning slightly toward him now.

“And if it hurts,” he adds, voice just as steady, just as sure, “we leave. Immediately. No questions, no pushing, no ‘just five more minutes.’ We go.”

Her shoulders loosen—just slightly.

“You don’t have to prove anything to anyone,” he continues. “Not to them, not to me, not to… her.” His voice softens just a fraction on the last word. “trying is enough.”

Something shifts in her chest at that.

Not fixed.

Not healed.

But steadier.

There’s a pause.

Then, without looking at her, he lifts one hand from the wheel and holds it out between them.

She stares at it for a second, then takes it.

Her grip is tight at first—too tight—but he adjusts without comment, fingers threading with hers just enough to anchor, to steady, his thumb brushing once, twice across her skin in a quiet rhythm. 

The rest of the drive passes like that, her hand in his, her breathing slowly evening out, his presence something solid and unmoving beside her, something she can lean against without asking permission.

When they pull into the rink, everything shifts.

The building looms familiar and foreign all at once, neon lights flickering in soft, buzzing halos, the distant thrum of music leaking faintly through the walls like a heartbeat she hasn’t heard in years. It isn’t the rink she grew up in—this one smaller, a little rougher around the edges, the sign different, the colors wrong—but the shape of it, the feeling of it, hits too close anyway. 

Mel’s grip tightens instinctively, her body going still beside him, breath catching high in her chest as memory presses in—loud, bright, overwhelming.

“Are you ready?” Frank asks quietly. “We can still go do something else.”

She swallows, eyes fixed on the door.

“No,” she says, softer but steadier this time. “It’s now or never.”

They step inside.

And for a moment—it’s too much.

The smell hits first—and the sound follows, wheels on polished floor, whistles, laughter, music pulsing through her bones like it remembers her even if she’s tried to forget it. It feels wrong, at first, like stepping into something sacred after too long away, like she’s trespassing in a space that no longer belongs to her.

Then something shifts.

A memory softens at the edges.

The light feels warmer.

And suddenly it’s not just grief—it’s everything else too.

The laughter, the movement, the feeling of belonging.

“Mel-astic?”

The voice cuts clean across the space.

She turns instinctively, heart jumping, and sees her—Tiffany, one of her moms teammates—skating toward her with that same effortless confidence, that same bright, open grin.

“Mel-astic?” Frank echoes under his breath, a grin tugging at his mouth.

“Shut up,” she mutters quickly, heat rising again.

“Long time no see kid!” Tiffany says, pulling up in front of them. “You look incredible—seriously, look at you.” Her gaze flicks to Frank, sharp and assessing. “And who’s this hot piece of ass you’ve got here?”

Frank chokes.

Mel does too.

“Tiff—hi—uh—this is Frank,” Mel says quickly, flustered. “We work together. At PTMC.”

“Very nice,” Tiffany says easily, extending a hand. “I’m glad you stuck with med school, Mel. That’s huge.”

They catch up—briefly, carefully—dancing around the heavier things until they don’t.

“You skating again?” Tiffany asks, gesturing loosely to her outfit.

Mel shakes her head. “No—not really. This is just… today.” She hesitates, then adds quieter, “First time I’ve been back in a rink since my mom died.”

Tiffany’s expression softens instantly. “Oh,” she says gently. “Mel…”

“I’m okay,” Mel adds quickly. “I am.”

There’s a beat.

Then Tiffany nods, accepting it.

“Well—hey,” she says, shifting slightly as someone calls her name from across the rink. “If you ever want to come back—just… step on the track again, see how it feels—we’d love to have you. I know your talent, Melissa King. It’d be a damn shame to let it go to waste forever.”

Mel glances at Frank.

He just shrugs, small and easy, but there’s something in his eyes—encouraging, steady, you should—that settles something uncertain in her chest.

“I’ll think about it,” she says.

“Good,” Tiffany grins. “I’ve gotta go—but don’t disappear again, okay?”

Then she’s gone.

The bout starts soon after, and Mel—hesitant at first, perched on the edge of the moment—slowly, inevitably, gets pulled in. She presses her earplugs in deeper, the roar of the rink softening into something manageable, the chaos dulling just enough for her to breathe. 

The noise still builds around her, the rhythm familiar, intoxicating, and before she realizes it, she’s on her feet, shouting, laughing, swearing under her breath, completely lost in it.

Frank watches.

He tries not to stare.

Fails completely.

She’s alive in a way he hasn’t seen before—movement in her even when she’s standing still, energy crackling under her skin—and it does something to him he doesn’t quite have the language for. 

The way her skirt shifts when she leans forward, the flash of fishnets, the curve of her back under the sliced shirt—it’s distracting, dangerously so, and he drags his gaze away more than once, jaw tightening.

But he always looks back.

They leave buzzing.

Full of noise and adrenaline and something softer threaded underneath, something neither of them quite touches yet.

“Mel—hey!”

Tiffany again.

Mel turns, breath still quick.

“I talked to my team,” Tiffany says, already smiling. “They want you to come check us out—Saturday practice. Are you free?”

Mel hesitates. “I don’t know how I’d—”

“I’ll bring you,” Frank cuts in immediately, without hesitation.

She looks at him, startled.

“You’ve got Tanner and Penny,” she says.

“They’ll love it,” he shrugs. “Arcade, chaos, whatever. They’ll be fine.”

Tiffany laughs. “We’ve got plenty of chaos already—they’ll fit right in.”

Mel exhales, cornered but smiling despite herself.

“…okay,” she says. “Yeah. I’ll be there.”

“Good,” Tiffany beams. “Here, give me your number. I’ll text you!”

Back in the truck, the quiet settles differently this time—lighter, warmer, charged.

“So,” Frank says after a second, glancing at her, “Mel-astic.”

She glares.

“You’re not allowed to call me that.”

He raises both hands. “Noted.”

A beat.

“You enjoyed yourself?” he asks.

She exhales, softer now, something honest settling in her expression.

“…yeah,” she says. “I really did.”

When they pull up to her apartment, neither of them moves right away.

She turns toward him first.

“Thank you,” she says, voice steady, sincere in a way that makes his chest tighten.

Before he can respond, she leans across the center console, arms wrapping around him, pulling him into something warm and unexpected. His hand slides instinctively along her back, slipping through the slits of her shirt, fingers brushing against bare skin, her warmth immediate and grounding.

He breathes her in.

She pulls back slowly.

They’re close.

Closer than they’ve ever been.

“Goodnight,” she says softly.

“Goodnight,” he replies.

She leaves.

And he watches her go, eyes fixed on the door long after it closes, long after the light disappears, sitting there with something unfamiliar and undeniable settling deep in his chest.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Frank’s truck idles low and steady at the curb, engine vibrating softly through the seats, while Tanner and Penny press their faces to the glass, breath fogging the window in uneven circles as they wait. The late afternoon light stretches long across the street, painting everything in soft gold, and Frank taps his fingers once against the steering wheel before forcing himself to still them. 

Then the building door opens, and Mel steps out, and the shift inside the truck is immediate—bright, electric, impossible to ignore.

“She’s coming!” Penny stage-whispers, already halfway unbuckled before Frank can stop her.

“Hey—hey, sit,” he says, reaching back blindly, catching her knee with practiced ease. “You can say hi when she gets in, not before.”

Mel opens the passenger door, sliding in with a small, breathless smile that doesn’t quite hide the nerves buzzing under her skin, her bag tucked against her side like something protective. “Hi, guys,” she says, softer than their energy, but warm, her voice already pulled toward them.

Tanner leans forward immediately, eyes wide and shining. “Are you gonna skate today? Like, really skate?”

“Yeah,” Penny adds, nodding emphatically, “like the spinny stuff!”

Mel huffs a quiet laugh, sliding into her seat, the smell of the truck—something distinctly Frank—wrapping around her. “Hopefully,” she says, glancing at Frank for half a second before looking away, her fingers already twisting together in her lap. 

The drive fills quickly with chatter, the kids talking over each other in bright, overlapping bursts, but beneath it, her nerves hum louder, sharper, something coiled and restless in her chest.

She hasn’t done this in years.

Hasn’t played, hasn’t stepped back into that version of herself in almost a decade, and the weight of that presses in the closer they get, her knee bouncing faintly, breath catching too high, too fast. 

Frank notices—he always notices—and without a word, his hand shifts from the console, settling lightly on her knee, his thumb brushing once, slow and grounding.

She stills.

Just a little.

The contact sends something warm and steady through her, loosening the tightness in her chest, even as she tries very hard not to think about why it does. 

In the backseat, Penny leans toward Tanner, voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. “Tanner, Tanner—look.” He follows her gaze, sees their dad’s hand resting there, the quiet, unspoken thing happening in the front seat, and they exchange a look—wide-eyed, pleased, entirely innocent.

They say nothing.

But they’re smiling.

The truck rolls on.

When they pull into the rink, the building hums with life, neon flickering faintly, music bleeding through the walls in a low, pulsing rhythm that Mel feels in her bones before she fully processes it. 

Mel doesn’t move right away, her body going still beside the truck, her breath catching as the weight of it settles over her.

Tanner and Penny are gone the second they’re allowed, racing toward the arcade with laughter trailing behind them, swallowed quickly by the chaos of flashing lights and clinking tokens. 

Mel hesitates slightly as she walks through the doors. Frank reaches out, his hand brushing her elbow, grounding without pulling. “You’ve got this,” he says quietly, voice steady, sure. “Go have fun.”

She nods, once, sharp and certain.

Then she goes.

The locker room wraps around her in a familiar sensation—sweat and powder and worn fabric—and when she rolls onto the polished floor, it hits her all at once, a wave of memory so sharp it almost knocks her back. 

It’s different from the stands, different from watching—this is immersion, full and overwhelming, the lights too bright, the music too loud, her body remembering faster than her mind can keep up.

She hesitates—ust for a second—then slips her earplugs in. 

Tiffany sees it immediately, skating over with easy confidence, a hand landing briefly on her shoulder. “You’ve got this, girl,” she says, voice warm, certain. “She’s right out here with you.”

And that—

That’s enough.

Mel exhales, long and slow, and pushes off.

At first it’s simple—laps, steady and controlled, feeling the floor beneath her wheels, the push and glide settling back into her muscles like something long dormant waking up. The hum of the rink vibrates through her bones, the rhythm building, familiar and intoxicating, until the hesitation loosens its grip just enough for her to breathe. 

Then she starts to move—really move—edges carving sharper lines, transitions cleaner, her body remembering faster than she’s ready for.

The girls notice.

Not recognition—curiosity first, then something sharper, something impressed.

“Yo—where did she come from?”

“She’s only now getting back into skating?”

Their voices ripple through the space as she passes, not directed at her at first but about her, eyes tracking her movements, heads turning as she picks up speed, as her form tightens into something precise and deliberate. 

It’s not loud encouragement yet—it’s something more observational, more cautious—but there’s energy in it, attention, the kind that builds quickly when talent walks in unannounced.

Tiffany grins like she’s been waiting for this.

“Yeah, yeah,” she calls out, skating alongside her for a second, voice bright with pride that isn’t subtle in the slightest. “That’s my girl—don’t let her fool you, she’s been doing this forever.”

That shifts things.

The next time Mel passes, there’s a whistle.

A low “okay, I see you,” from someone near the pack.

And just like that, the tone changes.

When they break for water, the circle forms around her naturally—not overwhelming, not suffocating, but curious, open, welcoming in that rough-edged way derby always is.

“Where’d you skate before?”

“You hide that crossover on purpose earlier or—?”

Mel laughs, a little breathless, a little flushed, shaking her head as she takes a sip of water, the cold sharp against her tongue. 

“Virginia,” she says, glancing briefly at Tiffany before looking back at them. “A long time ago.”

“Damn,” one of them mutters, impressed. “Doesn’t look like it.”

“Welcome back then,” another says, bumping her shoulder lightly, easy, casual. “You’re gonna fit in just fine.”

Mel laughs, breathless, flushed, shaking her head, but she’s glowing now, the earlier nerves burned off into something electric.

Then practice shifts.

They line up—pack formation—blockers and jammers moving into position, the whistle cutting sharp through the air, and Mel slips into place without thinking, pivot stripe tied around her helmet, body settling into that familiar forward-facing stance. 

The pack moves, slow at first, then faster, bodies shifting and weaving, hips and shoulders guiding motion instead of stopping it, and Mel reads it like she always has—anticipating, adjusting, slipping through space instead of forcing it.

A jammer pushes through.

Mel pivots, edges biting into the floor, redirecting cleanly, forcing her wide, using speed instead of force, control instead of resistance. It’s instinct, it’s muscle memory, it’s everything she thought she’d lost—and she kills it, every move sharp, precise, deliberate, her body bending and recovering in one fluid motion after another.

From the stands, Frank watches now, Tanner and Penny flanking him, all three of them leaning forward as she moves, as she dominates space in a way that feels effortless. Pride fills his chest first—but something else follows, something warmer, deeper, something dangerously close to awe.

The whistle blows.

They reset.

Again.

Again.

Again.

By the time they break, the girls are buzzing, circling her, hands on her shoulders, grinning wide.

“You coming back?”

“We’ve got a bout in a month—you’d kill it.”

“Don’t even think about saying no, we’re not letting you disappear.”

Mel hesitates—just for a second—then she nods.

“…yeah,” she says, breathless but sure. “Yeah, I’d love to.”

When she steps off the floor, she doesn’t realize they’re watching her until—

“Mel!” Tanner and Penny, both on their feet, waving wildly, beaming.

Her face flushes instantly.

Frank stands slower, something softer in his expression now. “That was… really good,” he says, like it’s not the understatement of the century.

She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. “Thank you.”

The drive back is quieter.

Warmer.

Something settled between them, something easier.

When they pull up to her apartment, Frank tells the kids to stay buckled, grabbing her bag from the bed, walking her to the door without a word. The night air is cooler now, quieter, the world pulled back to something smaller, more intimate.

“I’m really happy to see you like that,” he says finally, voice softer, more honest than usual. “Smiling, happy… totally in your element.”

She looks at him, something shifting behind her eyes.

“Yeah,” she says quietly. “Me too.” Then, after a beat—“Thank you. Really. I don’t think this would’ve happened without you.”

He shakes his head. “Of course it would’ve.”

“It wouldn’t have,” she says gently.

He doesn’t argue.

Then, Mel steps forward, wrapping her arms around him, pulling him into a hug that lingers just a second longer than it should, his hand settling against her back, thumb brushing once, slow and absentminded.

When they pull apart, they don’t step back right away.

“Goodnight,” she says softly.

“Goodnight,” he replies.

She goes inside, dropping her bag, the thud echoing faintly in the quiet apartment, and then she just—

loses it.

A squeal rips out of her, bright and uncontained, hands flying to her face as she spins once in place, energy spilling out of her in waves, laughter bubbling up behind it. 

It’s the rink, the skating, the feeling of being herself again—but it’s also him, the way he looks at her, the way he shows up, the way he steadies her without making it a thing.

She presses her hands to her cheeks, breathless, giddy, ridiculous.

She feels like a teenager.

And she knows it’s ridiculous.

But she doesn’t stop smiling.

In the truck, Tanner and Penny are giggling uncontrollably in the backseat, their whispers overlapping in breathless bursts, hands covering their mouths like that might somehow contain it. 

Every few seconds one of them glances forward, eyes darting toward Frank, then back to each other, dissolving again into quiet, barely-suppressed laughter that feels just a little too specific to be random. 

Frank exhales through his nose, shaking his head as he pulls away from the curb, but there’s a knowing edge to it now, something suspicious tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“…I don’t even want to know,” he mutters, though the words carry no real weight, his voice softened by the smile he’s trying—and failing—to hide.

Penny leans closer to Tanner, whispering something that makes him choke on a laugh, both of them ducking their heads immediately like they’ve been caught doing something they absolutely have been doing. 

Frank glances at them in the rearview mirror, catching the way they go suddenly still, too still, the kind of still that only ever means one thing. He narrows his eyes slightly, one brow lifting, but the second he looks away, they’re right back to it—quiet, delighted, completely gone.

He doesn’t hear the words.

But he knows.

There’s only one thing that would have them acting like this—only one moment worth that kind of conspiratorial whispering and barely-contained laughter—and the realization settles in his chest slow and certain, warm in a way he doesn’t quite examine too closely. 

He rolls his eyes again, softer this time, something fond threading through it as he adjusts his grip on the wheel.

“Unbelievable,” he murmurs under his breath.

But the smile doesn’t go anywhere.

It lingers—easy, unguarded, settling deep in his chest like something steady, something real, something that, for the first time in a long while, feels like it might actually stay.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

In the weeks leading up to the bout, Saturdays settle into something steady, something expected, something that feels less like effort and more like gravity pulling them all together. 

Frank’s truck becomes a familiar cocoon of laughter and crumbs and overlapping voices, Tanner and Penny already halfway out the door before the engine fully dies, chasing flashing arcade lights and the metallic clatter of tokens like it’s their own ritual. 

And Frank—Frank lingers, leaning against the railing more often now, arms folded loosely, eyes fixed on the track with a focus that feels almost reverent, like watching her is something he’s allowed himself to enjoy without apology.

Mel feels it.

Not in a way she names, not in a way she lets herself fully turn toward, but in the way her skin buzzes when she catches glimpses of him through the glass, in the way her movements sharpen just slightly under that attention, like she’s performing without meaning to. 

The music pounding through her chest in steady, electric waves, and somewhere between laps and drills, between breath and motion, she starts to associate that feeling—that warmth—with him.

They break for water.

The pack loosens, bodies drifting toward the benches, skates rolling slow and easy, the scrape of wheels soft against polished wood, and Mel presses the cold bottle to her lips, the plastic crinkling faintly under her grip. Her lungs are still working to catch up, breath coming in shallow bursts, sweat cooling against her skin, when Tiffany slides up beside her with a knowing look already forming.

“So,” Tiffany says, casual but pointed, bumping her lightly with one padded shoulder, “what’s the deal with you and your sexy doctor ‘friend’?”

Mel chokes immediately.

Water goes down the wrong way, sharp and sudden, and she coughs hard, shoulders jerking, hand coming up instinctively as her body protests the betrayal. Her eyes flick up without thinking—and there he is, already halfway to his feet, concern written plainly across his face, like he’s ready to cross the entire rink if she needs him.

She forces a thumbs up, coughing once more.

‘I’m fine’ she mouths, even though he can’t hear her.

He hesitates, then slowly sits back down.

Tiffany watches the whole exchange with raised brows, unimpressed and entirely too entertained.

“Like… honey,” she says, dragging the word out, gesturing loosely toward the stands, “what was that?”

Mel wipes her mouth, still catching her breath, heat creeping up her neck. “I inhaled water,” she mutters, defensive, though it comes out weaker than she intends.

“Uh-huh,” Tiffany hums, unconvinced. “And he was halfway to performing CPR before you even finished coughing.”

Mel rolls her eyes, turning her body slightly, angling herself away from the stands like that might somehow lessen the visibility of what just happened. “He’s my friend,” she says, planting her feet more firmly than necessary, like she can anchor the statement in place.

Tiffany blinks at her.

Then laughs.

“Mel,” she says, softer now but no less certain, “that man brings you to the rink every Saturday—with his kids—and sits up there watching you like you hung the damn moon.”

Mel’s stomach flips, sudden and unwelcome.

“That is not—”

“He watches you like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, honey,” Tiffany continues, cutting her off easily, her tone warm but direct, the kind of honesty that doesn’t ask permission. “That man is in love with you.”

Mel laughs.

Too quickly.

Too breathlessly.

But the blush is immediate, blooming hot across her cheeks, impossible to hide as she ducks her head slightly, fingers tightening around the water bottle until the plastic creaks.

“Okay—no,” she says, shaking her head, though there’s no real conviction behind it, her voice softer now, less certain.

Tiffany doesn’t let it go.

“Be honest,” she says, gentler this time, nudging her lightly. “Is he just a friend to you?”

The question lands heavier than it should.

Mel hesitates.

Her body turns before she fully decides to, gaze drifting back toward the stands, pulled like something magnetic and inevitable. And there he is—still watching her, like he never really stopped—his posture relaxed but his attention sharp, focused entirely on her even now.

He notices.

Of course he notices.

He lifts a hand, gives her a small wave, an easy smile following it.

Something in her chest squeezes tight.

She lifts her hand back, automatic, returning the wave before she can stop herself, before she can think too hard about what it means that he was already looking.

Then she turns back.

“…no,” she says finally, quieter now, the word settling differently than it would have weeks ago, something more honest, more fragile. Her eyes drop briefly, a small smile pulling at the corner of her mouth despite herself. “I really… really like him.”

Tiffany’s face lights up immediately, vindicated and delighted.

“Yes,” she hisses, clapping her hands once. “That’s what I’m talking about—shoot your shot, girl.”

Mel groans, dragging a hand down her face. “Oh my god, stop.”

“I’m serious,” Tiffany insists, leaning closer, voice dropping but somehow still loud enough to feel dangerous. “He’s practically fucking you with his eyes when you’re out there—everyone sees it.”

Mel’s entire body goes warm.

“Okay—no, you need to stop talking,” she says, mortified, glancing around instinctively like someone might have overheard, even though the music drowns out everything.

“I’m just saying—”

“You’re saying too much,” Mel cuts in, though she’s smiling now, flustered and a little breathless. “Do the other girls actually… are they saying this too?”

Tiffany gives her a look.

“Oh, yeah,” she says, dragging it out with emphasis. “We’ve all noticed. You are not subtle, and neither is he.”

Mel exhales, long and slow, like she’s trying to process something she wasn’t ready to look at head-on.

“Okay,” she mutters, more to herself than anything. “Okay… maybe.”

Tiffany grins, satisfied, already pushing off.

“Yeah, ‘maybe,’” she calls over her shoulder, rolling back toward the track. “We’ll circle back to that.”

Mel watches her go, heart still beating a little too fast, skin still buzzing with it.

And when she glances back toward the stands again—

He’s still looking at her.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Family night hums warm and chaotic under the rink’s bright lights, the polished floor reflecting spinning colors while laughter and music fold together into something soft and alive. Folding tables line the edges with paper plates, half-melted cupcakes, sweating soda cans, and bags of chips torn open and shared between hands that don’t bother asking permission. 

Kids dart between legs and wheels, socks slipping, skates clacking, while someone’s playlist bounces from pop to throwbacks, the speakers buzzing faintly with every bass-heavy beat.

It feels nothing like practice.

No whistles, no drills—just movement and noise and bodies in motion, partners pulling each other into clumsy spins, parents teaching kids how to balance, laughter echoing off the high ceiling like it belongs there. Mel finds herself smiling without thinking, her chest light in a way that still surprises her.

Frank is out there with them.

Not perfect—not graceful—but steady, knees bent properly now, movements controlled enough to keep him upright, and that alone feels like a victory he doesn’t bother hiding. Tanner clings stubbornly to one of those bright orange skate trainers, wheels squeaking faintly as he pushes it forward, his long limbs awkward but determined, center of gravity high in a way that mirrors his father almost exactly.

Penny, meanwhile—

Penny flies.

It takes her a minute, a few wobbles, a near-fall that turns into a giggle instead of tears, but once it clicks, it clicks, and suddenly she’s moving with a confidence that feels almost unfair. “Look, look!” she shouts, arms out wide, dark hair bouncing around her shoulders as she glides past, pride radiating off her in waves.

Mel laughs, skating backward in front of her, hands hovering just in case. “I see you, Pen,” she calls, voice warm and bright, something soft threading through it that she doesn’t question.

Tanner is different.

Frustration builds quicker, sharper, his grip tightening on the bar as his movements lag behind what he wants them to be, his breath coming faster, uneven. “I can’t do it,” he mutters, voice wobbling, shoulders hunching in that way kids do when they’re trying not to cry.

Mel is there immediately.

“Hey,” she says gently, dropping lower, bringing herself into his space without crowding it, her hand settling lightly over his on the bar. “You are doing it. Look at you—you’re moving, that’s the whole thing.”

He shakes his head, stubborn.

“I’m bad at it.”

“You’re new at it,” she corrects softly, her voice steady, patient, the same tone she uses with patients, with Becca, with anyone who needs something calm to hold onto. “Big difference.”

Frank watches.

He tries not to stare, tries to keep his attention split between Penny circling back toward them and the general chaos around them, but his eyes keep drifting back, pulled in by something he can’t quite resist. The way Mel crouches down to Tanner’s level, the way she doesn’t rush him, doesn’t fix it for him, just stays—offering quiet encouragement, steady support—it hits something deep and unexpected in his chest.

It’s nothing new, but it hits all the same.

His kids.

She’s like that with his kids.

And suddenly—

He’s in trouble.

Real, undeniable, oh-shit kind of trouble.

They fall into a rhythm.

Skating, laughing, circling each other in easy loops, the kids staying closer to the inside while the adults drift wider, creating this soft orbit of movement that feels both chaotic and controlled. Frank ends up beside Tiffany at one point, the two of them coasting slowly along the outer edge, her grin already knowing.

“So,” she says, nudging him lightly with her elbow, “you’re the famous Frank.”

He huffs, a little caught off guard. “Famous feels like a stretch.”

“Oh, you’ve been discussed,” she says easily, eyes flicking toward Mel, who’s now helping Tanner attempt a careful push forward. “You’re kind of hard to miss.”

He glances over, then quickly away, like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t be.

“…yeah,” he mutters.

Tiffany smirks.

The music shifts.

And then—

Dancing Queen.

The opening notes spill out through the speakers, bright and familiar, and the whole rink seems to react at once, a ripple of recognition, of delight, of yes. Mel laughs out loud, genuine and unguarded, something in her lighting up immediately as the beat settles into her bones.

She pushes off.

And suddenly she’s not just skating—she’s moving, really moving, her body loose and fluid, hair down tonight, spilling over her shoulders, catching the light as she spins. Frank watches, breath catching just slightly, something tightening low in his chest as she smiles, wide and bright, completely lost in the moment.

You can dance, you can jive…

It feels—

Unfair.

The way she looks out there, the way she is out there, like the music belongs to her, like the space bends around her movement, like she’s something meant to be watched. His eyes track her without permission, every turn, every shift, the curve of her back, the ease in her expression, and something deeper than admiration settles in his chest. 

Something heavier, warmer, dangerously close to something he’s not ready to say out loud.

Ooh, see that girl, watch that scene
Digging the dancing queen

Yeah.

That.

That’s exactly what he’s doing.

Then—

It breaks.

Tanner goes down.

It’s sudden, the sharp scrape of wheels, the dull thud of impact, and his cry cuts through the music like something fragile snapping, high and startled and immediate. Penny reaches him first, panic rising just as fast, her voice wobbling as she drops beside him. “Tanner!”

Mel is there seconds later.

Frank right behind her.

His body shifts automatically—doctor mode, assessing, scanning, hands already moving—but Mel’s voice cuts through, calm and steady. “Hey—hey,” she says, not looking at him, already crouching beside Tanner, her tone soft but firm. “You be dad right now. I’ve got this.”

He pauses.

Just for a second.

Because normally—normally he wouldn’t step back, wouldn’t relinquish control so easily, not when it comes to his kids. But it’s her—and he trusts her, trusts the way she moves, the way she handles things, the way she handled Tanner just minutes ago—and so he does.

He shifts, sits close, and takes Tanner’s hand instead.

“I’m right here, buddy,” he says quietly, voice steady, grounding, his thumb brushing over Tanner’s knuckles as the boy cries into the noise around them.

Mel checks him quickly, efficiently, fingers light but sure as she examines his arm, his knees, his balance. “Hey,” she says gently, drawing Tanner’s attention back to her. “Look at me—where does it hurt?”

“My arm,” he sniffles, voice breaking.

She nods, already seeing it—a small red scrape, nothing deep, nothing serious.

“Okay,” she says softly. “That’s just a little floor burn. It stings, I know, but you’re okay. Nothing’s broken, nothing scary.”

He hiccups, still crying, but softer now.

Penny clings to his side, tears slipping down her own cheeks just because he’s crying, her small hand gripping his sleeve. “He’s okay?” she asks, voice trembling.

“He’s okay Pen, I promise,” Mel reassures, meeting her eyes briefly, giving her something solid to hold onto.

Frank exhales.

He hadn’t realized how tightly he’d been holding his breath.

They call it.

Not dramatic, not heavy—just tired kids, too much stimulation, emotions running high, the kind of end that makes sense without needing explanation. Frank gathers them up gently, Tanner still sniffling, Penny clinging, and heads toward the truck while Mel lingers just a moment longer.

Tiffany rolls up beside her, arms crossed loosely, that same knowing look settling in again.

“Don’t forget what we talked about,” she says, voice lighter now but no less pointed. “That was all the proof you needed, I’d say.”

Mel exhales slowly, watching Frank through the glass as he buckles Tanner in, crouched down, murmuring something soft and steady, his entire focus narrowed to his kids.

“…yeah,” she murmurs.

And this time—

She doesn’t argue.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Mel stands in front of her mirror, the room quiet except for the faint hum of electricity in the walls, her reflection staring back like someone she almost recognizes but hasn’t fully claimed yet. 

The fabric clings in all the right places—fishnets hugging her legs, the skirt brushing her thighs, the jersey snug across her back with Mel-astic printed bold and unapologetic—and her fingers tremble just slightly as she adjusts the hem, breath catching high in her chest. 

For a moment, she just looks at herself—really looks—and something shifts, something steady and sure threading through the nerves, like muscle memory rising up not just in her body, but in her bones.

Then she moves. The door clicking shut behind her, and the cool air hits her skin like a wake-up call she didn’t know she needed. Frank’s already there, leaning against the truck, and when he sees her—really sees her—something in his expression changes, something immediate and unguarded that makes her stomach flip before she can stop it.

She pulls the door open, sliding in.

“…hey,” she says, softer now, like the nerves have followed her out.

He doesn’t answer right away.

Just looks at her for half a second too long.

“Hey.”

She glances into the backseat, expecting chaos, voices, movement.

Nothing.

It’s empty.

“Where’s Tanner and Penny?” she asks, brows pulling together just slightly.

“Oh—yeah,” he says, shifting, like he forgot to mention it earlier. “Abby took them to her parents for the weekend. So—it’s just us this time.”

There’s a beat.

“Aw,” she says, leaning back into the seat, something soft and fond threading through her voice. “I’m gonna miss my little cheerleaders.”

“Yeah,” he huffs, a quiet smile pulling at his mouth as he starts the engine. “They’re pretty great, huh.”

The drive feels different.

Quieter, somehow louder in all the ways that matter, the absence of the kids leaving space for something else to settle in—something heavier, something more aware. Mel’s hands rest in her lap, fingers fidgeting, twisting together as the city blurs past outside the window, her chest tightening just slightly the closer they get.

She’s nervous.

Not like before.

Not about being there.

About being out there.

“Hey,” he says, softer now, glancing at her before turning back to the road. “You’re gonna absolutely destroy out there. I know what you can do, Mel—honestly, you’re kind of a badass.”

Heat blooms across her cheeks instantly.

“I don’t know if I’d say that—”

“I would,” he cuts in, easy, certain, like it’s not even a question.

The silence that follows isn’t empty—it’s full, charged, something sitting just beneath the surface waiting to be acknowledged—and then music fills it, her playlist spilling through the speakers, familiar and grounding, wrapping around her like something safe.

She exhales.

And this time—

She reaches out first.

Her hand rests between them, palm open, tentative but intentional, and he doesn’t hesitate—not even for a second—his fingers threading with hers like it’s the most natural thing in the world. They both smile, small and soft and a little shy, something unspoken passing between them that neither of them tries to name.

When they pull into the rink, it’s alive.

Louder than before, brighter, bodies moving everywhere, teams in different colors gathered along the edges, banners hanging, the sharp smell of sweat and tape and popcorn thick in the air. The track is taped clean and clear, an oval cutting through the center, referees already skating slow warm-up laps in black-and-white stripes, whistles hanging ready at their lips.

Mel steps inside.

And it hits her.

Not just memory—purpose.

Her team is clustered near the benches, bags scattered, gear half on, voices overlapping in excited bursts, rituals unfolding in familiar, comforting patterns—hand squeezes, inside jokes, quick pep talks. She slips her earplugs in, the noise dulling just enough to make it manageable, to let her focus sharpen instead of scatter.

They wait.

They hype each other up.

Pads tighten, helmets adjust, hands slap shoulders in passing.

Mel ties on her pivot stripe.

And then Tiffany is there, like always, rolling up beside her with that same knowing grin.

“I see your man is here… again.”

Mel doesn’t even look at her this time—just smiles, shoving her lightly, sending her rolling backward a few feet with a laugh.

“Shut up,” she mutters, but there’s no bite to it.

She looks up, and there he is.

Front row.

Like always.

Watching her like she’s the only thing in the room worth paying attention to.

He waves.

Smiles.

Fuck them up, he mouths.

Her lips twitch.

I will, she mouths back.

And then—

The whistle blows.

The bout starts.

The pack rolls forward, bodies tight, shoulders brushing, wheels humming loud and fast against the polished floor as the first jam begins. The jammer pushes through, blockers shifting to contain, hips checking, arms guiding, the entire thing moving like one chaotic, living organism—and Mel is right there in it, reading it, anticipating it, her body responding before her mind fully catches up.

She moves like she never left.

Edges sharp.

Turns precise.

Forward-facing, always watching, always calculating, slipping through space instead of forcing it, redirecting instead of absorbing.

And through it all—

She hears him.

Even with the earplugs.

Even through the noise.

Frank’s voice cuts through everything, loud and unrestrained, cheering her on with a kind of raw, unfiltered pride that makes something in her chest burn bright and steady.

“Let’s go, Mel!”

“Yeah—that’s it!”

“Holy shit!”

It fuels her.

Pushes her.

Makes her faster, sharper, better.

And across the track, Frank is gone—completely, utterly enthralled, eyes locked on her, breath caught somewhere between admiration and something deeper, something warmer, something dangerously close to love. 

She looks unreal out there—powerful, fluid, untouchable—and he can’t look away, doesn’t want to look away, even if it ruins him a little.

Their team wins.

The final whistle cuts through the air, sharp and triumphant, and the entire rink erupts, bodies colliding in celebration, laughter and shouting spilling over as they roll toward center track. Mel spins, breathless, flushed, adrenaline still crackling through her veins—and her eyes find him instantly.

Like they were always going to.

Tiffany bumps into her side, grinning wide.

“Go get your man, babe.”

And she does.

She pushes off hard, wheels catching fast, speed building under her like instinct, like need, and she doesn’t slow down until she hits the barrier, hands grabbing it as she leans over, arms wrapping around his neck. 

He barely has time to react before she’s pulling him into her, soft lips finding his in a kiss that’s long and warm and just a little desperate.

He freezes—

Then melts.

His hands come up immediately, gripping her waist, lifting her slightly over the railing, her legs kicking up behind her as the world blurs out around them.

The girls lose it.

Whistles, cheers, shouting her name.

Mel smiles against his mouth, breathless, giddy, pulling back just enough to look at him—and they just stare at each other, wide, goofy smiles breaking across both their faces like they don’t know what to do with what just happened.

“You were amazing out there,” he says, a little stunned, a little wrecked. “That was—seriously—that was badass, Mel.”

She laughs softly, still flushed, still glowing. “Thank you for everything,” she says, voice softer now, something deeper threading through it. “For… all of this.”

They linger.

Just a second longer.

“Yo! Mel-astic! We need you for a picture!”

She laughs, shaking her head, pulling away, skating back toward center track where her team gathers, the trophy pressed into her hands as they cluster around her. She stands in the middle, smiling wide—really smiling—joy spilling out of her in a way that feels uncontained, undeniable.

Across the rink—

Frank watches.

Completely, utterly gone.

Her eyes find his.

And in the overwhelm of it—of everything—she mouths it.

Thank you…

I love you.

It hits him like a wave.

He knew it.

Somewhere, before this moment, he knew it.

But now—

Now he fully lets himself feel it.

I love you, he mouths back.

She beams.

Then disappears into the locker room, swallowed by laughter and celebration, the sound echoing faintly through the walls as the night settles into something unforgettable.

And Frank—

Frank just stands there.

Smiling.

Like he’s completely, irrevocably done for.