Archive of Our Own

12th September 2025:

The first time he sees her is at 7:13 on a busy morning as he’s leaning against central, trying to catch up on the cases Abbot has handed off to them — on her way out, Ellis was too sleepy to actually give him anything useful. He’s pretty sure she even flipped him off when he tried to ask about the woman in South 13, so… charts it is. She seems pretty excited which is usually not standard place for PGY2s. They are usually beaten down, unlike interns who are perky and wide-eyed and disillusioned about the entire thing. 

It turns out, the R2 is the perky one and the intern is the prickly one (pain in the ass is the more appropriate term) but he won’t know that until hours later. Right now, all he knows is that she’s… Well, refreshing. It’s been a while since he’s seen anyone so excited about their job. Wasn’t it just moments ago that Collins was whining about the board?

So, what if he tries to get to know her a little bit? She’s a bit of an enigma to him — wide-eyed and extraordinary. She has a way with people — quiet, forceless but effective nonetheless. With every passing hour, with every solve, with every brilliant idea and good catch, he feels more and more the need to be close to her, to hover, to tell her that she’s done a good job. There’s something tugging in the pit of his stomach, making him gravitate towards her. 

He wants to ask her, How is it that you make me want to stop bouncing when nothing else does? Because she does — in the few minutes that he spends with her throughout the day, he feels himself calming down a little bit, not thinking about the pills in the back of his locker or how fucking ticked off Santos makes him, or how this day is a really fucking shitty one. 

It’s not until Robby is kicking him out and he’s sitting in his car in the parking lot, shaking, knowing that he cannot go home to Abby, that he stops thinking of her long enough to obsess over the fact that he’s ruined his own fucking life. 

Abby is going to leave him; Robby just threw him out. His career — his life — is over. He’ll be lucky if he gets to see his kids, if he gets to make money any way at all. He sits there shaking, on the verge of throwing up with sweat beads on his forehead until his phone buzzes with a notification, talking about the MCI and an ambulance comes rushing into the bay a few minutes later. 

Fuck it, he decides. He might not be a doctor tomorrow but he is one today and if this is his last day as an EM doctor — a career he’s dreamt of ever since his first rotation back when he was an MS3 — then he’d better save some lives when he’s at it. So, he goes back and the excitement in her voice — the way her eye light up at the sight of him, an excited, You’re here! travelling all the way through the ER to reach him — makes him think distantly, worth it. 

Maybe that’s why his eyes keep looking for her even in the mess. 

Maybe that’s why when Robby leaves him in the ambulance bay, reeling from their fight, he thinks, with some degree of regret, that he won’t get to work with the meek R2 named Melissa King tomorrow. 

And he doesn’t even say goodbye. What an asshole, he thinks as he drives home, and then he pushes all thoughts aside because he has bigger things to take care of. 

—

12th September 2026:

“Happy one year,” someone says from his right as he’s crouched down, putting his backpack in his locket. His head snaps up so quickly that it almost bangs against the door of his locker, making him wince. “Oh, are you okay?” 

There Melissa King is standing, with a cupcake in her hand, a single thin candle on it that remains unlit. “Peachy,” Frank says, standing up, his back protesting bitterly as he straightens to his full height. “What is this?”

“A cupcake,” she says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Today is, um, one year since you…” her voice trails off. Oh. Right. One year since he got caught and was forced into sobriety. He didn’t use after that day, checked himself into rehab on September 13th and never looked back. He tugs at his bracelet — the one his NA place gave him 6 months into the program — as Mel holds it out. “I thought it would be nice to have a cake to mark the day. Becca and I baked some last night and I saved one for you. The candle isn’t lit because we are in the ER and I didn’t want either of us to get into trouble for having open fire in the emergency department but I do have a candle app on my phone so if you’d like, I can light up a candle there, but — I mean it’s sort of like symbolism.” By the time she’s done with her rant, she’s flushed like she’s just run a marathon. 

“Thank you,” is the only thing Frank can come up with because his heart has swelled up three sizes, too big for his chest, almost closing his airway. “Seriously, Mel, this is so… nice of you.” What a lame fucking response. But the thing is, Frank doesn’t have very many friends — friends make you cupcakes, right? That’s what this makes them, right? Friends. — and especially not friends who remember the anniversary of his sobriety. So, he looks at the cupcake and he feels a tug of something at his heartstrings that feels suspiciously close to affection. “What flavor is it?”

“Vanilla,” Mel says sheepishly. “I didn’t know what your favorite flavor was and to what were you allergic to so I figured vanilla would be the safe bet.” 

“I’m not allergic to anything,” he says thoughtfully, “and I like vanilla. Chocolate, too. I think chocolate is my favorite flavor.”

“I’ll keep that in mind for next time,” she smiles, bright and full-teeth revealed and practically glowing. And Frank is a pathetic, pathetic man because he indulges in the moment, leans forward, bending a little with his arms hooked behind his back and pretends to gently blow the unlit candle just to see Mel beam at him the way she does. “Yay, congratulations,” she practically hops as Frank finally takes the cupcake from her. 

“Thank you, Mel,” he repeats, the words still inadequate to show her just how much he feels it, how grateful he truly is. 

“You’re welcome, Dr. Langdon,” she grins as Frank takes a bite of the cake. It’s perhaps the best damn cupcake he’s ever had in his life and it’s not just because it’s delicious although it is. “Are you going to celebrate with your family later today?” she asks as they exit the locker room together, tugging at the waist of her scrub pants. 

The question is easy enough — innocent enough — that he had to have an answer for it. The truth is, he isn’t. This day, as far as Abby is concerned, isn’t a day for celebration. A year ago, this day, he ruined their beautiful, perfect, meticulously planned life. He’s lucky she didn’t leave him and leave them in ruins, shambles that he wouldn’t be able to put back together. He knew better than to push it — to demand a celebration of his sobriety. 

But Mel is so excited and she thinks that he’s done a good job and her excitement is contagious because he finds himself wanting to pat himself on his own back.

“Probably,” he shrugs as they walk toward Shen and Ellis to see what the night shift has left for them. “I mean I’ll probably get some steaks on the way back — grill some up for tonight.”

“Oh, that must be so nice,” she smiles wide. “I’m so glad.” 

He barely resists the urge to ask her, What for? Because then she’ll say something insanely sweet — something that will no doubt choke him up a little. Something like she said when he first came back, I’m so glad that you’re back. You never let me down. and then he’ll probably lose his goddamn mind. 

“Thank you,” he says for the first time that morning and he’s grateful that Parker glances at them and smirks. 

“Nice of you to finally join us, Langdon. King,” she greets and then hands him off a stable GSW to the shoulder that’s awaiting Garcia’s visit and he thinks, Yeah, maybe it really is a good day. 

—

The thing is, he doesn’t think him and Mel are really friends.They are excellent colleagues — ever since that first day and more so since he’s come back, they’ve worked excellently together. So much so that last week, Dr. Al-Hashimi — who hands out their stats at the end of each working week to give them an overview of their patient satisfaction score and a chart of how it’s altering over time (his is mostly rising. Yay, three gold stars for Langdon) — told them that they were a ‘good team’ and their patient satisfaction scores climbs off the roofs when they are on a case together. 

All of that is to say that, they work well together but the truth is that he doesn’t know much about Melissa King. He knows she has a twin sister with special needs, someone that she always calls at around 1 p.m. every day if she can help it. (Once, he asked her why and she replied, Becca likes routine. She gets really worried when I don’t call her around 1.) He knows that she’s a bit of a nerd. (They once had a debate about the best relationships in Star Wars and he was surprised to find how hard Mel was riding for a pair she called Reylo.) He knows that she lost her parents at a very young age and since then, she’s been the one to take care of her sister. He also knows that she’s younger than Becca by three minutes but Mel didn’t volunteer that information, he was just really curious. 

He is sure there are a couple more facts that might be swirling around somewhere in Frank’s brain regarding Mel King but those are the things that spring to mind. He figures if he’s friends with someone, he ought to know more — and hang out with them outside of work. And he’s intending to make friends. His sponsor and his therapist both insist that having healthy, good relationships is crucial. Having people to root for you at work — especially when it’s so tense with other colleagues like Robby and Santos — is important, even necessary. 

So, he’s already befriending Cassie, bonding over their kids and their past addiction and, Isn’t it a kick to the nut to find out that therapy actually helps? I was hoping it was all a myth, to be honest. She tells him that to control the urges she sometimes smokes when it gets too much because it’s the lesser of two evils so he buys a packet and tries to reach for that every time he edges a bit too close to be comfortable. Sometimes, they end up on the roof or in the ambulance bay, sharing one cigarette and after, because Abby doesn’t like the sound of smoke clinging to him, he takes her up on the offer of body splash to cover the scent. It’s unisex, she shrugs when he wrinkles his nose and says he doesn’t particularly want to go home smelling like another woman because it wouldn’t bode well for marriage, It’s either that or sleeping on the couch for the night. And Frank figures she has a good point. 

And he was already friendly-adjacent with Garcia. He’s known her since med school, more in a distant rivals with banter who respect each other sort of way and less in a friends sort of way. But she was one of the handful of people who acted like nothing had changed when he came back to work so, he does try to be more friends with her than friendly. Of course, it doesn’t really bode well that she’s hooking up with his sworn enemy (there is still no love lost between him and Santos and he’s given up on trying to mend that bridge because fuck her, actually) but still, it’s nice to see a friendly-ish face. 

So, the third target, he thinks, ought to be Mel. 

She doesn’t have very many friends in the ER. He knows because he’s caught her speaking to herself on more than one occasion, always faced with the same half-sad, half-expecting sheepish expression on her face. Which is really strange because who wouldn’t want to be friends with someone who can bake so well? They just have to think of all the free pastries that they are going to get!

So, when they get a second to catch their breath around 1, he waits until she’s done with her phone-call with Becca and then very casually intercepts her in the ambulance bay. “How was your sister?”

“Very good,” she beams, “She asked me how you liked the cupcake. I took the liberty to tell her that you loved it.”

“I did,” he agrees. “So, no lies there.”

“Good, I’m glad,” she says. She’s said that word a lot around Frank — glad — and every time, he’s surprised by how solemn it sounds coming out of her mouth. “Is there anything else?” she asks and it’s only then that he realizes he’s been staring at her wordlessly for the past couple of seconds, unblinking like a fucking serial killer. 

“No,” he gulps and then winces, “I mean, yes. I just — I noticed you don’t bring a car to work.” 

“Oh, yeah,” she agrees. “I’m not a very good driver. I mean, I have a license and when I have to, I do drive. But I don’t really like doing it. And besides, the bus from Becca’s center has a stop just a couple yards from the hospital so, it’s not really that hard to take the bus. But last winter, it was really bad and I had to drive in the ice a bunch of times but it wasn’t really good so maybe I should start ubering when it gets so cold that I can’t walk to work. But it’s a long time ahead so…” she trails off and Frank struggles to keep up, to keep his attention in one place long enough but it’s not a Mel-problem. It’s a he-problem. “Sorry,” she mumbles.

“What for?”

She shrugs, “I don’t know. Sometimes I ramble.” 

“That was nice,” he says and he means it. He’s already learned three more things about Mel King. this is going to be fun.“Maybe you can tell me more about your thing with driving when I drive you to your house in the evening?” 

“Wait,” she blinks. “What?”

“To say ‘thank you’ for the cupcake,” he clarifies, trying to notcome off as a creepy authority figure with a penchant to drive lower-ranked residents to their place of residence (ha! pun!) as he clears that up. 

“I have to stop at the center to pick up my sister, though,” she says, a bit regretfully, like she’s already mourning the fact that she has to decline his offer. 

“Okay,” he nods, “Just text me both addresses. I’m sure we can make this work.” 

“Really?” she blinks, her eyes wide. “It won’t be too much trouble?”

“Of course not,” he grins, already half-way through the door but not before sending a wink her way, “What are friends for?” He considers it a triumph that she blushes just as he disappears back into the chaos of the ER. 

—

Turns out, both Becca’s center and Mel’s house are on his way home. Becca still remembers him from her fourth of July visit to the ER and he’s gathered enough good will with her to be greeted warmly as she sits in the back seat of the car, her sister helping her buckle up just as she climbs into the passenger’s seat. “Sorry about the mess,” he says as he pulls away from the curb, putting Mel’s home address into GPS, “Penny and Tanner really like their toys and I’ve learned that you don’t argue with toddlers.” 

“They are nice toys,” Becca agrees. “Are you going to be picking me up every day, Dr. Frank?”

“Dr. Langdon,” Mel corrects. 

“Nah, it’s fine,” he shakes his head. “You can just call me ‘Frank’. Drop the ‘doctor’ — it makes me feel like I’m still at work.” 

“Okay, Frank,” Becca says simply, “are going to drive us home every day, Frank?”

“Becca,” Mel says with a low tone from next to him, “you’re being rude.” 

“No, it’s fine,” Frank shakes his head again. “I mean,” this time he turns to Mel, dropping his voice. “Your place and the center are on my way. It wouldn’t be any trouble for me if you don’t mind me picking you up and dropping you off.” He doesn’t know why he offers — maybe because Mel has been really damn nice to him since he’s come back, in ways that he doesn’t really deserve. And he wants to be her friend, wants to spend time with her and get to know her and pick apart her brain. So… 

“But it would be so much trouble,” she argues, chewing on her lower lip and he’s tempted to reach out and free it from between her teeth but he has enough self-control to keep himself from doing that. “I mean, you’ve been really nice doing this, so…” 

“Mel, if I’m offering it wouldn’t be trouble at all,” he hums. “I don’t like troubling myself and you said it yourself. It’ll start to get cold. You can’t drop money on Ubers. They are so unreasonable.”

“Right?” she agrees, her eyes bright. “I mean, yeah, the prices can be pretty steep.” 

“So?”

“You’re sure it wouldn’t be trouble?”

“None at all,” Frank assures her. 

“And if it was trouble, you would tell me?”

“Scout’s honor,” he grins, turning left to their alley and it’s not long before the GPS lady says, You have arrived at your destination. “See, we’re practically neighbors. I live two blocks down past the four-way. I pass your house every day.” Which is not technically a lie. He does pass her house every time he tries to take the longer path home because he knows Abby is pretty icy that day. 

“Then okay,” she says in a small voice. “But only if—”

“I already promised, Mel,” he smiles, “Pick you up at 6:40? So,we can drop Beca off, too.”

“Okay,” she smiles shyly as she opens the door and gets out, opening the door in the back for Becca and holding it until her sister gets off. Frank opens the passenger’s window. “Goodbye, Dr. Langdon. Thank you for the ride.” 

“Thank you for the ride, Frank!” Becca says from next to her sister. 

“You’re very welcome,” Frank grins, an uncontrollable thing that stretches widely over his face. “See y’all tomorrow, okay?” And he doesn’t even mind that his southern drawl seems to slip out on the syllable as the girls wave at him when he takes off. 

—

Abby doesn’t remember that it’s his one-year anniversary which is all for the best, really. But she gets pretty excited about the steak that he makes, compliments him, even. She presses her back against his chest when they sleep at night after putting the kids down and she even sighs happily when he wraps his arms around her. 

All in all, it’s a pretty good day. 

—

12th September 2027:

“Happy two years!” Mel chimes from next to his ear, very nearly making him jump as she practically rips the door of the car off and climbs into the passenger seat, a cupcake in his hand. “Chocolate chip banana cupcake with Biscoff icing.”

“Biscoff a new icing you’re trying?” Frank asks, accepting the cake with a ‘2’ candle on it. “Thanks, by the way.” 

“You’re welcome,” she smiles, buckling her seat belt. “Don’t eat it yet, we haven’t lit up the candle.”

“I thought we don’t do that?”

“Only at the hospital,” she shrugs. “There are no fire guidelines for open fire in a parked car.” 

“I’m pretty sure there are,” Frank says, only joking. 

Mel’s eyebrows tangle in the middle in a frown. “Wait, really? Maybe we shouldn’t—” But before she can finish that sentence, Frank takes out the box of matches he keeps in his glove box and lights the cake. The fire dances in front of them, reflectingin Mel’s glasses. 

“I was just joking, sweetheart,” he says, his breath momentarily knocked out of his chest as he looks at her, the little green in the brown background of her eyes pulled forward by the power of the flame, her cheeks slightly flushed from the heat. Fucking hell, he thinks, better blow out the candle before I start writing fucking poems about ‘colors’. And so, he does. 

“Yay,” Mel says in a soft small voice. “Happy two years.” 

“Thank you,” Frank repeats the sentiment, breaking the cupcake in two — and therefore getting icing all over the place — before handing on half to Mel who accepts it with a smile as Frank licks the icing off his fingers. “So, how’s Bec’s end of summer trip? Does she have any plan of coming home any time soon?” he asks as he puts the car into gear, pushing the cupcake into his mouth, licking the corners of his lips in an attempt to savor all and every ounce of icing. It’s fucking good. 

“I’m worried she’s never coming back home,” Mel sighs dramatically. Last week, Becca announced that she’s signing up for the ‘end of summer’ trip that the center organizes every year. This year, they were supposed to go to some lakeside in the middle of nowhere and though Mel doesn’t really monitor the activities Becca likes to do — because she’s a grown woman!Mel’s voice says in his head, dutifully and right on cue — she’s been ill at ease since their departure. “She actually said that she and her friends have decided to run off and join a pirate ship after watching Little Women.” 

“I would think watching Pirates of the Caribbean would tempt her to do that,” Frank turns on his flusher. “Little Women? Seriously? Isn’t that about… well, little women?”

“The heart wants what it wants,” Mel sighs, shaking her head. “She actually asked me to ask you if you would like to join as well. Said you have ‘pirate tendencies’.” 

“Which is to say I smell bad?”

“I think she was talking about the hair and the eyes,” Mel tilts her head, inching a little closer to take a closer look. Frank fights very hard to keep his eyes on the road, to swallow and to not catch her eyes like every cell in his body is ordering him. “They are all very pirate-ish. Raggedly handsome.” 

Fucking hell. Raggedly handsome?! She seriously should not be saying shit like that. “Thank you?” he clears his throat, his grip tightening on the wheel. “Wait, how about we recruit Captain Scurvy? He has some prior experience being a pirate.” 

“Do you have his number?”

“You were his doctor, Melissa. Shouldn’t you be able to track him down?” he smirks, looking at her from the corner of his eyes. She scrunches up her nose, shaking her head. 

“Do you think we can find him if we pull up hospital records?” she asks so seriously that for a second, Frank thinks he got lost in translation and then, Oh. She’s joking? Well, he thinks she is joking — there is no telling with Melissa King. 

“Mel, c’mon,” he clicks his tongue, shaking his head. “I make a way better pirate than some dude with a vitamin D deficiency. At least we’re sure I won’t have any unaccounted viruses.” 

“But you can’t drink rum, you’re sober.” 

“I’m sure the rum police wouldn’t mind a sober pirate,” he smiles, stopping behind a red light to turn to look at her. There’s a small smile dancing on her lips, the sort she always wears when she’s excited that she can keep up with banter, secure that nothing will escape her notice, nothing will catch her dumbfounded. “Makes me very suitable for navigation.” 

“Now I’m losing my sister and my best friend to the sea?” 

She says things like that. Things like ‘my best friend’ and Frank loses his mind a little bit. He doesn’t know why it gets to him — why it flips something inside of him, unlocks a part of him that he didn’t know existed before he became friends with Melissa King. The first time she told him that he’s her best friend was three months ago, after a particularly shitty shift where she had lost three pedes patients in a row and Frank went to find her crying in the ambulance bay, curled into herself, her arms tightly holding herself. When he went to soothe her, to make her feel the tiniest bit better, she looked up at him through her lashed, her eyes red-rimmed and whispered, You’re my best friend. 

It was only then that he realized she is his best friend. 

Maybe that was a bit ill-advised for someone who is married — their couple’s therapist keeps insisting that a man’s best friend ought to be his wife which is just wrong because a healthy marriage requires you to have people outside of your spouse so they are not left with the burden of carrying everything. Which is so not the point. He means, well, they probably should change their couple’s counselor but Abby is pretty fond of him so… Anyway — but Mel King is undoubtedly the first person Frank wants to call when something good happens, the first person he goes to find when everything goes to shit, the only person — aside from his kids and his family — that he feels excitedspending time with. 

She’s his best friend. 

“Aw, don’t be sad,” he reaches out as the light turns green to pinch her cheek, making her whole face crumple up because she’s ticklish. “We’ll still visit.” He tries to flash her the best smile he got — bright and charming. (Donnie calls that his ‘prince charming’ smile. Says he uses it whenever he’s trying to talk a young female patient who is being very difficult into accept medical orders. Nine out of ten times it works and the time it doesn’t is because the patient is a lesbian that is disgusted by the sight of his face.) (Those maybe be Garcia’s words, actually.)

“You promise?” Mel asks just as they pull up into the parking lot of PTMC — with five minutes to spare before their shift starts, cheers for him — and it’s such a simple question, teasing him just as he’s teased her, but still, something tightens in his chest. 

“I mean, I probably can’t join the pirate-ship,” he sighs, unbuckling his seatbelt. “Tanner and Penny detest the smell of fish.” 

That gets her to laughs. 

—

“We should celebrate,” Cassie says at around three p.m. when they three of them take their lunch break — break would be too generous of a word to use when they just sat around central, taking out their protein bars and tried to inhale it as quickly as possible before a trauma was rolled through the doors or before Dana found them and snapped at them to get back to work — leaning back against her chair. She’s the only person — other than Mel — who keeps track of his ‘sobriety journey’ because she says that it’s helpful to celebrate the milestones. Mel very much agrees with her. “Harrison is with Chad this evening. We can go grab pizza together.” 

“Sure,” he shrugs. Abby tends to visit her parents more these past couple of months and that morning as Frank took his two year chip — they gave it to him with roaring applauses in his last NA meeting — and hoped that his wife would have some words to say about it, she told him that her sister is visiting and she’s taking the kids to visit her parents and their aunt so they will stay there overnight considering going to Philly and coming back in a day would be too much trouble. Frank didn’t protest much. “I’m solo tonight, too.” 

“Wait, where are Abby and the kids?” Mel asks, her eyes wide and worried. 

“Visiting her parents,” he hums, finishing his protein bar in one last big bite. “They’ll be back tomorrow.” 

Before they can say something else — or Frank can inquire about Mel’s visible frown and her tangible unease as she burns a hole through one of the hospital tiles — Dana finds them and barks at them to get back to seeing more patients instead of forming a gossip circle like twelve-year-old girls. But the unease seems to have stayed with Mel all throughout the evening because when they walk into the fresh air of the evening at seven and Frank stretches his arms over his head, very nearly purring from the way it eases the pain in his back, she still looks conflicted. 

“I’ll go first, you can follow me,” Cassie says as they walk into the parking lot. 

“Gotcha,” Frank nods as Cassie gets into her car and Mel and him walk side by side to get to his black SUV — the ultimate dad car. As they climb in and he starts the car, pulling out of the parking lot to follow Cassie, Mel still hasn’t uttered a voice. “A penny for your thoughts?” he says, a phrase all too familiar to him, considering he’s been using it tenfold ever since Penny learned to talk. She always giggles as he picks up Penny and hands her to Abby when he says the words, laughing loudly as she declares, Daddy, not that Penny!

He wishes he had his daughter right now. Mel always perks up when the kids giggle around her. 

“What?” she blinks, looking at him as he adjusts the mirror. 

“You’ve been very thoughtful since our lunch break,” he says, turning his flusher one just as Cassie does, both of them aiming for a right turn. “What’s up, Melissa?”

“Nothing,” she gulps and when Frank raises an eyebrow, she retreats. “I mean — it’s not nothing. It’s probably none of my business — and I don’t know why… Okay — it just… it bothered me a little that you’re alone tonight. I thought you and Abby would be celebrating two years sober. I mean — that’s not to say… Obviously, I don’t know her very well and I can see how this can be intruding considering that I am biased towards you but—” she cuts herself off, shaking her head. “Sorry, it’s stupid. I don’t know why it robbed me the wrong way.” 

“Hey, take a breath,” he prompts, gently nudging her with his shoulder. “And it is your business. You’re my best friend, too, Mel — my business is your business and vice versa.” 

“But this is your marriage,” she shakes her head. “Your marriage is definitely not my business. I mean, I can see how it can come off as toxic. I’m not naive.” 

“Well, it’s just the two of us now,” he shrugs. He knows the illicit world of ‘female/male friendships’ and what most people would think about Mel’s comment on his marriage. He also knows that it’s not them. They aren’t these calculating, manipulative people — no one knows Frank and Mel when they are together. “And you can tell me everything. In fact, I want to know your every thought ever, Mel.” 

That gets her to blush slightly — the sort she does every time he makes a remark like that. A few months into their newfound friendship, she admitted that she didn’t know why he was so intent on listening to everything (and telling her when he wasn’t because he has to hustle and not because she wasn’t interesting) she said because people tended to disappear when she went on for too long. That broke his heart a little bit because everything that Mel said was interesting. It was kind and thoughtful and so human. So real. So alive. 

“Okay,” she nods, “I just think she should be more supportive of your sobriety. I know you know her better and you probably don’t mind it. But I’m a little bit angry about it.” 

“Thank you,” he says because that’s what he feels — so fucking grateful. “I mean, I can’t be angry at her — because today wasn’t a very good day for her and I understand her need to… I don’t know, forget all about it. And she’s a good woman — she gave me a second chance when she had every reason not to. And I know that you know all that but… I can’t be angry at her so… it’s good that someone can be angry at her on my behalf.” 

He, too, wishes Abby was the one suggesting they celebrate, not Cassie. He wishes that she was the one waking him up with a kiss and a secret smile and whispered against his mouth, Happy two years, baby! But he can understand why she doesn’t — why she doesn’t really ask about the NA meetings and why she doesn’t open the PHP wellness check mail that gets sent to their house every once in a while, and why she would much rather pretend that Frank isn’t a recovering drug addict, that those ten months didn’t happen. He can’t blame her for any of that — he can only feel sort of disappointed and then feel immensely guilty about that, too — but it helps when he sees Mel’s flushed cheeks and her outrage on his behalf. 

“Okay,” she nods, “tell me every time you want to be angry at someone but feel like you can’t. I can be angry at them for you.” And because words fail Frank so often, and because he cannotbreathe when she says shit like that, and because Mel is the best friend he’s ever had in his life, he just reaches out and looks for her hand in her lap, one that Mel gives to him quite so easily, and squeezes it. Mel squeezes back. 

Thank you, he wants to say, I’m so grateful that you exist. I don’t know what I have done in my life to deserve you. I must’ve been a saint in a previous life, Mel. but he can’t form the words. He’s very nearly certain that Mel does hear him, though. 

It’s okay, she is saying when she cradles his hand in between hers. I’ve got you.

—

Mel is half-asleep in his passenger seat when he pulls over in front of her apartment complex, her mouth slightly open, drooling in her sleep. She tends to pass out in his car, always surprised that she does. I don’t require much sleep, she says, rubbing her nose every time Frank wakes her up gently to tell her that they’re there, I don’t know why I fall asleep in your car! Usually moving vehicles make me nauseous. Frank likes to think it’s because she feels safe there but that maybe just him tooting his own horn. 

Whatever it is, he allows himself a moment of solitude to look over her, to account for every little line on her face and every breath that she takes. He likes the way Mel looks in her sleep — when her worry lines smooth out and her body relaxes. It makes her look like one of the princesses in the fairytales Penny loves so much and makes Frank read to her every night until she’s dreaming of dragons and princes and fairies. She has one of those timeless faces — the sort that made people go to war. 

Sure, Abby is beautiful. She’s bold and striking and entirely out of Frank’s leagues as their friends kept telling them in college when they first started dating. Abby’s red hair and green eyes demand to be seen — her freckles make her unique, splattered all over her pale skin, like natural blush. Abby is, by anyone’s standards, beautiful. 

Mel’s beauty is quieter — girl-next-door, youngest daughter of a king from a faraway land sort of beauty. It creeps up on you — it’s detached in between her tightly braided hair, her shapeless comfort wear and her tint-less sunscreen that she puts on every morning. Her freckles are faint, blond as her hair, and in the most unlikely place. He actually catalogues them from time to time, triumphant when he finds a new one. There’s one behind her right ear that he peeped when she was braiding her hair in the locker room after a particularly shitty shift, there’s one above her left eyelid, a couple more below her jawline and some faint, unsuspecting ones that spread all the way through her cheeks and only come out when she’s spent too long in the sun. Her honey blond hair is highlighted by the sun when she lets it down — and he realized that about a month ago when she shook out her hair in the parking lot just as the sun was slowly inching down, groaning about how her braid was too tight all day and it was killing her scalp — and her eyes are so so deep that he sometimes feels like he’s getting lost in them.

All of this to say, she looks only more beautiful when all her features are relaxed. Like she’s not carrying the weight of the world. 

Usually, because the kids are waiting at him and Abby gets pretty passive aggressive when he’s late, he wakes her up after a few minutes, apologetically, and sends her home. But right now, he has nowhere to be — Becca isn’t restless in the back seat and Tanner and Penny aren’t waiting for Daddy to come home so they can show him their newest additions to their fridge art gallery — so he kills the engine and unbuckles his seatbelt, sitting in the quiet, listening to Mel breathe.

He can spare a few more minutes. He wants to let her sleep. God knows she needs more of it. 

Happy two years, indeed.

—

12th September 2028:

“I always feel like a fucking vampire getting off the night shift,” he says, stretching his arms over his head as he steps into the light, yawning. Shen throws an unimpressed look his way, sipping on his coffee. “Don’t you want to go sleep? Why do you keep drinking coffee?”

“Says the guy who went through three Red Bulls in the past twelve hours,” he finishes up his coffee, throwing the cup in the nearest trash can. “I do this every day, son. You have a lot to learn.” 

“Duly noted,” Frank barely resists the urge to roll his eyes. “You need a ride, Dr. Shen?”

“Nah, I’ll take my bike,” he grins, “Helps my cardiovascular system.” 

“Boo,” he says, “I’ll take the car, thank you.”

“Suit yourself,” he tips his imaginary hat. “See you tonight?”

“You can count on it,” Frank nods, already walking away to his car. He cannot wait to go home and sleep the entire day. As is tradition at this point, Abby is — guess! — at her parents’ house because they wanted to see their ‘darling grandchildren’ now that Tanner has started school and so because Abby’s parents are decidedly not on Team Frank, he signed up for the night shift that weekend. Sleeping during the day and working at night seemed like the perfect cover to spend his weekend of misery. 

Another very sore point is that he was hoping to see Mel on his way out — he even lingered behind, taking his sweet time changing his scrubs and into his normal clothes — but to no avail. He checks his phone. It’s not like Mel to miss at least sending a ‘Happy Three Years!!’ text with so many emojis attached to the back end of it. Maybe she’s overslept — maybe she’s in a bad mood. Maybe—

Well, he can give her a ride. He glances at his watch — 7:13. It’s not like her to be late by thirteen minutes. She may not even be at home. So, he does the next best thing, rise and shine, beccathe great. how are you?

Becca’s reply comes quick. I’m good! At the center.

Frank [07:14]: do ya know where mel is?

Becca [07:15]: Yup, at home.

Becca [07:15]: She’s sick!

Becca [07:15]: She got me an uber to come to the center. Told me not to worry about her.

Frank [07:16]: sick? how sick?

Becca [07:17]: I don’t know. She has a fever. But she told me not to worry about it.

Becca [07:18]: Why?

Frank [07:19]: no reason. imma go check on her. u still keep the spare key under the mat?

Becca [07:20]: No, Mel put it in the flower vase. 

Frank [07:21]: gotcha. ttyl <3 

Becca only reacts with a heart to his last message as he pushes his phone back into his pocket, as he slips back into his car, turning the engine on. Sure, he’d kill to go to sleep right now but if Mel is sick enough to get an uber for Becca and to call off work — Mel, the girl who brags about never being sick because she’s ‘trained’ her immune system to resist sickness (and she really did prove it when she was the only one of them who didn’t get sick at last year’s flu outbreak. He had to spend a week on Mel’s couch to avoid getting the kids sick and Becca was staying at the center full time to not get sick) — he needs to go to her. 

Because if Mel King needs something, Frank Langdon is going to be there.

—

He fishes out the keys, balances the plastic full of medicine — Tylenol, cough syrup, acetaminophen, some antibiotics in case it’s something bacterial and some anti-viral medication with chicken noodle soup that he picked up from her favorite place nearby (he pounded on the door until the old Asian lady opened up and he had to beg and barter for twenty minutes to get her to give him anything because my wife would really really appreciate it — a white lie he doesn’t feel guilty about one bit) — and opens the door. “It’s me,” he calls out before Mel can dial 911 and have a complete freak-out. “Becs told me you were sick.” 

No reply comes and he tries to push down the panic rising in his chest as he puts the stuff on the counter, shrugging off his jacket. “Mel?” 

“In the bedroom,” her voice comes, weak and small and he very nearly sprints to her room, pulling the door off its hinges to see Mel curled up in her bed, in her ‘Helly Kitty’ grey and pink pajamas, her nose impossibly red, her eyes filled with tears and hugging her teddy bear. “Hi,” she says, sniffling and like the sight of Frank is enough to open up the flood gates, a half-broken sob leaves her throat, her face crumpling up like it’s hurting her to get the tears out, her glasses crooked as she hides her face against her teddy-bear. 

“Oh, sweetheart,” he breathes out the words, cooing softly, as he crosses her room in two long strides, cooping her up into his arms, pressing her tightly against his chest, pushing her hair out of her face. “Hi, baby, hi, Mel. It’s okay, I’m here. I’ll take care of you.” She keeps crying the way Penny tends to when she has a small scratch on her knees and she wants attention and Frank wants to give Mel all his attention right now — wants to take care of his brave good girl, his girl who has been fighting alone for the better part of his life but doesn’t have to because Frank is there to take care of her. “It’s okay, cry it out, baby,” he whispers softly. “Does it hurt?”

“Yeah,” she whines, hiding her face against his shirt — the green one that he’s had since he was an intern. Abby would actually be really glad to see it gone and buried and burned. She might even send Mel a thank-you note for covering it in snot to the point of ruin — as she sniffles. “Everything hurts.”

“It’s okay, we’ll take care of it, sweetheart,” he presses his fingers into her scalp, running them through her gold strands of hair in what he hopes is a soothing gesture. “You’ve been so brave. So very brave, my perfect girl.” 

He holds her until her sobs slow down and she becomes more or less limb against him, her eyes barely open. He pulls away slightly, one arm supporting her weight as the other one rests against her forehead. Her eyes are closed, her eyelids shaking rapidly. “Shit, baby, you’re burning up.”

“‘M cold,” she mumbles under her breath, reaching for the blanket to wrap around herself, her small frame shaking as she melts back into the mattress. 

“Okay, Mel, sweetheart,” he pulls her back up as she protests, small mumbles leaving her cracked lips, closing her eyes stubbornly, shaking her head. “Fuck, okay, look at me. Don’t fall asleep just yet. I got you some soup. Have some of that and a Tylenol and some acetaminophen and then go back to sleep, okay? Are you with me, Mel? C’mon, will you promise to stay awake so I can go and get some soup for you?”

“Sleepy,” she mumbles.

“Baby, c’mon, work with me,” he pleads, pushing her hair out of her forehead again, slightly alarmed at how warm she feels. 

“Can’t promise,” she says, her voice barely audible. “So sleepy.” 

“Fuck, okay,” he allows her to go back down, curling herself in a fetal position, wrapping her arms tightly around herself as she lets out a soft sigh. He just needs to act quick. He runs back out into the kitchen, empties half the soup container into a bowl, making a mental note to save the rest for when Mel wakes back up, grabs the plastic containing the medicine and a water bottle from the fridge and runs back to the room, ignoring the protests of his tired, beaten down limbs and his bad back. Later, he promises his muscles, I’ll fucking get to y’all later. Luckily, Mel’s breathing hasn’t yet evened out. 

“There you go, sweetheart,” he says softly, helping her up as Mel opens her eyes, barely cracking them. “Hi, pretty girl,” he whispers when she looks at him, sniffling. 

“Hi,” she whispers. “What are you doing here?”

“Taking care of you,” he laughs, shaking his head. He loves this version of Mel — the version that is soft and open and leaning on him and letting out everything that crosses her mind. The version that forgets he was there barely five minutes ago, feverish and soft and impossibly young. He wonders if she used to be like this all the time when she was younger — when she hadn’t yet learned to mask, when she was open and vulnerable with people there to take care of her. “I’ve brought you some soup.”

“Really?” she opens her eyes, tears filling them up so they are glassy and so big as Frank reaches out and takes her glasses off, resting them on her nightstand. “For me?”

“Of course,” he fills a spoon, hovering it close to her lips. “There you go, Mel.” 

She dutifully opens her mouth, wincing as she swallows. “My throat hurts.”

“It’s okay,” he coos, filling another spoon. “I’ve got you cough drops. And painkillers. It’ll all be fine.” She nods as she swallows spoonful after spoonful of soup, color slightly coming back to her dangerously pale face. Frank finds himself relaxing a little bit then, the adrenaline rush disappearing slightly, the exhaustion settling in his bones, too. When the bowl is emptied, he puts it on the ground at the foot of her bed and opens the bottle of water, holding it out to her with the medication. “Just one more step before you fall asleep.”

“I hate the taste of syrup,” she wrinkles her nose. “Please, can I not have syrup?”

“You need it to get your throat to stop hurting,” he reasons with her like they aren’t licensed emergency medicine doctors — like they aren’t all aware of every benefit of the drugs, every side effect, every step to get better. Because right now, in this room, in the bubble of Mel’s apartment, they don’t feel like doctors — like colleagues. Right now, Frank can hardly remember anything that doesn’t have to do with the girl standing in front of him, leaning on him. Needing him. 

“Okay,” she pouts as she takes the medicine, swallowing them all in one gulp, nearly choking as Frank laughs and hands her the opened bottle of water. 

“Drink all of it,” he prompts and she nods, doing as she’s told until the water is drained from the bottle. “You can sleep now,” he says and she smiles, nodding her head as he moves the duvet, allowing her to climb underneath, adjusting her legs so she’s more comfortable on the bed. He gets up, smoothes out the edges of the blanket as Mel tucks one arm under her ear and moves to pick up the bowl and leave when her fingers close around his wrist. “What do you need?”

“Don’t leave,” she pouts. “Don’t want to be alone.”

“I’m not leaving,” he promises. “I’ll be out in the living room, trying to get some sleep on your couch.” 

“Sleep here,” she pleads and her voice sounds small and desperate, her eyes filled with the never-ending supply of tear that she seems to possess despite being dehydrated and her face is flushed, crumpled up and so lovely. Frank can’t find it in himself to do the right thing — to go wash the dishes and then crash on the couch. “Your back will go bad if you sleep on the couch.” And fucking hell, even like this she’s thinking of him and who the fuck is he to decline the offer? How can he decline the offer when the person who’s offering is Mel King?

“You sure?” 

“Yes.” 

After that, it doesn’t take much to convince Frank to kick off his shoes and climb under the duvet with her as Mel adjust herself, pressing her back against his chest, moving until she’s comfortable against him. Frank wraps his arm around her, pressing her flushed against him, feeling the warmth of her fever but finding that he doesn’t care much. Faintly, distantly, in the back of his fucking head, he thinks he’ll gladly end up getting sick if this is how he gets to spend the next couple of hours. 

Perhaps the ring on his left hand should burn a hole into his skin, tickling his brain into being alarmed, into feeling even the smallest modicum of guilt. 

But he’s sleepy and Mel is warm and she smells like cinnamon and vanilla (that’s her body wash, right?) and something fresh and lovely and Frank doesn’t want to leave. He’s comfortable — he wants to stay there. 

“Sweet dreams,” he mumbles as he presses a kiss against Mel’s hair and she takes a soft comfortable breath. 

And off they go.

—

When he wakes up, his throat is as dry as Sahara. Logically, in the back of his mind, he knows that he should get up and get a glass of water, maybe wash his face. Fucking hell, did he do that after he got off the shift? But there is someone pressed against him — someone that smells like Christmas morning, feels like home, breathes softly, so alive and present flushed against him. He cracks his eyes open — just barely — to catch a glimpse of honey blond hair, messy strands tangled together, arms wrapped around his middle, their legs intertwined together. 

That’s when everything comes back to him — the post-shift daze, big tears rolling down her eyes, the soft pleading voice that kept him there. Perhaps another man — a better man, one who wasn’t best friends with Mel King and who didn’t think she was the best thing that has ever happened to him — would jump up and feel his heart clench in his chest with guilt, thinking what would his wife think if she were to find him in a position like this. 

But they don’t know them — Mel and Frank. They are… something else. He knows he gives too much credit to this idea — that every time someone points out the craziness of their connection, he shakes his head, tsks and says, It’s because you don’t know Mel. We’re not like that. Perhaps it’s the cliche — the thing everyone says. But right now, Frank doesn’t feel panic, or guilt, or anything negative. 

He just feels love — the same kind that surges through his body every time he looks at her and she looks back and he feels like a person; not a cautionary tale and not someone who has fucked up (that’s the way every other person looks at him, either with disgust or pity or a fucked-up sort of pride but not Mel because she doesn’t associate any feelings, good or bad, with him. She is just his friend. He is allowed to exist with her) but as just… someone. 

He looks at her, the way he always does when he catches her when she’s asleep and then he presses the back of his hand to her forehead, satisfied when he assesses that the fever has definitely gone down. Then, he carefully unwraps her from around him, smiling when she hums under her breath, pressing herself further into her pillow, pulling her arm back so it’s resting under her temple, curling up. 

He takes back the dirty bowl to the kitchen, he washes it and tidies up the leftovers from breakfast — Becca’s been on her cereal run, so there aren’t very many dirty dishes — and then he calls the center to tell them that he’ll be the one picking up Becca that evening. He takes a shower — he uses the extra pair of towels Mel has set aside from him after his residence there during Flu Gate — and finally, he looks like a person as he checks on Mel, finds her safely asleep, writes her a note (places it next to her glasses so it will unmissable), and then grabs his car keys to get Becca. 

He likes this routine that they sometimes have — the way they can do things for each other, the way they have always been in sync, always acutely aware and toned to each other’s needs. Becca is already on the curb when Frank stops the car, running up to sit in the back seat before she realizes that Mel isn’t there. “Where’s Mel?” she asks, frowning, lingering in the doorframe. 

“She’s resting,” Frank smoothes out the seat that is usually occupied by Mel. “c’mon, hop in. we’re gonna get home.” 

“Is she okay?” Becca asks as she climbs up into the car. Frank makes sure her seatbelt is buckled before he puts the car into Drive and then peels off from where they were standing. 

“Yeah,” he says, “Just a mean cold. She’ll be as good as new tomorrow but she needed the sleep, you know.” Becca nods thoughtfully and then starts talking about this new thing they did at the center — a thousand pieces puzzle — that took them all day, and did you know that I was the one who placed the last piece? We’re going to frame it and put it in the entrance hallway so it’s the first thing people see when they enter the building.And Frank can imagine it — the vibrant colors of the puzzle and Becca’s flushed cheeks and wide-eyed excitement as she places the last pieces and then subsequently points at the puzzle on the wall every time they enter the center. It makes something warm bloom in his chest, the way it does when Penny adds another masterpiece to their fridge or when Tanner finishes up another logo building.

Mel’s sitting in the living room, a blanket tightly wrapped around herself when Frank turns the spare key in the locks and opens the door to let Becca in first. “Mellie!” she chimes at the sight of her sister — and she does look better. She has a bit of color in her face, her hair is braided again and she’s definitely washed her face. Frank is delighted to find another dose of the medication is gone and that the soup is in the microwave, getting heated up. Atta girl, he thinks as he puts down the fresh container of soup that he’s going to put in the fridge for tomorrow and Becca’s meal of the night which is, drum rolls, the same as every other night of the week: vegan burgers. 

“Hi, Becca,” Mel smiles into the hug. “Did you have a good time?”

“Yeah, we made a thousand-piece puzzle!” Becca explains, shortly this time because she’s distracted by the take-out container. Never deviating from routine. 

“Hi, sweetheart,” Frank walks over to Mel, reaching out to touch her forehead before any other sort of greeting. She recoils a little bit at the touch before relaxing under the palm of his hand. “The fever’s almost gone. Damn, the medication works fast.” 

“It’s because I’m not very drug tolerant.” 

“I know,” he nods. “How do you feel?”

“A bit dehydrated,” she admits. “But so much better than the morning. Thank you, by the way, for… coming here. And staying. And picking up Becca. You didn’t have to do that.” 

“Yes, I did,” he says already moving to the kitchen to get her a fresh glass of water and take out the container of the soup as the microwave chimes, telling him that the food is ready for consumption. “Another dose of soup and more water and you’ll be as good as new tomorrow.” 

And that should be it. He should excuse himself and go back out if he doesn’t intend to be late to his night shift. He’s already imagining the raised eyebrows at the fact that he’s wearing the same clothes as yesterday, crumpled up and worse for the wear but he doesn’t have to worry about that for another thirty minutes, really. “Call me if you need anything,” he says as he reaches back out for his keys, pushing them into the pocket of his coat. “Or if you feel some sort of way — night shifts aren’t that chaotic in the middle of September. I’m sure I can get Shen cover for me if you needed me.” 

“Thank you,” she says as he walks to the door and she follows him, wrapping her robe tighter around herself as she stands in the door frame. 

“You never have to thank me,” he says as he adjusts his jacket, lingering. “You know that.” And maybe it’s the fact that her eyes are impossibly soft, or it’s the little secret smile that she wears every time she looks at him or maybe the fact that he still remembers the warmth of her skin against him from mere hours ago, something else entirely but he lingers for a moment longer — he lets himself forget about the shift, the outside world, the reality of their situation. 

Because it’s them. It’s Mel and Frank. 

Mel, for one, doesn’t shy away from the stare either. She stays there, her eyes wide and her pupils blown, and indulges Frank, allows him to gape at her, to memorize her outline. He suspects he’d have stayed there all night if Becca hadn’t called for Mel, “Your soup’s gonna get cold, Mel,” she says and Frank blinks, the magic of the moment broken, taking a step back as his heart starts hammering in his chest, confused and lost. 

“See you Monday,” he says, smiling. 

“See you Monday,” Mel returns the sentiment as Frank turns to skip the stairs two at a time.

He’s late to his shift by five minutes and it’s already chaotic enough that no one notices the fact that he hasn’t changed. 

Small mercies and all. 

—

12th September 2029:

I’m just saying, Abby’s voice from earlier echoes in his head as he sits behind the table across from Mel who has a hopeful smile on her face, You’re not her actual older brother. You don’t have to meet the guys she brings home! Which is fair. Frank actually wishes — for once in his life — that he has listened to his wife and skipped out on meeting… Tim.

There’s nothing ‘wrong’ with Tim per se — he is goodlooking enough (albeit a little too… blond) and he is a doctor — orthopedics, Jesus Christ, talk about boring of the borings — and… Mel likes him. But then again, he’s an orthopedic surgeon and he’s blond! Not at all Mel’s type. 

Not that Frank knows Mel’s type. In the four years they have been friends, this is the first guy Mel has mentioned. And she was pretty nervous talking about him — I mean, it’s very new, and you don’t have to… I just mentioned you a lot with him, and he wanted to see who I am hanging out with, you know. But I can make something up if you don’t want to… — and she had looked so pretty (flushed and eyes looking down, her fingers nervously entangling together, picking at the corner of her nails) that Frank had no other way but to say, of course I’ll meet the douchebag you are dating him and pretend that I don’t hate him already. 

“Life in the ER must be pretty exciting right?” Tim asks, pulling Frank out of his thoughts. Christ. 

“Doesn’t Mel tell you enough ER gory stories?” he leans back, reaching out to take a sip of his diet coke — Mel did say that they shouldn’t go to a bar because she doesn’t like alcohol and Frank’s sober but the thought of sitting with Mel’s boyfriend at dinner was so unnerving that he said, C’mon, Mel, I can hold my own when faced with alcohol which is to say he never had any problems with the fucking alcohol — as Tim snorts. 

Christ, this fucking guy. 

“None at all,” Tim shakes his head. 

“Well, they can’t be as exciting as ortho stories, so I don’t blame her,” he smirks, glancing at Mel whose eyes are snapping back and forth between them. He feels a bitterness blooming in his chest that she didn’t look back — didn’t share a look of amusement with him that could only translate to, get a load of this guy. Not that Mel’s ever been the kind to do that but… Jesus. 

“Hahahahaha,” he laughs exactly like the words, a couple of clean ‘ha’s — the most frat bro laugh of all time, orthos do really have a fucking reputation for being embarrassing as fuck. “Nice one, dude.” 

Even though Frank doesn’t know what the actual fuck was nice. “So,” Frank breathes out because Mel tenses when the silence falls around the table, looking like she might get up and sprintaway and have a mental breakdown somewhere, biting her lips venomously — and she’s worn lipstick so he definitely doesn’t want that gone. Even if it’s not for him — and he wants to ease the tension. “How did you two meet?”

“Didn’t Mel tell you?”

“I want to hear what the guy remembers,” he smiles — trying to be sweet and open and is sure he’s coming off as a bit psychotic. 

“Well, we met at the dog park,” he takes a sip of his martini, “Mel and her sister—”

“Becca,” Frank snaps because he knows Becca doesn’t like to be referred to as Mel’s sister, knows that about three years ago, it was the argument that Mel and Becca have soured over for a while with Mel not knowing how to make space for this grown-up, independent Becca who was asking for more overnights, talking about moving into the full-time living facilities there. Not that he’ll say all that to Tim but so what if the words comeout more bitter than usual. 

“Yeah, right. Becca. They were at the park with a dog—”

“That’s generally what you do in a dog park, man,” he interrupts and then, when and only when Mel glances at him nervously, he clears his throat. “Sorry, ER doctor sort of things. Impatient and all that.”

“Right,” Tim clears his throat. “What was the dog’s name again, Mel? It’s not her dog, I know that.”

“Goldie?” Mel says in a small voice, glancing at Frank. 

“Goldie?” he asks, turning to Mel this time, and not for the first time that night, curses himself, “Tanner’s Goldie?”

“Who’s Tanner?” Tim interjects and Christ Alive, does he nevershut the fuck up and allow people to process the fact that they are to blame for the fact that their best friend is now dating the most douchey doctor ever known to mankind? 

“Frank’s son,” Mel answers. “Goldie’s Frank’s dog.”

“Ah, man, I owe you a thank you, then. And how fun, y’know? I was walking my friend’s dog, too, and he took a liking to y’all’s dog and we got to talking and one thing led to another and I asked Mel out. I’m pretty sure I was gonna strike out, too, but then Mel’s sister,” — okay, so Frank might be overreacting to this because his jaw locks, his teeth grinding painfully — “kindaconvinced her to tell ‘yes’ and here we are, a couple dates later, you know.” 

Oh, no, he doesn’t know — he does now know that he has a bone to pick with Becca, that little traitor. Even though he’s not sure how he’s even betrayed. He just feels unease seeping through everything as he sits tensely around this damn table, watching Mel’s start unfolding and thinks, strangely, that maybe this is the guy Mel ends up with, the guy that becomes The Guy™ in Mel’s life. He thinks he would not be able to bear it if that was the case — if he lost the privilege of being the person who Mel looks for in any situation. 

But it’s not like he can come out and say it. 

So. 

“So, I guess I owe that one to ya,” he adds, scratching the back of his neck. “Thank you, big guy,” he moves forward, lightly punching Frank playfully on the arm, making him flinch. 

Yes, he thinks, Thank you, Frank. For ruining your own fucking life, and distantly, in the depth of his soul, he knows that this doesn’t just refer to this situation. But Christ, drinks with Timisn’t the place to talk about this. 

—

“I’ll drive her home,” Frank says once they are outside, the air a bit colder than normal for early September as Mel tightens her cardigan around herself, the tip of her nose moving subtly as she sniffles a little bit. “She’s on my way.” 

“I can drive her, man,” Tim grins, “I’m good to drive my own girl home.” 

“Actually,” his jaw sets, trying to push past the ‘my own girl’ comment and brush it off, “I don’t think you’re even good to drive yourself home, man. If I were you, I’d get an Uber home and pick up the car in the morning.”

“Yeah,” Mel nods, “It’s fine, Tim. Frank can drive me home.”

He tries not to look too smug — which is impossible given that Mel is on his side — as Mel and Tim say their goodbyes (and Tim agrees to get an Uber home not that it matters to Frank. He can drunk drive and have an accident. It’ll only occupy Ellis and Abbot and Shen. And let them learn and work and earn their paycheck, you know) and eventually climbs into his car. “Nice meeting you, man,” he waves a dismissive hand, not waiting for the reply as he gets in the car and fastens his seatbelt. 

It’s only when they are out of the parking lot that Frank lets go of the tight fist on the wheel that had been cutting off the circulation to his fingers. “You okay?” Mel’s voice comes, small and shy, cutting through the thoughts swirling in his head, only then does he blink and look at his right to see Mel hunching into herself, making herself as small as possible. 

You absolute dickhead, he snaps at himself. “Yeah,” he nods, “Yeah, sorry, why would I not be okay?”

“You just don’t seem like yourself,” she explains, her fingers twitching together painfully in her lap as is her habit. Frank doesn’t think as he removes his hand from the gear and catches her hands in his, keeping it there in her lap. “You seem agitated.”

“Sorry,” he sighs, rubbing a circle with his thumb absentmindedly — her skin is almost always cold under his touch. She says it’s been like that since she was a kid — always low blood pressure, always freezing limbs. She doesn’t feel it anymore, she says, but every time, Frank is tempted to reach out and warm her up. Bitterly, he wonders if fucking Tim has discovered that. “Sorry, I don’t know why he was just dancing around on my fucking nerves, Mel. Was I too much of an asshole?”

“A little,” she admits, turning her hands until her palms are up, holding Frank’s palms together, her fingers playing with his, pulling at the hair on his arm as she does when she’s stressed and they are near. He knows she doesn’t even notice it as she plays around but it’s a habit that he adores — he welcomes the pricking pain, the small reminder that Mel is present, seeping into his very being. “I mean, I know that Tim isn’t—”

“There’s nothing wrong with him,” he rushes out, “Fuck, sorry, I was a jerk. I know that. I’m sorry.” 

“It’s okay,” she says simply, “why were you so condescending to him?”

He can probably cook up an excuse — if he thinks more than three second and if he tries to — but when Mel asks him a question, every fiber of his being demands that he says the truth. “Because I felt threatened.” 

“What?”

“I hated that he was the other guy in your life,” he says, the words making him sink into the depth of the shame that’s spreading all throughout his body. He feels like a goddamn kid in the playground, acting petulant just because he missed out a red jelly that he had been eyeing. He’s not twelve — he has another woman in his life, he has fucking kids for fuck’s sake and tonight, he’s going to go under the duvets to sleep next to his wife and it’s not like he has feelings for Mel. they are just friends — it’s all they’ve ever been and both of them know it. 

Know that the connection they have can’t be summarized as romantic. He actually isn’t sure if there are any words for it at all but it’s not romantic.

Still, as the words leave him, he knows that they are God’s honest truth and Mel has every right to throw all that back — all the reasons that he does know about — in his face. “Sorry, I know that’s shitty of me and fucking hell, Mel, I know I was a jerk. I can apologize to Tim,” — okay, so even being self-aware isn’t stopping him from spitting out that fucking name with such rage — “if you want me to and if you want to, like, hide any future boyfriend from me, then I understand that, too.” 

All through this, Mel is just lacing their fingers together with the curiosity of a toddler that’s discovered her new hiding spot, like she’s trying to decide how he fits against her — like they are puzzle pieces trying to fall together. The thought makes him skip a beat. “It’s okay,” her voice comes eventually. “I don’t like him all that much. I think he’s kind of a…”

“Douchebag?”

“Yes,” she flushes when the single syllable that sends a wave of satisfaction through him leaves her mouth, finally letting go of his hand. He’s forced to take it back, suddenly feeling hollow. “Becca insisted I give it a try but I don’t think it’s really working. I don’t think I’ll be seeing him much from now on.” 

“Don’t break up with him on my account, sweetheart.” 

“Shouldn’t I?” she looks up at him, her eyes big and bright — deer in headlights, confusion laced there somewhere, making his heart twist inside of his chest, perhaps doing a somersault from the way she’s looking at him like he has all the answers, making him very nearly buckle over himself with smugness. 

“If you want to, you can,” he amends. “Break up with him.”

She takes a moment to mull the thought over and then, “I want to.”

“Okay, then.” He can’t help the grin that sneaks onto his face, can’t help the feeling strengthening inside, Boyfriends come and go but I stay. Because you want me to. Don’t you, Mellie? You want me to stay because… Fuck, for whatever reason. And I’m so so grateful. And I love you. I love you so much. The words are even brand new to him — they’ve been there, lodged in his chest, breathing and alive. He must’ve known it for as long as he’s known her. They are special to each other — they are connected in ways he’s never been connected to another human being. 

He turns on his flasher and turns into her street. “Here we are, Mel.” 

“Here we are,” she confirms as he stops in front of the building. “Um, do you want to — come up?”

“What?”

“Becca!” she gulps, shaking his head as her hand rests on the handle of the door. “She told me to tell you to come up. When you drop me off. I mean, I didn’t know that you were going to drop me off, but I mean, Becca knew. That’s why she told me to—” she cuts her off, pinching the inside of her wrist as if to stop herself. “Do you want to?”

“You had me at ‘Becca’,” he grins, unbuckling himself. “You go right ahead and wait in the lobby for me? Imma park my car.” 

“Okay,” she smiles, hopping out of the car as Frank moves to occupy the spot she now calls his spot — it’s a little farther down the exact entrance of her apartment complex, and it’s almost always empty despite it being a golden spot. Mel says it’s because most residents keep their cars in the parking lot behind the complex and this one is always left open for guests so it’s okay that he’s in it. It takes him five minutes to park, lock up and run to the lobby. Maybe he should text Abby and let her know that he’ll be late but he’s never done that before and he’s not about to start now. And Abby knows that he’s with Mel — what objection could she have to that? 

“Here,” he says, barging into the lobby as Mel smiles as soon as her eyes land on him. She’s bouncing back and forth on her feet, whispering a nursery rhyme under her breath — it’s a form of self-soothing Frank’s picked up on when she doesn’t have access to her AirPods and her lava lamp and her squishy toy. “Did you wait too long?”

“No,” she shakes her head. “Let’s go up, huh?”

“Lead the way, ma’am.” 

And she does. Frank follows obediently as they travel the levels, and eventually, he watches her — leaning on the wall and trying not to stare too hard at her fingers — as she fumbles with the key, trying to get the door to open. Eventually, she lets out a little sigh when it does. Inside, it’s dark — just for a split second — and just as Frank is about to open his mouth, about to ask why the hell is Becca hidden away, the lights come to life, a confetti stick is released in his face and Becca’s sharp voice comes through, “Happy four years!”

He blinks. Once. Twice. Then, wipes the confetti off his face. “Happy four years,” Mel says shily from next to him. 

Okay, so he had noticed that Mel hadn’t texted him that morning to remind him of the anniversary nor had she mentioned it when they got to the bar and he thought, a little disappointed but entirely predictable, that she had forgotten or maybe four years wasn’t special enough to warrant a ‘happy’ text. Which was entirely understandable — it had been a while since he had stopped counting anyway. (Lies.)

But there the King sisters are — one of them in the hallway and the other lingering behind him in the doorframe — and they are both smiling widely. Becca is holding a cupcake and Mel is smiling that shy, small, exceptionally beautiful smile at him and they are his unit. They are the ones who remember the anniversary of his sobriety and the ones who make him pastry and the ones who text him when they are worried about him or when they have an exciting update or just because they ‘miss hanging out’ with him. (Becca did that last week and he immediately requested to be invited to one of the King sisters’ movie nights.)

And suddenly, like the sentimental slightly middle-aged man that he is, tears spring to his eyes and his heart cracks open a bit and his vision swims in the sea of water blurring his vision. “Oh, fuck,” he says, his voice broken, rubbing a hand on his face. 

Because he thinks this might be it — being loved. Being liked, actually. It’s easy to be loved. He knows there are people who love him — Abby, his kids and his parents and his siblings and maybe his friends, too. But sometimes — most time — they don’t seem to like him very much — to want to stay around, to invite him up, to have a long conversation and to check up on him. But these two girls — the people who have blessedly entered his life look at him and see him. And they like him. They want him around. “Oh, fucking hell,” he repeats again, his voice wet, the words barely making it out from around the tight knot formed in his throat. 

“Is something wrong?” Mel asks, her eyes worried, her mouth now tilted downwards. “Did we startle you or something? I thought you liked surprises and you always complained about the fact that no one throws you a surprise party when you are past a certain age and I thought maybe you wanted one and—”

Frank could kiss her right now.

The thought is sudden and shocking — so much so that he has to take a step back and take a deep breath. Fuck — maybe it’s the fact that every time he’s felt such a rush of love wash over him, it’s been in relation to a romantic partner so he can’t now tell the distinction between that feeling and this one (the one sitting right under his sternum, pressing down on him) or maybe, it’s the fact that loving Mel is so easy, like breathing, that his brain has somehow tricked him into thinking it might have a sexual component. Whatever it is, he swallows it down. 

“It’s perfect,” he says, his voice still gravel — hoarse and far even to his own ears. “I’m just so happy. It’s so…” 

There is no word in the world to describe the depth of kindness these two have shown him — how enveloped he feels in it all right now. 

Mel smiles again — the way she always does. He’s catalogued it into his brain — analyzed it until he’s lost his mind a little bit. It always starts with a sparkle in her eyes, spreading all throughouther face, making it shine brighter. It’s only then — when she’s sparkling like a star — does it spread to her lips, stretching it out until Frank suspects it can’t be stretched anymore, sitting there with glee and gleam, looking back at him and reminding him that he’s still alive. 

“Really?”

“Really, Mel,” he confirms. 

He could really kiss her right now. Really. 

—

He gets home around midnight with a belly full of cake and a heart full of love. The lights to the house are turned off, sending a pang of regret up his spine at having missed the kids’ bed time but he consoles himself with the fact that tomorrow, he has the day off and he’ll get to cook pancakes for Penny the way she likes them (in the shape of a bear) and waffles for Tanner (with Nutella on top) and they’ll get to have a full day together. 

“You’re late,” a voice says — Abby’s voice, fucking hell — as he tries to sneak into the living room, making him jump up. 

“Shit, you’re awake.”

“Shouldn’t I have been?”

“I just figured everyone was asleep by now,” he amends, shrugging off his jacket. “Why did you stay up?”

“Do I need a reason to wait up for my husband?”

Abby gets these moods — times when even his breathing irritates him, picking on him to give her a reason to throw a punch and scratch an eye out and scream her little lungs off. It’s one of them — the classic self-righteous scorned woman routine that she plays so masterfully as she sets one knee on top of the other, with her perfectly manicured hands resting on top of them, staring at him. Here we go, he thinks. 

“No, honey,” he shakes his head, trying to ease it over as he makes his way to her. “I just thought you needed your beauty sleep.”

“You’re late.”

“I know,” he confirms. “I was at Mel’s.” 

“Mel’s, huh?” she spits the words out like they are made of venom — like they leave a bitter aftertaste in the back of her throat like bile climbing up. 

“C’mon, don’t be like that.”

“Like what, Frank?” Abby very nearly growls, the whisper-screaming that they have gotten marvelous at now that the kids are old enough to startle awake with the smallest hint of a disagreement. “Like my husband is coming home after midnight smelling like another woman?”

“Mel isn’t another woman,” Frank screams right back (scream-whispers) and takes a step closer. He hates the way Abby talks about Mel — hates the twinge of disgust that sneaks its way into her tone every time, the subtle change in her mannerisms, the fire burning in her eyes. “She’s my best friend.” 

“I thought I was your best friend.”

Well, you thought wrong. Not that he says that out loud. “Come on, Abs. You knew that was where I was going to be.”

“I knew you were going to meet her boyfriend not that you areher boyfriend.” 

“Fuck you,” the words leave his mouth before he can fully work through the thing Abby’s said — the anger is white hot, a kind of rage he can’t tame, the sort that burns as it leaves his insides, roaring to the world. It’s venomous and bitter — hot and red. He feels all his body set on fire, every nerve burning viperously. Abby flinches like she’s been hit. 

“Well, you don’t do that anymore now, do you, Frank?” she answers, the words calm and measured, her green eyes sparkling even in the dim light that the one lamp in the room provides.

“How long have you been sitting on that, Abs?” he lets out a laugh that sounds more like a bark. “To bring up our fucking sex life in the middle of an argument. That’s a new fucking low, don’t you think?” 

“Why?” she hisses. “Is it lower than my fucking opinion of you?”

“If your opinion is so low about me,” he takes a step forward, his fingertips buzzing with the sheer force of anger seeped into it, “then why the fuck don’t you leave me?”

“Because I can’t!” she snaps. “I’ve spent far too much time on you to leave and leave you and your little fucking girlfriend–”

“Shut the fuck up, Abigail,” he steps forward, pressing her against the wall. He hates being like this — hates towering over his wife like this, seeing the flash of something unrecognizable in her eyes, her chin shaking — while their kids are sleeping down the hall but he’s so sick of Abby being like this, so threatened by Mel, by him, by the life he’s built for himself from scratch. He had to — he had gone fucking insane in those ten months before coming back to work and seeing his colleagues again. He was a prisoner in his own skin, unable to break free, unable to get through to his own wife. She doesn’t get to act all high and mighty right now — when he’s finally been put back together and no thanks to fucking Abby. 

“You love her so much?”

“Yes,” the answer comes to him in a flash. “But it’s not like that — you are my wife. I come home to you. So, either step up and fucking act like it or leave. But if you’re not doing that, then stop bring Mel into this because she has nothing to do with whatever it is that’s going on with us.” 

For a second, Abby seems to be on the verge of saying something else — a venomous last word that will inevitably cut through and leave them in ruins. But then, she nods. “I just don’t like it when you’re coming home late.” 

“Then I’ll try not to do it,” he sighs, a white flag rising. “I’m sorry. I should’ve texted you.” 

“Do it next time,” Abby sighs as Frank steps back, brushing past her. “I think it’s best if you sleep in the guest room tonight, okay? I know you usually wake up early with the kids when you’re off.”

“Okay,” he says, finding that he doesn’t mind it all that much. He relishes in it, actually — to have some room to breathe. He finds he dreams of Mel easier when he’s not sleeping next to Abby. 

—

12th September 2030:

“Are you sure you’re up to this?” Abby asks for what feels the hundredth thousand time that night as she looks in the mirror, leaning to presses her lips together after applying lipstick on them. Frank likes this shade on her — it reminds him of the people they used to be in college; when they had just started seeing each other, when they had just gotten to know what falling in love felt like. 

For so long, Frank knew they were slipping — day by day, he knew they were sinking further back to the point where they were strangers. But now, for a split second, everything feels… normal. Like normal used to feel a long time ago, at least. “They are my kids, too, Abby. I have been alone with them before,” he says, leaning in to push a strand of hair out of her face that has her eyelashes flutter as she looks up at him. She’s still beautiful — even at thirty-seven, she’s still glowing like she always has. Vibrant bright red hair and green eyes and the freckles that seem to only have more alluring as age passes. Her dress — the one she bought two months ago when they were out shopping for Penny (in honor of her starting school!) and she liked — looks great on her. For a second, Frank wonders how long it’s been since he’s catalogued every movement, every curve, of his wife. It feels so long — so staled. 

“They should be in bed by ten,” Abby lists off, “And Tanner’s been really pushing it at soccer so maybe make him a protein shake? Kid-friendly, of course, because you know, you have weird combinations that you make for yourself.” Frank feels the familiar stinge of irritation climbing up his spine — the urge to snap at her and tell her, Jesus Christ, Abby. I, too, have been their parent for the last decade if you hadn’t noticed — but he knows she doesn’t mean anything by it. She just gets nervous when she’s away from the kids. Last year, when her mother was hospitalized in the middle of the winter, she kept nagging at him that he was letting Penny takes ‘long, unsolicited’ bathes and what if she drowned? It was a particularly hard week, if he’s honest. 

“I know,” he sighs, leaning against the wall, crossing his arms. “Check their homework, as I do every night,” — okay, so he might understand but it doesn’t keep him from being a little biting. He’s only human! — “and put them to bed as, you know what, I do every night!” He tries to slip a little humor in his voice to banish the pursed lips of his wife and her disapproving look. “Seriously, Abby, I’ve been doing this for nine years. I’m basically a pro at it.” 

“Okay,” she nods, biting the inside of her cheeks. “No, you’re right. I’m being overbearing.” 

“Just enjoy yourself,” he practically pushes her out of the door as Abby looks around her purse to make sure she’s taken her wallet. “Tell you sister congrats on the promotion or the fiancéor whatever it that you are celebrating for me, okay?”

“Promotion and fiancé,” Abby sighs. “Marriage at thirty-four should not be an achievement, by the way.” 

“I agree,” Frank clicks his tongue. “Maybe they should’ve rushed into just as we did at the ripe age of twenty-six, huh?” It’s meant to be a joke — a jab at her sister (whom Abby is not very fond of ever since she spent a fortnight at her mother’s bedside while Jennifer only spent a week and kept whining the whole time. And she doesn’t even have a family! Abby argued last year, I had to leave my kids for this shit! Which didn’t even stinge when she deliberately left out ‘and my husband’ part of it all) and not a remark at their marriage’s expense. Still, it makes Abby’s jaw click, a dead tell that she’s annoyed. 

Well, that makes two of us, Frank thinks inwardly.

“Okay,” Abby sighs, apparently deciding to let it go — much to Frank’s relief — and lingers in the door way. “You’re sure you’re okay, right?”

“Positive,” he nods. “Spend the night at your sister’s, honey. It doesn’t matter.” 

For a second, Abby seems to say nothing, just staring at him like she’s trying to decipher a code Frank is oblivious to and then she sighs, letting out the breath she was holding, and nods. “Okay, kiss the kids goodnight for me.” 

“Will do,” he says, not even minding that Abby doesn’t kiss him as she disappears at the end of the hallway, only relieved that she’s gone. 

—

“C’mon, buddy,” he says to Tanner who is sitting cross-legged from him, grumbling under his breath that science sucks, “You’re breaking my heart saying this. I’m a doctor!”

“It doesn’t make science suck any less,” he pouts. In the background, Penny is dancing up and down to the soundtrack of K-pop Demon Hunters; the second movie (fucking hell, as if the first one wasn’t enough. He was in rehab when it came out and still, it tended to haunt his every dream for the first two years after its release) which is bound to blow over when Tanner inevitably snaps at his sister. But that is future Frank’s problem. Right now, Frank just needs to get Tanner to finish this assignment before Mrs. Brawler — his teacher — gives Abby another call about how being a ‘jock’ doesn’t excuse Tanner from doing homework. He’s nine, for fuck’s sake! He’s not a freaking ‘jock’!

Okay, apparently that’s a sore spot for Frank. 

“I know,” he agrees. “I mean, when I was your age, I sucked at science. And math. And algebra! But grandma used to sit with me until I finished all my homework and—

“And that helped plenty,” Tanner finishes for him. “I know, Pa. You’ve told me like a million times.” 

“Then let’s do it!” he smiles, leaning in to bump his shoulder against Tanner’s. “The quicker we get this over with, the quicker we can get to the fun activity of getting Pen to stop watching that movie.” 

“Then we can watch the baseball match?”

“If we manage to distract your sister enough!” Frank promises even though both of them know that in their house, Penny is the matriarch and Frank can never say ‘no’ to his lucky penny. But still, for his own mental health’s sake, he hopes they will defeat the evil that is K-pop-ish soundtrack. 

“Deal,” Tanner perks up, his eyes back on the paper, working through the pages. 

For a second, Frank allows himself to take in this moment — to look around the living room. Five years today!! Mel had texted him in the morning, a chip that he’s collected. Five years sober. Sometimes, it gets hard — sometimes, his back is killing him and he remembers the vague memory of a time that he didn’t have to live in pain every day. A time that was filled with him walking up and down the hospital like he owned the fucking place, beaming and proud and whole. Or so he thought. 

And sometimes, when he can’t sleep at night because his back is giving him grief or when he has a shitty cold and he has to take two Tylenols instead of one, always in fear of what might happen if he pushes it a bit, he thinks he was better off then. 

But he looks around at this — and at the unopened email from PHP telling him that his probation time will be up in a week and he’ll be a doctor as he is, no random drug tests and no annual meetings and no reports from his therapist and monitoring his NA meetings — he thinks, if not for anything else — for his license and career and marriage and life — then for this, it is worth it. 

Because he’s been many things in his life — a doctor, a liar, an addict, a husband — and he’s fucked up in pretty much every single one of those areas but he has never fucked up in this — being Tanner and Penny’s father. 

And he never intends to. 

Even if that fucking soundtrack does drive him up the wall. 

—

“Can you believe Penny watched baseball with us?!” he says, all too excited, as he lights up a cigarette in his backyard, splashedout on the furniture they have there — those white metal chairs that Abby keeps insisting are chic — and stares to the sky, trying to make out the stars. “I mean, I think the energy of the universe has been altered or something.” 

Mel softly laughs on the other side of the line. “You can be pretty persuasive when you want to be, Frank.”

“Can I?” his ears perk up the way Goldie’s ears do — their golden doodle. Well, his golden doodle because Abby still wants nothing to do with the dog! She pets the golden retrievers at the park when they take Goldie out for walks as a family btu she refuses to be kind to him! It’s so utterly unfair — at the words that leave Mel’s mouth. 

“Sure,” she says, not knowing he’s spinning a web. Oh, sweet, naive little Mel. 

“So, how can I convince my best friend to come pay me a visit tonight?” Frank sighs dramatically, pouting even though he knows Mel can’t see him. But she’ll feel it. She always does. “I mean — I haven’t even gotten my cupcake of the day.”

“I sent you a cupcake emoji!” she argues. 

“Well, I mean, five years is a big milestone, Mellie,” he says, fake sweetness and artificial sweetener-laced honey, all fake and beaming and good. “And I don’t even get to see you? I know Bec’s staying overnight at her own apartment. You literally have no excuses.”

“I came off shift only a few hours ago?” Mel still manages to cook up a weak excuse.

“And you’re off tomorrow, Ms. Attending,” Frank sighs. “C’mon, Mel. the kids are asleep, Abby’s away, Goldie’s dozing off and I’m so full of restless energy I can combust.” 

“Frank—”

“And I miss you,” he interrupts before Mel can use her inherent control over him in situations like this. The words come easily to him — breezy and light, getting out of his throat like it’s a fact. Like the ‘I love you’ he says to his kids as he tells them stories to put them to sleep every night, like the ‘good morning’ he says to Dana every time Mel and him clock into work at the same time, like the ‘I’m sorry’ he’ll keep telling himself in the mirror until the day he dies. He always misses Mel. He even misses her when she’s talking, when she’s in front of him, when she’s just a car ride away — he’s been missing her his entire life, will continue to do so for the rest of his. 

Well, that one might be a little intense for the guilt-tripping he’s planned, though. 

“I miss you, too,” Mel admits, her voice small and weak. 

“I can call you an Uber,” he says now that he has his opening, pushing until Mel gives in. “You’ll be here in ten minutes and we’ll sit on the couch and watch that Love Island crap thing that you like, huh?” Yes, if it means getting Mel, he’s willing to watch half-naked men and women play each other and act dramatic over a two-day-old relationship on national television just for the sake of showing off their pretty botched plastic surgeries and getting some followers and some viral audio tracks. 

“But I can’t go back home after midnight.” She has anxiety over being stolen by Ubers after midnight.

“Abby’s not coming home until tomorrow afternoon,” Frank already has an answer, “And we have a perfectly respectable guest room here. I mean, you’ve seen the satin sheets, right?” 

“I have,” she agrees. 

“Mel, c’mon,” he says, “Please?”

For a second, when Mel says nothing and the line stays silent for a few seconds, Frank recognizes that he’s lost. He should just be graceful in admitting defeat and accept that he is losing his touch with Mel King. that somehow, she’s grown hard to his charm. But then, she sighs and he can imagine her twisting the fabric of her loose Rolling Stones shirt (the one Frank left behind at her house about a year and a half ago after a particularly grueling shift) and biting her lips and nervously glancing at the entrance of her house. “Fine,” she eventually sighs and Frank practically jumps into the sky, wincing when his back stretches out too painfully. “Okay — I mean, I can. But I’ll get my own Uber.”

“Whatever you want.” 

“And you won’t make fun of Keegan,” she threatens. That’s her new boy toy from Love Island. Frank doesn’t get why she has a crush on him — sure, he’s handsome (and not blond like her ex-boyfriend and for that he’s very grateful) but what’s so special about having brunette hair and blue eyes? He sees it in the mirror every day, doesn’t he?!

“I won’t make fun of him,” he promises begrudgingly. He’ll memorize his jabs and tell them to her Monday at work. “I’ll make some peppermint tea, okay?” 

“Okay,” she nods and then, “add some honey to it, too.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” he smiles because he was going to — because he knows Melissa King better than she knows herself, because with him, she never has to ask. He’ll just give it to her. 

—

“I think I’ll miss them being kids,” Frank says while they lounge in the backyard, Mel tightly wrapped up in a blanket. “I mean, I know they are still technically kids. But — I don’t know. Soon, they won’t need me. I can already see Tanner wrinkling up his nose when Abby and I try to tell him stories to put him to sleep. Soon, it’ll be embarrassing for him to hug us.” Mel laughs at that, giggles a little light-headed, “And Penny. I think it’ll kill me if she stops asking me to braid her hair.”

“She won’t ever not ask you to braid her hair,” Mel says matter-of-factly, pulling her legs under herself, tucking her toes under Frank’s thighs because she always says, he ‘runs hot’. 

“Why not?”

“Because you’re a pretty skilled braider,” she shrugs. “I mean you always braid my hair when I ask you to and you do a good job.” He smiles even at the memory of doing that — when Mel’s too tired to quote, ‘move my arms’, Frank always makes sure to have her hair firmly in place in a tight braid just as she likes it. He likes running his fingers through her blond hair. 

“But what if she does?”

“Then I’ll ask you to braid my hair daily so you won’t feel left out,” Mel says so easily, with such innocence and confidence that Frank believes him. 

“It’s a pact.” 

She hums in agreement. 

“The weather is so nice tonight,” Mel breathes the words out, looking at the sky. Frank is tempted to reach for his phone and snap a picture of her in this moment — to capture it forever, to have it on him to look at and remember this second. “I did make you a cupcake, you know,” she says, without looking at him, her eyes still tracing the stars above. “I mean — I wanted to bring it to you before my shift and then, I wanted to bring it after the shift but… I don’t know, I thought Abby wouldn’t like it.” 

“Mel—”

“I mean she doesn’t seem to like me,” she interrupts before Frank can soothe her, or say something encouraging. Abby doesn’t like Mel, that’s the truth and however comforting the lie might be, Frank had promised himself and her never to lie to Mel. Abby can’t understand Mel — can’t understand the connection Frank and Mel have to each other, the understanding, the secret language they share that no one but them can speak fluently. The kids and Becca know some words, but never the entire thing. 

Frank, wistfully, thinks that Mel is his soulmate. Not necessarily a romantic one — but their souls were bound in the world before this if there ever existed. It’s a thought he keeps to himself most of the time, hides even from his own brain, but it comes out every now and then. In moments like this. 

“It’s okay,” she hums. “I don’t need her to like me. I would’ve liked it if she did but I can be a tough pill to swallow.”

“No,” with that he disagrees. “How can someone not love you, Mel? C’mon, you’re the coolest person I know! And you’re kind — and Tanner and Penny are like, crazy about you. They keep asking for Dr. Mel! They forget my name but they keep askingfor you.”

She laughs, pulling her knees against her chest and Frank immediately misses the contact they had just seconds ago. “They don’t forget your name, Frank.” 

“I know,” he smiles. “I was just proving a point.” 

“Point taken,” she nods. 

“You should’ve brought your cupcake,” he tilts his head. 

“I know,” she almost whines, a small pout on her face. “It was so nice, too! It was a chocolate chip cupcake with cocoa powder and a dash of white chocolate with almond butter icing and peanut chunks everywhere. Becca had invented it — it was so delicious, too.” 

“Aw, man, now I really feel bummed.”

“Don’t,” she shakes her head. “I’ll make you another one and bring it to you at work on Monday.”

“It’s a date.” 

Mel doesn’t say anything to that. He doesn’t read into it, really — she tends to go quiet when Frank drops words like that even though both of them know that he doesn’t mean anything by it. It’s just light teasing — poking around and entertaining the way they tend to do to each other. But still, Frank doesn’t point out her awkward, drawn-out silences and Mel never asks him to stop flirting with her. 

“I mean, she was pretty angry last year when you came home late because Becca and I were throwing you that party.”

“Surprise party,” he corrects. “She wasn’t supposed to know — it wouldn’t be a surprise if she knew.” 

“Yeah,” Mel agrees. “Still, I just thought it wasn’t worth pissing her off two years in a row. But I thought she’d at least remember the fact that it’s your five-year anniversary. It’s kind of a big one, right?” 

“Right,” he clears his throat. Truth is, Frank hoped so as well. Granted, Abby hadn’t ever acknowledged his addiction to benzos after the fact that it ‘went away’ — she never gave him any indication that she remembered the date he was discovered and then went away to rehab (except for the blow-up last year. In hindsight, not a good day for any of them) — but he had hoped (a bit naively) that she would say something about the five-year mark. Something like ‘good job’, something like—

“I’m proud of you, you know,” Mel says, inching a little closer to him until their shoulders are touching, pressed against each other. 

“Yeah?”

“Of course,” she says, like his asking for confirmation is absurd, turning to look at him. This is his favorite part of her — her eyes. They are so expressive — world starts and end there, stories that Frank will never hear. People she’s known throughout time reside in there, all their emotions and tales stuck with her, making her the most interesting, the wisest person Frank’s ever known. “You are the best person I’ve ever known, Frank.”

“You give me too much credit,” he rolls his eyes because if she knew that sometimes, Frank has thoughts, she’d take back these words. 

He knows what they say about them, he’s not naive. He knows that in the hospital, for years, there have been whispers of them being more than just friends. He knows that Abby’s aversion to Mel isn’t just because she can’t quite understand how Mel’s brain works but because she sees the connection between them two, the unbreakable thread that has tethered them together ever since the first day he saw her five years ago. He knows because sometimes, in the dead of night when his wife is asleep and their kids are down the hall and his brain is free, he thinks about what it would be like if he had met her earlier — before he ever knew Abby or PTMC. If he had met her, then they would have this life together, he’s almost certain. In no life would Frank missMelissa King — in every life, he would be there, at her beck and call, utterly gone.

Those thoughts are quieted down by the time the sun comes out and he gets ready to go pick up Mel for another day at work — he forgets those fantasies when he sees the real thing, beaming and bright, as she gets into his car and thinks, distantly, my life is pretty damn good, isn’t it? The thought only occurs to him when he’s with his children and Mel and so he doesn’t think about it too hard, too long. It might bring forward things he would much rather bury deep, after all.

But the sun isn’t out and Mel is sitting there, looking at him and she’s proud of him and so, for a moment, selfishly and secretly, he pretends he’s living this other life — the one where he gets to spend every waking moment with Melissa King and gets to fall asleep next to her as they speak about nothing and everything. The one where he can say, “Wanna watch a movie?”

“Sure,” she grins. “Only if it’s not Elf.”

“You read my mind, Dr. King.”

—

“Why don’t you have another baby?” Mel asks half way through ‘13 going on 30’ as they pick on the popcorn Frank’s nicked from the kids’ snack cabinet. 

“What?” he nearly chokes on air. 

“I mean Tanner and Penny can take care of themselves more or less,” she says thoughtfully, “And you always did say you wanted three kids or more. So why not another one?” It’s a question Abby’s asked Frank, too, when she suggested they start trying for a third child six months ago. You make more money,she said like that was a good enough reason, and you work less night shifts. 

For a second, he wanted to really consider the possibility of a third child with Abby — a screaming infant that kept them up all night as Abby kicked him out of the bed, grumbling, it’s your turn. He used to be so charmed by this when Penny was born because he was robbed of that when Tanner was born, kept away because of the horrors of COVID. But suddenly, the idea seemed so… farfetched. He seemed like someone else in that vision — a Frank of another time. 

And so, he said, we’ll see. And they never circled back to it. 

Because the truth is… 

“Can I say something and you not judge me?”

“When have I ever judged you, Frank?” she smiles, shaking her head. 

“Fair point,” he bows his head. “I just — I don’t want another kid with Abby.” The words are horrible as they sit between them, as Frank hears his own voice say those words. They are very cruel, he’s aware. Abby’s a wonderful mother — she’s given him to beautiful, smart, charming, exceptional children. She’s supported him through his addiction, she’s stayed, allowed him to have his children, even when he thought he had lost everything. He’s forever indebted to her — forever grateful that the popular, hot, attractive red head chose him between the endless river of suitors. But… “Fuck, that sounds so fucking horrible, Mel.” 

“It does,” she agrees, gently laying a hand on his forearm. “But if you feel like that, then you shouldn’t feel ashamed by it, Frank. It’s just a feeling.”

“I love her,” he says, more to convince himself than her. He does. He’ll always love her, he suspects. “And I love our children. I mean, obviously. But—” he cuts himself off, shaking his head. “I don’t know. Sorry. Shit.” 

“Don’t be sorry,” Mel whispers, for his ears only. “I don’t judge you.”

“Thank you,” he lets out a breath that is half-huff, half-laugh, “Fuck, Mel, I’m such an asshole. How do you like me?”

“I don’t just like you,” she shakes her head, sinking back against the cushions. “I love you. It’s actually very easy to do. You’re the only who sees me.” And it’s in moments like this — when Mel is close and she says shit like that so casually — that Frank’s heart skips a beat and for a split second — even shorter than the length of a wink, even less than a blink of an eye — he considers throwing everything to the wolves. And then, because Mel is Mel and she’s the best person, the kindest soul, she hums. “And I see you, Frank.”

“You do,” he agrees. He’s not scared when he’s with Mel. He shows her the ugly, the crooked, broken, shameful parts of himself. 

“Young Mark Ruffalo is hot.”

This time, Frank really laughs.

—

When he wakes up, his back is very sore and for a second, he’s sure he can’t move. Fuck, he thinks, I’m paralyzed, aren’t I?And then be blinks — once, twice. And last night comes back to him. Passing out in front of the television, Mel tucked to his side, her head now on his chest, rapidly moving up and down as he breathes. A ghost of a smile — an uncontrollable, living thing — passes through his face. 

“Good morning,” a third voice says from the doorframe and Frank would jump up if he wasn’t aware that Mel was still asleep. He, instead, jerks his head towards the source of the voice. 

“Abby,” he sighs, gently unwrapping Mel from around him, laying her back against the cushions as he winces through the pain of his back. “You’re back early.” 

“Jenny and I had an argument,” she shrugs. “Mel came over last night?”

“After the kids went to bed,” he says, glancing back at her, “Becca wasn’t home either. So, we kept each other company. I’m not used to empty houses.” 

Usually — well, as Frank expects — Abby would be mad. She doesn’t think anything’s going on with them — because there isn’t and they had that argument three years ago and ever since then, Abby’s chosen to trust him on this matter and rightfully so, because nothing ever happens — but it still ticks her off when Mel is around her house. But right now, she doesn’t seem angry, or frustrated. She just seems… empty. Even as her golden, million-dollar, all-American smile comes to her face. “Wake her up,” she says, “we’ll all have breakfast together.” 

And that’s the end of it. They have breakfast, Abby is the perfect host (even asks about Mel’s job, if she’s considering taking on Pedes as a subspecialty somewhere down the line) and Frank waits for the explosion. 

It doesn’t come. Even as Mel leaves. Even as they take the kids to the park. 

It never comes.

—

12th September 2031:

“Give her the house,” he says for what feels like the hundredth time. He doesn’t want this to be a drawn out fight, to scream through their lawyers about furniture and assets and Oh, I think I deserve the fucking house after I stayed with you through your addiction and Oh, it’s fucking rich of you to say that when you are the one leaving me, Abby! and an additional case of, Well, you are in love with your fucking best friend, so shut the fuck up, Frank. Yeah — for the sake of Tanner who is now old enough to understand Mommy and Daddy are getting a divorce and Penny who has been growing anxious at school as their separationtakes real shape, they are trying to keep it civilized. “I don’t really care about all that. If enough is left for me to get a car and a solid, good house, she can have the rest if she agrees to cut back on alimony. Of course, I’ll pay fucking child support. I’m not the devil. Yeah, okay — look, I’ve just landed. I really have to go. Yeah, keep me posted. 50/50 on that front, yeah. Thank you.” 

It also helps that the divorce is initiated after the PHP program is done and technically, he’s no longer ‘in active recovery’ and is instead ‘recovered’. 

“Frank!” a meek blond — his meek blond with hair that puts the sun to shame and a smile so wide and open and her glasses almost crooked from the force of her grin — waves at him as soon as she spots him getting off the gate. 

“Mel!” he greets back, taking long steps until he reaches her, enveloping her in a hug that sweeps her off her feet. Miss you,he tries to punch through her skin through the sheer force of his embrace, missed you so fucking much. “How the hell are you?” he asks when they pull away, now acutely aware that they don’t see each other every day, they don’t talk like they used, he is deprived of seeing her brown eyes on the daily, wide and hopeful and so fucking beautiful that it almost makes Frank loses his mind. 

“Good,” she nods, a faint blush sneaking under her skin as she looks at him. “I love the hospital here — nice people.” Oh. Yes. The Hospital. In fucking middle of nowhere Cleveland, Ohio — the place Mel applied for an assistant professor position without ever telling Frank. One day, four months ago, when Frank was mustering up the courage to stand in front of her and… talk, she told him that she was going away with a rush in her words that was almost too cruel. Of course, Frank is not going to hold that against her. Probably. 

“I’m glad,” he says, only half-lying (which is an improvement from four months ago when he was fully lying when he said those words) as he rolls his suitcase following her. “Are you cosplaying as successful, important attending?” he asks, looking at her in her sharp suit, oversized shirt with its sleeves rolled up and the jacket resting on her arms as she pushes her hands through the pockets of her pants. 

“Maybe,” she smiles faintly. “What are you cosplaying as?”

“Oh, fucked-up, sad, father of two divorcee,” he shrugs, taking a performative bow as he tries to show off his simple salmon pink t-shirt (Penny picked that one for him when Abby threw out his entire closet and he decided to let it go), the worn-out jean (that he has since he was ten years younger) and the hoodie that he took off on the airplane because he ran hot. 

“At least you’re not bitter,” she says kindly, shaking her head as they walk to her car. (Yes, the new and improved Mel King is a driver. It almost drives Frank, who has acted as a chauffeur for five years, a little crazy.) 

“Nope,” he pops the ‘p’, “Sweet as cotton candy actually.” 

“Are you?” she gets into the driver’s seat and then hesitates. “Sorry, do you want to drive?”

Yes, he thinks, for you, always. I always want to drive you everywhere, sweetheart. But the truth is that they are so far away from those days — far away from the days where she would look at him with stars in her eyes and he got to pick her up almost every day and drop her back, brushing past her in the hallway as they walked, barely touching the small of her pack when they were lingering as the senior residents started their morning hand-offs. Now, they are this — polite friends who make casual conversation, standing across from each other, Frank wondering how they ended her here.

Well… He knows. He knows exactly how they ended up here. 

“No,” he shakes his head. “You go right ahead.” 

The corner of her mouth sets, a look in her eyes as she nods. And then gets in the car. 

—

“Nice place,” he says as he looks around the small apartment. It’s the kind of place that suits Mel — a bit impersonal save for the photographs spilled all over the place, the small toys splattered everywhere (mostly knitted, because Becca likes them the most) and the warm smell of cookies laced through the air. 

“You don’t have to lie,” Mel sighs, walking to the kitchen. “I mean, I haven’t been here very long and Becca’s been over only three times. Because she really likes the center, you know — I mean, I know you know. She tells me that you visit her a lot. And — um, thank you, for that. I don’t know if I ever thanked you. I made cookies! You like cookies, right?” 

He recognizes this ramble — it happened in the beginning of their friendship, when she stumbled all over herself and then again four months ago, when—

“Mel, it’s just me,” it pains him to say the words, to try to convince his best friend to let her guard down, to wipe that nervous look off her face. “You know you don’t have to do all that, huh?” he tries to catch her eyes like he always used to — to pierce her soul, to convince her to let him in, to see the tiniest hole of hope, getting through to her. Eventually, she looks away, nodding. 

“Sorry,” she winces. “I’m just nervous you’re here.” 

“Why?”

“You know why,” she mumbles, looking at the ground like she’s found a particularly interesting tile pattern that she’s interested in dissecting. But at least she’s talking about that — at least she’s not insisting the bury it alive and then running out of his apartment in a rush, getting on the plane the very next morning to come to the middle of fucking nowhere. Fucking Ohio. that’s where people go to die! 

“So, we’re talking about that?”

“Frank,” she sounds pained and he’s half-tempted to pull back — to let her off the hook and stop talking about this, to let them settle back in the comfort of lies and awkward silences and their half-assed friendship that they’ve been limping around in for the past four months. 

“I mean, I just thought we were ignoring it because you hopped on a plane and went to another state the morning after—”

“Don’t say it,” she physically flinches, shaking her head as she walks to the kitchen, tugging at the end of her braid, trying to pour some stale tea into a cup but ends up spilling it, hissing a little. Frank is immediately next to her without even thinking, taking her hand to get a better look in. 

“Does it hurt?”

“It wasn’t that warm,” she says, her eyes are still filled with tears nonetheless. 

“Fuck, did you burn?”

“No,” she shakes her head, pulling his wrist out of his hand, taking a step back. “Sorry, no — nothing’s wrong.”

“Well, that’s fucking bullshit and you know it, Mel,” he shakes his head. “Fuck, I thought you invited me here to talk about it. To fix it.” He runs a hand through his hair, so very near to pulling it all out and losing his mind a little bit, actually. “Not to do this awkward shit. It’s us, Mel. it’s fucking us — we don’t tip toe around shit. We don’t lie to each other—”

“We don’t sleep with each other either!” Mel says, her eyes closed tightly, her nails digging into the palm of her hands, her cheeks are flushed. Frank’s heart cracks, turns and then crumbles into a million pieces at the sign of a distressed Mel standing in front of him. For the past five years, his one mission in life has been to keep her from being like this — to make her laugh, to hear that hearty sound and to keep her from picking at her skin. To being there for her and taking care of her. 

And now… Now he’s hurting her.

“But we did,” he says softly. 

Here is what happened: 

Four months ago, just as they had that one final fight — the one that was less fighting and more a tired argument, no life in their eyes and the tone of their muscles entirely vanished — he went back to his lonely bachelor pad (the one that he had moved into two months after that when Abby suggested a ‘break’ because they obviously were not working and needed some space to work through their problems) and called Mel. it’s over, he said and he must’ve sounded like shit because in half an hour, Mel was there, I drove here, she said as soon as he opened the door. 

But you hate driving.

I’d do anything for you. 

And maybe it was the fact that he had realized just that evening as the last straw broke the camel’s back that he was in love with Mel King of all people, that there was no marriage when his heart had checked out of it, that Abby had been right all along and he was irrevocably, insanely in love with Mel or maybe it was the fact that he had been thinking about doing it as soon as he laid eyes on Mel King five and a half years ago, but he leaned in and he kissed her. 

This, he thought as Mel’s lips remained motionless, this and this and this. I want this. And then Mel melted into the kiss just as Frank was about to freak out and perhaps jump off a cliff for ruining their friendship and the rest… 

Well. 

As he kissed Mel King for the first time, he thought about earlier that evening and what Abby said — We could’ve fixed this if you weren’t in love with someone else Frank. And you have been and I can’t even be fucking mad at you because of it because you were right. She really is fucking lovely. Even my fucking kids love her and— why did you have to fall in love with her, huh?Because it was easy — because he hadn’t even thought about falling in love with Mel King, hadn’t realized he was in love with her until Abby threw it back into his face, before he was right in the middle of it. 

And then the next morning she hopped on a plane and went to Ohio for an assistant professor position she had never told him that she had gotten. And that was that — when he brought it up, there was always something she had to do. But when she eventually invited him up to visit her, then he figured they were going to talk about this. 

Not tiptoe and exist in this fucking limerence that is killing him. 

“And I don’t get why that’s such a bad fucking thing, Mel,” he continues, taking a step closer, his hands reaching out like habit — like something he can’t quite shake off. At least she doesn’t flinch back. At least there is that, right? “I mean, it was good. We’re good, we fit together.” 

“Frank, you had just gotten separated from your wife,” she argues a tear falling from the corner of her eyes. “And you weren’t thinking and I was just there and — I was a shoulder to cry on. I mean, I don’t know, a shoulder to sleep with, I suppose. And it was good but — we’re friends. That’s too important—”

“Mel,” he interrupts. “I have been thinking about it. A lot. Haven’t you? Have you never thought of us as being something more than friends?”

“Of course I have,” she takes a step back, putting distance between them before marching into the living room, tugging at her braid as she paces back and forth, shaking her head like she can physically banish any thought of him forming in her head. “Back when I was a resident, it was all I could think about. And I knew it was wrong but you were there for me and you were so kind and you were married—”

“Well, I’m not married anymore!”

“And I’m not that person anymore,” she shakes her head, her voice still the same nervous jumble as it comes out. “And what we have is too big to risk. Our time’s passed.” 

“How can you know that unless we give it a try, Mel? Why not just give it a try?” 

“Because,” she shakes her head, pressing her eyes closed tightly. “You haven’t even finalized your divorce. And you have to think of Penny and Tanner and I live in another state—”

“Which you escaped to.” 

“I interviewed for this position way before we were… did that.” 

“And you were running away even then,” Frank doesn’t know why this anger bubbles inside of him — all these accusations coming to surface. He’s been feeling so fucking lonely, clocking to work every morning in an empty car, to a locker room he no longer shares with Mel and then going back home to grey walls and a room Penny hates that he doesn’t know what to do with, and he misses her. He needs her just as he said he did that first shift. 

“I wasn’t,” she argues but it sounds weak as it echoes in the room. “Frank, we just can’t — that was… what we did… it was just… I don’t know. And this — and that… we just—”

“Deep breaths,” he tries to say as soothing as he can as he walks into the living room as well, trying to calm her down — to catch her eyes and hold her gaze and steady her just as it’s become second nature for him to do. “Sweetheart, baby, listen to me. Take deep breaths.” Mel obliges, following the breathing rhythm he’s conveying with his hands. 

“I’m fine,” she mumbles. 

“Can I say something, Mel?” he asks and when she nods, he’llsay what’s been sitting on his chest for the past four months. The speech he’s spent the entire week leading up to this trip rehearsing — all the way in the plane, too. But now, he can’t remember the words. Everything but the feeling inside of him has been vanished. “Fuck, I had a whole ass speech that now I can’t remember so I should come up with a new one. And I will. I — I met you on the worst day of my life, Mel. Six years ago, today. And — my life hasn’t been the same since then. Maybe it’s because I got fucking sober or maybe, it’s because I met you.And every day since then, I thank my lucky stars that I did.”

Something softens in her gaze. 

“Melissa, I understand that this is scary — that it’s not the best timing and maybe you can’t trust me or this or you’re just scared. I’m scared, too. But I — I wake up every day and the first thing I think of is your eyes. I walk past stores or drive past places and my first thought is, Would Mel like this? Would she want this? She’d have something interesting to say about this. I have been possessed by you — I am consumed by everything about you, Mel King. and I don’t know when it started, or why it started but I know I was in the middle of it before I ever know I started and I have been— Mel. you’re my best friend,” — his voice breaks on that word — “but you are so much more than that. And I know you feel it, too. I hope you feel it, too, because I think it would kill me if you didn’t. But even if you don’t, even if you tell me ‘no’ right now, I’m so glad I got to… just be. With you. Around you. Near you.”

She opens her mouth like she wants to say something, a thin layer of tears making her eyes glassy and so impossibly bright. 

“Couldn’t you just love me, please?” he asks before he can help himself, “I promise you won’t regret it. If you just gave me a chance, Mel… Because. I love you. I really love you and—”

He doesn’t get to finish his sentence because Mel’s lips crash into his just as his own tears fall, their salt water mixing togetheron their cheeks as Mel holds on to him, pulls him down so they are on the same height and he melts into the touch — melts and wants. He wants to vanish into her — to lose himself in the creature who is Mel King, the love of his life, the person who makes Frank feel human, like he’s tangible and real and important and real and alive. 

She breathes back soul into him; she makes him want to be a better man — the person who’s worthy of Melissa King. when they pull away, his lungs are stretched tight as he looks at her swollen lips and her flushed face and tear-stricken skin. She’s so beautiful he could cry. “Mel…”

“I love you, too,” she says the words quickly, pressing her forehead against his chest, hiding her face there. He immediately misses her — he always misses her. Even when she’s in his arms and he can hear her heart beating against him, he still misses her. “In case that wasn’t clear enough.” 

“Say it again.” 

“I love you,” she mumbles into his chest. 

“Again, please, baby.” 

“I love you.” 

He could cry — he could fall on his knees and thank every deitythat is out there for this blessing — for Melissa King. 

“This can’t ruin our friendship,” she says, finally pulling away to look at him, to loop her arms around his neck and pull him a little closer to him. “Frank, promise me it won’t ruin our friendship.” 

“Mel, you’re my best friend,” he assures, “And you’re so much more. You’ve always been so much more. I’ve loved you ever since I met you — I think maybe before that. I’ve loved you even before I know you existed, sweetheart.” 

Mel kisses her again and he imagines he can never get used to this — to the full body surprise that surges through his body every time he remembers he now knows what it feels like to kiss Mel King. 

“Happy six years,” she whispers against his lips and he swallows the words. Those and so much more.

—

12th September 2032:

“Sweetheart,” he breathes the word softly, burying his nose in the crook of her neck, inhaling her scent. 

“I’m still asleep,” she mumbles, the tip of her nose crinkling, shaking her head like she is trying to bat away a particularlyannoying fly. That, of course, doesn’t discourage Frank was pressing his face into the skin of her collarbone and perhaps — like a playful little dog — biting down on it. “Ouch.” 

“Oh, you’re awake?” he feigns innocence, blinking at her. 

“Now, I am,” she sighs, shifting so she’s facing Frank, one hand tucked under her neck. He loves seeing her without the glasses — the fact that she can’t see him well and so he inches closer until he comes back into focus, the fact that from this distance, he can count the brown flecks in her eyes, laced with green somewhere there, mesmerizing, the fact that he can kiss her eyelids and watch them flutter under his lips. 

“You’re killing me sweetheart,” he whispers, his voice gravel. 

“By my morning breath?” she closes her mouth, practically clamps it shut as her face flushes, scrambling to get up and get out of the bed but Frank tightens his grip around her waist, pulling her back in. 

“Stay,” he mumbles, shaking his head. “I need to talk to you about something.”

“Mm-hmm,” she nods. 

“Stop that, you don’t have morning breath,” Frank pulls away her palm that’s resting on top of her lips. “I love your morning breath. In fact, I love it so much I think I should wake up to it every morning.” That gets her to laugh — small giggles that echo in their room, filling him up with warmth, something else that he can’t quite name, too. 

“But I live in Ohio,” she says, pressing her face into his chest and wrapping her arm around her, entangling their limbs as she pulls him closer. “And you live in Pittsburgh.” 

“That’s sort of the problem, isn’t it?” he sighs, tucking her head under his chin and running his fingers through her loose strands of hair. They feel soft as they fall through the tips of his fingers. “What if we were in the same city and we woke up together all the time?”

He can feel her freeze up visibly under his touch. “What?”

He pulls away slightly so he can look at her face and see all the tight lines and frowns and crooked edges and confused looks. “I mean, you can move back, Mel. There was absolutely no reason for you to move here in the first place but you did and I mean, I’m glad you got to experience it. But both of us know that Pittsburgh is the place for us, right? I mean, we’re not college kids doing this long-distance thing. I’m thirty-nine, for fuck’s sake. We cannot possibly be doing this for the rest of our lives! And Becca is in Pittsburgh and Penny and Tanner are there and I’m there and come on, but even Santos knows that Ohio sucks.” 

“Frank,” a flash of hurt travels through her eyes and maybe he’s pushed it a bit too far. 

“Sorry, that was shitty of me,” he says as she shuffles away, climbing out of the bed to go to the bathroom. Frank follows. “But come on, Mel, you didn’t think we were going to be doing this long-distance shit forever, right? I get that in the beginning, you couldn’t just pack up and move back and it was still new and we didn’t know if it was going to actually work — but now, we know it’s working. And it’s been working really well but it’s not going to work much longer if you don’t move back home, Mel.”

“It’s just sudden,” she says, avoiding his eyes. “I have a life here — I have a job.” 

“I know, but you have a job there, too,” he insists. “I bet the Pitt is going to take you back in a heartbeat and even if they don’t, Presby’s always fishing for kick-ass attendings and there are lots of other hospitals in the city, too. But I can’t move here. My kids are back in Pittsburgh and I can’t just upscale their lives—

“And I don’t want you to,” Mel mumbles, looking at her fingers. 

“Good, great,” he hums. “But I want you there. I want you in my life and in their lives and I know for a fact that Becca misses you—”

“Don’t weaponize Becca,” she interrupts, shaking her head. 

“Okay, sorry,” he backs off, his arms up in the air like he’s surrendering. “But come on, baby. Don’t you want to be in the same city as me? To have a life with me? To move in with me? Because I do — I love you and I want you in the house every time I come back home. I want to choose fucking wallpapers with you and China sets and silk sheets because normal linen irritates your skin.” 

For a second Mel just stands there, not saying anything and Frank wonders if she’s even listening or if she’s zoning out in the middle of conversation as she sometimes does and then. “I’ll think about it.” 

“Really?”

“I’m thinking about it right now,” she confirms, reaching for her toothbrush. “Can you drive me to work? I hate driving.”

“Yeah, I know,” he grins, reaching for his own toothbrush. 

“Remind me to kiss you when we’ve both brushed our teeth,” she says through the foam. “Happy seven years, by the way.” 

“Oh, I could kiss you right the fuck now, sweetheart,” he leans and whispers, his insides twisting — sometimes this happens. When the weight of love gets so much that he thinks he’s bursting at the seams, falling apart from the sheer force erupting from inside of him. She smiles at him and that — he’ll kill armies to see that every morning, he’ll move heaven and earth to wake up to this every morning; bickering and brushing their teeth together and driving her to work. 

“Please don’t,” she winces. “It’s unsanitary.” 

He can’t help but throw his head back and laugh. 

“Is any form of kissing sanitary, my love?”

—

“Are you still thinking about it?” he asks when they are sitting around the dinner table. Mel looks up, blinks and then,

“Oh,” recognition. “Yeah, actually I was.” 

“And?”

“Still thinking,” she reaches for the platter of chicken near him, taking one before wincing. “I don’t even like chicken.” 

“I know,” he takes the chicken away and instead loads her plate up with mushrooms. “It seems you are thinking too hard.” 

“Yeah,” she confirms. “Should we look for an apartment?”

“What?”

“If I move,” she clarifies, “should we look for an apartment?” 

“I was thinking you’d move into my place,” Frank shrugs. “I have four bedrooms — we can fix the master for the two of us and the kids’ room will stay the same and there’s a guest bedroom, too, for when we have Becca or any guests over, really. But if you think we should check out some other places, we can do that, too.” 

“No,” she shakes her head. “I like your place. And the kids like your place. I think we should stay there.” 

“So, you’re coming?”

“I’m thinking,” she insists again. “What about the furniture? I’ll have to sell the things I’ve gotten here. I think it was a very good idea that I got the place mostly furnished though. But breaking the lease is going to be a hassle but it would be nice not to pay rent. I have to apply for some positions back in Pittsburgh before I can hand in my resignation and that might take a while and—”

“Slow down, baby,” Frank says softly, reaching forward to take her hands between his and catch her eyes. “You wish to be withme, Mel?” she nods, a small smile in the corner of her lips. “You know I got you, right? I’m in your corner. I’ll do anything for ya.” 

“I know,” she confirms, the smile widening. “I’ll do anything for you, too. As long as it doesn’t involve spiders. They really creep me out.” 

“What would you do for me that would involve any spiders at all?” he chuckles. 

“Kill one for you?” she suggests. “If we live together, that might happen.” 

“Are you giving me false hope?”

“No. I know we’re in an adult relationship. Adults live together— they move in together and they don’t do long-distance for even as long as we have. I know that.” And she sounds so pouty, so petulant and determined and adorable that he has no choice be leans across the table and place a peck on her lips. Mel blinks as he settles back in his seat, smirking. “What was that for?”

“Because I love you,” he shrugs. “And you looked very cute.” 

The familiar shade of red appears in her face, her cheeks flaming at the sight of him, looking down at her food, taking a piece of it. “I’m thinking.”

“Keep thinking,” Frank grins. “But eat something, too.”

She obliges by shoving three mushrooms into her mouth at the same time. 

—

“I hate that you’re leaving,” Mel says as they walk to the gate he ought to pass through in a couple of minutes if he has any intention of catching his flight. This is the hardest part, really — usually, they are blissfully ignorant for two weeks, blocking any thoughts of ever going back to their houses, leaving homebehind in a crowded airport, alone and then that hypotheticalbecomes their reality and he always has to see Mel’s teary eyes and her impossibly red nose as he disappears behind the gates. 

“I know,” he agrees, pulling her in to another hug. She gives in easily. “But what if we didn’t have to do this? What if we got to skip this part?”

“I am still thinking,” she mumbles into his chest, her fingers tightening around the fabric of his shirt. “It would be really nice not to pay rent. And not to have to drive myself to places. And to get to wake up with you,” she lists her pros list meticulously. Personally, Frank imagines he can add a couple of more reasons to that list — a couple more inches, actually. (Mel’s voice admonishes him in his head which only makes him smirk.) “And you’re right, Becca is there and I love your kids and you’ll be there, obviously…” 

Her voice trails off. 

“So?”

“So, I’m thinking about it,” she repeats again as the intercom announces last call for passengers of the flight to Pittsburgh. “See you in three weeks?” 

“See you in three weeks,” he confirms, kissing his girlfriend one last time before walking through the gate. He waits for an hour before they board during which, habitually, he puts his cellphone on airplane mode. He’ll miss Mel’s text for the time being. The one that says, I thought about it and I think we’re doing this, Frank, right before she sends her a screenshot of her first page of research for a proper position back in Pittsburgh again. 

He’ll see that when he lands and pulls out his phone to order an Uber. he’ll see that text, he’ll let go of the handle of his suitcase and he’ll do a little twirl and then, he’ll embarrass himself by dancing in the airport. 

But for now, he doesn’t do that. He sits on the plane, in his assigned seat and he thinks about Mel, thinking about it. 

—

12th September 2033: 

“Have you written your vows?” she asks, leaning against the counter, curling her palms around the cup of warm tea she’s nursing. Frank immediately closes his laptop, very nearly jumping up as he clears his throat. “Are those your vows?” Here’s the thing — when Frank tied the knot at twenty-six (a bit douche-y, a lot jerk-y, and so full of himself) he was very proudof his vows. Now, fourteen years later, forty, and very much more experienced and fucking nervous and about to marry the love of his life, he is very nervous and very unproud of the words he does have. 

“Have you?”

“Yeah,” she smiles, because of course she has — Because Melissa King will never leave anything to the last second, does well to prepare and she’s almost single-handedly planned their wedding. (But she insists that it’s not very impressive because they have less than 100 guests and Becca is the maid of honor and Tanner is Frank’s best man and Penny is the ring girl so it wasn’t like she needed to recruit very many people.) (Frank thinks it’s very impressive but what can he say? Mel’s never done well with just taking a compliment.) “Happy eight years, by the way.” 

“I saw the cupcake you left me at breakfast,” he smiles. 

“I know, I just wanted to say it, too,” she hums, walking to him. His legs part to let Mel settle between them. “I’m very proud of you, you know.” 

“Fuck, say it again, baby,” he breathes out as Mel dips her head, pressing a kiss to his lips. He’s surprised by how he can be caught off guard, amazed and buzzed and jumping out of his own skin, every time Mel does that. He thought, surely, that after being engaged and being promoted from ‘boyfriend’ to ‘fiancé’ that he will stop losing his mind like a goddamn teenager every time they kissed. But no, still, every time Mel makes that little sound when she parts her lips and when Frank angles her head so he can get a better angle, he loses his mind a little bit, his pants instantly becoming too tight. 

“I’m,” Mel starts, breathing out the words every time Frank allows her a small window of breath, “So,” — fuck, say it, Frank pleads, pulling her down until she’s sitting in his lap, his arms moving to swing her legs on either side of his hips — “Proud,” — Frank tangles his fingers inside of her braid, tugging a little which makes her gulps against his mouth, open and wet and so wildly ego-boosting — “Of you,” — Jesus Christ. Is she planning to actually kill him? — “Frank.” 

“Again,” Frank orders as he moves, standing up and supporting both their weights as she lets out a giggle and curls her arms around his neck as he pushes her back against the couch, “Fuck, Mel, please, say it again.” 

“I’m so proud of you,” she pants, breathless and flushed as Frank sucks at her pulse point, teeth vigorous and determined. Mark her, his brain orders ruthlessly, illogically, make her yours.He thinks it’s a primal animalistic instinct, the sort that kicks in only when it comes to Mel King, a devotion laced dangerously close with obsession, which would scare anyone else — and Frank himself — but in this house, the one they’ve built together over the last couple of years, the temple to their love, to their connection, to their souls intertwined together in a previous life and then one before that, too, he doesn’t feel scared. He just feels consumed. In the best fucking way possible. “Oh, Frank,” she throws her head back, her eyes fluttering shut as he smirks against her skin, pressing his lips further and further down, masterfully unbuttoning her shirt, taking his time as she squirms under him. 

“Stay still, sweetheart,” he orders and like a good little girl, she obliges. Frank’s come to understand that Mel likes orders — likes being told what to do, having a direction to follow, having a couple of words to focus on. Early in their relationship — as early as the first time they slept together, really, which was before they even had a relationship. That’s a fun memory (derogatory) — Frank realized that it was hard for Mel to reach the… ‘pinnacle’. (It’s her own fucking words, uttered late in the night with a flushed face and flaming cheeks and averted eyes, a bit tearful and embarrassed.) 

She says she gets overstimulated and gets in her head, unable to focus on the feeling built up inside of her and instead of pleasure, all she feels is terror inside of her. Frank’s learnt to redirect that sensation — to get her to focus on doing things for him instead of thrashing around helplessly. So, when she does stay still, he knows that he can do this. “Tell me to go down on you, Melissa,” he whispers when he reaches the waistband of her underwear, biting down on the soft skin of her belly which makes her jump up. 

“Go… down on me, Frank,” she says, her voice weak and shy and fucking hell, he wishes he’d die in this position, these words repeating in his head as he departs for what is no doubt hell reserved for him. “Please,” she adds because she’s a polite person. Fuck. 

He obliges, burying his head in between her thighs, tugging at her underwear. She lets out a moan as she jerks her hips up to allow him easier access to her underwear — and ease his process of underwear removal that sweet sexy girl — and Frank loses his mind a little bit more when he sees that it’s soaking wet. It’s like a surprise every time. Oh, Jesus. Did I have that effect on her? Is she wet for me? He can’t believe he gets to do this for the rest of his life — to bury himself inside of her in whatever way possible, in whatever way she lets him. 

“Fuck, baby,” he breathes out in between the open-mouthedkisses he places in the interior part of her thighs, the skin delicate and pale, “I love you. Fucking hell, Mel, I love you.” Because there are no other words to describe how he’s feeling at the moment, bursting at the seams and falling apart at all the right places. He wishes he could come up with something — something that could convey the all-encompassing, slightly maddening, definitely driving him up the fucking wall nature of his feelings towards Mel King but Frank’s never been much good with words and he doesn’t think he’s able to start now, at forty. Still, it doesn’t stop him from wanting to try — to spend the rest of his life trying to come up with something. Anything at all. 

“I love you, too,” she whispers, her head pressed back against the pillow, her throat exposed, showcasing the faint bruise that Frank left behind only a few minutes ago. I was there and there and there and I’m here and when I’ve clocked into work tonight, she’d going to look at herself in the shower and know that I was there, the thoughts send waves all throughout his body, making him move until he’s once again pressed against her, his fingers in the space between her tights, already slick with her pre-cum. “Please, please, please,” she rattles off the words, her throat bobbing like she’s in pain, the corner of her eyes a little teary. “Please.” 

And because he can never deny Mel King a thing, he obliges — he allows her to fall apart, wrecked, as he pushes on finger and then two inside of her, watching her eyes open up, her throat tightening as a moan claws its way out of there, echoing in their living room. Her arm closes around his neck, pulling him to her like she needs the contact to stay whole, to keep herself from crumbling to pieces. 

Her mouth is now pressed against his ear, his body tensing up more and more with every helpless moan and whine that it sent straight to his temporal lobe, making him fucking die a little bit as every second passes that he’s not inside of her and as soon as she falls apart when he inserts a third finger, her hips arching into her as a slick liquid makes it known that he’s achieved his first goal of the night, he finds a bit of a respite. 

She usually becomes non-verbal after an orgasm — her thoughts shattered and all over the place, her eyes glassy, her brain physically aching as she describes it in their quieter moments. She says she likes losing control like this — knowing that she’s not in charge of this, she doesn’t have to plan this, she doesn’t have to keep herself from falling to pieces and it is, in fact, encouraged. So, Frank tries to make it a show more often than not — a display of how much he is in control, how much she can lean on him even when he’s sure he’s a mumbling idiot that has reverted right back to the first time he had sex and came under fifteen seconds. 

He brings his fingers to his mouth, licking the remainder of her cum off them — sweat and salty and a taste he can put on the same level as the gelatos they get with his kids every Sunday — and then smirks as he leans in to kiss Mel. Her lips are parted already in half-caught breaths and she lets out a whine at the contact her body rolling into him, their hips grinding against each other. Okay — so the only logical conclusion is that his fiancé has plans of murdering him because what. the. fuck. 

“Second round?” he whispers into the kiss and she makes the barest sound and it’s only because he has experience with Mel King that he realizes it’s affirmation said in moments that she doesn’t want to come back to herself. Well, the sound and the fact that Mel’s hands are already playing with his waistband, pleading for him to kick off his pants. “Patience, my love,” he tries to tease but he’s just as quick in kicking off his pants and underwear. Mel gapes at him — an open-mouth, wide-eyed gaze that makes him twist into himself painfully before pulling him back to her, pressing him against her core. 

He knows he can’t last much when he’s inside of her but still, when she squirms and reaches out to hold him between her fingers, he loses all sense of control and with a groan — and an open-mouthed gape on Mel’s part — he’s inside of her. He can see from the clouds behind her eyes that the tide is rising again inside of her. That’s the lovely thing about Mel — she’s so sensitive. When they were just beginning to date, she would come just from rubbing against his jeans, her clit so sensitive that even the lightest touch could tip her over the edge. Strangely, though, she always said that he was the only one who could get it out of him and vaguely, drunk on power and ego, he had thought, Only me. Because you’re mine and you’ve always been mine, Mel. 

Right now, it’s further proof, further feeding into his ego. “Move,” she orders and he obliges, trying to find a rhythm as he moves against her, Mel throwing her head back and groaning. 

“Fuck, baby, I can’t last long,” he whines, burying his face against the croak of her neck, trying to stifle a desperate moan leaving the back of his throat. 

“Don’t,” she allows, “come inside of me.” 

“Mel—”

“Please,” she begs — pleads, on her back, looking up at him through glassy eyes and a crooked pair of glasses — and how the fuck can he reason with her right now? How can he talk about the fact that he’s not wearing a condom and he distantly remembering the fact that she didn’t go in to renew her IUD because it’s been there a long time and the fact that she’s not on the pill as far as he’s aware? Fuck all rationality, really, because he’s inside of her and she wants all of him and the thought is enough for Frank to fall apart and break down over himself, his body going limb as he comes inside of her with a force wrecking through his body. 

“I love you,” he keeps whispering, unfathomable little mumbles that start and end before he can form any real coherent thoughts. He pulls back and pushes his fingers inside of Mel and it’s only a couple of second before Mel lets out the tell-tale moan of release and falls apart against his fingers again. “Fuck, baby, you’re so perfect,” he breathes, his muscles unable to hold him up anymore as he crumbles against Mel, his full weight on her. 

When she talks again, he hears the smile in her voice. “I love you, too.” 

—

“So,” he says half an hour later when they are showered and the couch cushions’ cover is safely in the laundry basket and he’s making them some peppermint tea — she needs hydration and so does he and he’s trying to quit caffeine before getting married to Mel because she doesn’t even like the smell of coffee and she definitely doesn’t like his dependency on Red Bulls especiallynow that he’s technically ‘old’ (Becca calls him that. To his face. Proudly and with a smirk.) his heart might ‘give him trouble’ — and Mel is sitting on the armchair in their living room, feet pulled to her chest. “We should talk about what happened.”

“We had sex?” she tilts her head, pushing her glasses up her nose. “We’ve done it plenty of times before, Frank.” 

“Yeah,” he agrees, still startled each time he hears her so bluntly saying what’s on her mind. “I’m more talking about the part where I… finished…”

“Inside of me?” she finishes when he trails off, making him nod. 

“You took out your IUD last week, right? You still haven’t gotten your new one,” he says matter-of-factly. She shakes her head. “And you’re not on the pill.” Again, a shake of head. “And I wasn’t wearing a condom.” 

“You never wear a condom,” she supplies helpfully and once more, he’s hard in his pants. At least that part is still functioning despite the old age. Christ. 

“Yeah, because you’re always on another form of contraception,” he supplies. Mel chews on her lower lip, entangling her fingers together and keeping them in her lap, looking at the Persian carpet they got last year after their engagement — the one that Mel had marked in the catalogue saying it made her feel nostalgic. (It cost a damn fortune but it was worth the look on Mel’s face when they delivered it to their living room was worth every damn penny.) (Ha! A Penny pun. He should use that on his daughter who is starting to think he’s very corny now that she’s gotten older and daddy isn’t that impressive anymore.) “I’m not mad, sweetheart,” he takes the two mugs, walking into the living room. “I just didn’t know if you had…”

“I think we should have a baby,” she blurts out, finally looking at Frank, her face a little red, a little blotchy. Her pupils are wide, a little nystagmus, shaking. 

“Okay?”

“I mean, Tanner and Penny are old enough now to not need constant supervision and you are already a dad and you made attending a while ago and so did I so we’re financially comfortable now that we don’t have a mortgage,” — Frank is tempted to remind her to breathe but she seems to have a list in her head that she’s rattling off about so he doesn’t dare interrupt her no matter how fucking adorable she look right now — “And Becca’s pretty much on her own nowadays and I think — I think I really want to have one. I love kids and I always thought I’d have one of my own and I’m thirty-six so I think, if I want to have one, I should start now. We should.” She finishes her sentences, taking a deep breath and finally — blissfully — she looks up at him with a shy look on her face, her cheeks crimson. “What do you think?”

“I think you’ve been thinking about this a lot,” he hums, kneeling in front of her on the floor, his arms on either side of the chair, looking up at her. She reaches out to push the strands of hair out of his forehead. “I had no idea you were thinking about it.” 

“I had to process it on my own before telling you,” she rests the palm of her hand on his neck and on instinct, he leans into it. “Do you, um — do you not want to—”

“No!” he rushes out. “I mean, yes. I want to have a kid with you, Mel. Of course, I do. I just figured maybe you didn’t want it or maybe you weren’t ready because you never mentioned wanting to have—”

“Well, I do,” she interrupts him and it’s a rare occurrence that it has him chuckling a little bit. “I love Tanner and Penny and I just — I want to have one that’s equal parts me and you, you know.” 

“I do,” he hums, raising on his knees so they are on the same eye-level, lacing his fingers through her hair and pulling her near, planting a soft kiss on her lips. “Mel, you have no idea how much I want you to be the mother of my child.” 

“Really?”

“Of course,” he breathes the words against her, his eyes fluttering shut as they rest their foreheads against each other. “So, we’re doing this? The unprotected sex route?”

“Yup,” she smiles shily. “I’ve already made a calendar and marked the days I might be ovulating and um, the says where conception are more likely and I already measure my body temperature every day. I started last week after I visited my OB and asked her for advice and — um—”

“Take a breath, baby,” Frank soothes when it feels like Mel’s thoughts are running into each other, “I love you. I’ve got you.” 

“Yeah?”

“Obviously,” he nods, pulling her against him. “I want to live inside of your head, Mel — I want to know everything in there. Will you tell me everything, baby?”

“Yeah,” she whispers, her voice muffles against his neck. “I love you, too.” 

“I know,” he nods but the thing is, he doubts anyone can love another human being the way he loves Mel King — it’s all encompassing, entirely too large to be contained inside of his body, like it’s too weak and small to contain that much. He cannot breathe when she’s not near — she is laced through his DNA, the only thought in his head all throughout the day and even more so at nights. He misses her even when she’s pressed against him, misses her more when they are on different sides of the same ER and worse so when they are not. It scares even himself — the all-encompassing, never-ending strain of this overwhelming wave washing over him every time he thinks of Mel King. 

“We’re doing this,” she says, tears in her eyes and a wide smile on her face when they pull away. He catches a tear before even it fully slips out with this thumb. 

“We’re doing this,” he echoes the sentiment, and in this bubble, inside of their apartment, so many years away from the first time he first met Mel, unbeknownst to him that he was going to be possessed by her body and soul, they make the decision to expand their little family — Mel, Frank, Bec, Tanner and Penny and someone new. 

Someone he’ll do his damned best to know inside out. 

—

12th September 2034: 

“Good evening, sunshine,” he says, grinning at Dana as he leans against the counter. “What do we have here?” 

“The board?” she suggests, narrowing her eyes. “Which you can read. Unless you’re too old to make out the words.” 

“Ouch?” he pretends to wince. “Shouldn’t you be retired?”

“This place wouldn’t run without me,” Dana bites back. “Wanna try, kid?”

“I’m too old to see the board but you still call me ‘kid’?” Frank narrows his eyes fondly, shaking his head. “Day shift around?”

“You mean your wife? Because I am day shift and I’m still around,” Dana types away at the screen, chewing gum — she’s trying to quit smoking for the third time and maybe it’s just Frank but he thinks if a habit stick with you all the way to your sixties (and Dana started her sixties last year) then maybe you’re not going to kick it. But what the hell does he know? It’s not like he recovered from a life-altering addiction or anything. (He did!) “You know I’m not her keeper?”

“Jeez, you’re cranky this morning,” he sighs, shaking his head. Mel being on day shifts actually has Frank cranky. “I’m taking South 20.” 

“Suit yourself,” she shoots back as Frank moves, trying to catch a glimpse of the day shift hand-offs to catch a glimpse of Mel finishing up her charts somewhere, or maybe wrapping up one last case before heading for the locker. But when he doesn’t spot her on the floor, he walks to the locker room. 

He hates that he’s now on nights but Abbot and Mohan are on their honeymoon — people cheered and seagulls lost their damn minds and all that shit because it was time for them to get hitched after so many years together and one whole baby later — and he lost the coin toss to Shen when it came to being chiefattending on night shift for the time being. (It’s a fact widely known that Frank and John both despise being the personnel in charge. For various reasons.) (His is because he was a drug addict and also because students suck nowadays because they know nothing outside of the world of fuck-ass AI and he has no patience for them.) (Maybe he should flush out his Med Ed Fellowship certificate down the drain.)

Alas, that is where he finds Mel, pressing her forehead against her locker, her eyes closed, her fingers clasping her glasses tightly. The sight unsettles him more than anything he’s ever seen on the floor on this ER. “Mel?” 

She looks up at the sound of her name and her eyes soften the moment they meet Frank’s, putting her glasses back on the bridge of her nose. “Hi,” she breathes out just as Frank crosses the threshold inside the locker room to catch her in his arms just as she falls apart, hiding her face in his chest. 

“Tough shift?” he asks, running his fingers through her hair. 

“Tough day,” she amends. “I got my period.” She says it so simple but Frank can feel the weight behind those words — the sheer force of desperation pouring itself through her words, the heartbroken grief and disappointment she’s trying to hide, the same exhaustion that seems to settle in further and further the more months pass and the periods come on time. This time, she had been three days late and though she wanted to feign nonchalance (because the King sisters believed that if you acted like you didn’t care about something, then it would happen sooner) she couldn’t hide the excitement in her steps, almost comical as she skipped around like she was in one of those musicals Becca made them watch. 

And now…

Now all that’s over. 

“Sweetheart, I—”

“It’s fine,” she says petulant. “I knew it wasn’t — I mean, I wasn’t pregnant. I knew that.” She says, her eyes focused on some point on his scrubs instead of looking up at him, her jaw set. “You should get back out there. I’m pretty sure I saw Dr. Ellis starting up on the rounds—”

“I don’t give a shit about the rounds, right now, Mel,” he says. “How are you?”

“I’m fine,” she repeats, stubborn as ever. “It’s nothing, really. I promise. It’s fine.” She keeps repeating like she can make it finethrough the sheer power of her will. “Happy nine years, by the way. I left you a note when I was running out for my shift this morning, but I don’t know if you—”

“I saw it,” he interrupts again, gently placing his fingers under her chin and tipping her head up until she has no choice but to look into his eyes. She had left the note, alongside a cupcake on the kitchen counter when he got in that morning. He missed her at the exchange because he had been let off the hook earlierwhen Dr. Al-Hashimi came in and told him to go home and that she got it. By the time he made it in, Mel had already been already out. “Mel—”

“Can we please not talk about this right now?” she says and her voice is so small, so weak, so tired that Frank wants to clock the fuck out of the shift and get her home and stay there until she’s fine. 

So that’s what he does. 

“Wait here,” he says, his mind already made up. “I’ll come find you in ten minutes.”

“Frank—”

“Please,” he uses the same tone he used to use on her when she was just a resident and he was her mentor. The one that told her to go take twenty in the lounge or to take ten in the darkened room to regulate herself or to take ten deep breaths in the ambulance bay before coming back in and hopping on another trauma. The one that she listens to, simply nodding in response. “Good girl,” he tries to give her a half-smile before going back on the floor and flagging down Shen. “Yo, John,” he calls out, making him stop and turn to him with his Dunkin coffee, already chewing on the straw. 

“What’s up, Langdon?” he says, “We haven’t even started and you’re already running? It’s gonna be a hell of a shift.” 

“I need you to cover for me for like two hours,” he says, knowing that beating around the bush will just delay them leaving for home and take up more of John’s time that he already intended to. 

“What?” he nearly chokes on his coffee. “We haven’t even clocked in, man. What the fuck?”

“It’s a personal important family issue,” he says vaguely. 

“You’re the chief night shift attending—”

“Covering for the chief,” he amends because the distinction seems important to make. “And I swear, I’ll be back in maximum two hours. This is important. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.” He holds John’s eyes — tries to pour all his sincerity into his eyes, tries to get through to him. Hear me, man, I need this. Mel needs this. For a second, he’s sure that he’s on his own and he has to go fall on his knees in front of Ellis to cover for him but then Shen sighs, blowing out the breath out of his nose. 

“Fucking hell, you and your freaky baby blue eyes,” he grumbles under his breath. “You owe me, though.”

“Of course,” he nods. “Call in the chit whenever. New Year, Christmas, Thanksgiving or Halloween. I’ll cover for you,” he rattles off, too pleased and grateful to know what the hell he’s even promising. These promises are problems for Future Frank. 

“Don’t think I won’t take you up on it,” Shen says as Frank runs back to the locker, pointing his finger at him in warning but Frank doesn’t care all that much as long as he gets to go home and make Mel feel alright about this. 

Mel is still standing in the same place, leaning against the locker, her head tipped back and humming a tone under her breath — the all too familiar Megan Thee Stallion song that somehow makes her feel better — eyes closed. “Ready?” he calls softly, making her open eyes as he reaches out to take Mel’s backpack from her. 

“You’ve just clocked in, Frank,” she says in a small voice. “I don’t need you to — I’m a big girl. I can handle this.”

“I know you can,” he agrees. “But I don’t want you to.” And then her chin wobbles and her eyes swim in unshed tears and his heart breaks into a million pieces in his chest so he tugs her close as she fights the tears. “Shen’s covering for me for a couple of hours. I’ll just drop you off and come back.” 

“I have my car.” 

“We’ll take your car and I’ll Uber back to the hospital,” Frank shrugs. “C’mon, baby. Let’s go home.” 

—

She doesn’t say anything as they shed their shoes at the doorway — it’s a new development. She decided they have to do that about a year ago when they decided they are officially trying because she didn’t want their toddler to grow up in a house where there were outside shoes on the floor — and walk in to the quiet house. Something closes up in Frank’s throat. Penny and Tanner have been over at Abby’s ever since he switched to nights, only with them on the weekends. It’s strange how eerily quiet their house can sound when kids or Becca aren’t around to welcome them. He had never noticed that before. She takes off her hoodie and then sits on the armchair, pulling her legs up to her chest. The same place where they decided they were trying for the first time last year. 

Fucking hell. 

“Mel…”

“I told you, it’s fine,” she insists but even she can’t hide the stubborn tear that slips out as she swipes at it almost angrily, accusatory. “I don’t know why I’m crying. It should be delayed PMS or something.”

“It’s okay to feel disappointed that you’re not…” he trails off, nearing her, gently tugging so she’s standing up and then lowering her back down the couch so they are sitting there facing each other and the tears start falling quicker, more aggressive even as Mel tries to catch them all before they fall down, taking off her glasses and shaking her head, pressing her palms to her cheeks. 

“I’m not pregnant,” she finishes. “You can say the word, Frank.” It’s not unkind — just impossibly hurtful, reaching into his chest and squeezing it tightly. 

“Mel, we’ve only been trying for one year. It’s not even that long of a time in the grand scheme of things,” he tries to say as gently as he can manage, inching closer to her, prying her hands away from her face so he can dab under her eyes with a tissue. “Baby, I’m sorry.” 

“Why are you sorry?” she scoffs, her voice a half-sob, half-laugh. “You have two healthy children. I’m sure if there’s a problem, it’s not on your end.” 

“There isn’t a problem,” he insists. “We haven’t been trying—”

“How long it took you and Abby?” she interrupts, making Frank wince, freeze in his place. He doesn’t want to talk about their pregnancy timeline with his ex-wife to his current wife, the love of his life and the sure mother of any future children of his. But Mel doesn’t seem to be in a very rational mood, her eyes widened like she’s trying to dare Frank to withhold this information from her. 

“Three months,” he sighs, deflated. “But we were young and I don’t know — Penny wasn’t even planned and—”

She lets out a bitter laugh. “You can make women pregnant without even planning,” she bites. 

“Not women,” he interrupts, annoyed. He knows that she’s emotional and he should probably cut it the fuck out but he wants this as much as Mel. He wants to have a kid with her, he feels the pang of disappointment every time her period turns up right on time. He, too, was excited — just the tiniest bit — when Mel off-handedly mentioned that her period was a couple of days late. “Just Abby.”

“What difference does that make?” she asks, pulling back and away so she’s no longer facing him. “I’m still not.” 

“Honestly, Mel, it’s not that big of a deal—”

“To you,” she snaps and he’s never seen her angry — not like this, not directed at him with such force. Her face is flushed, her eyes sparkling and the tip of her nose shaking violently as she pulls back, standing up and pacing. “It’s different for you.” 

“How?”

“You know how,” she says and she looks pained when she admits it, her nail tugging at the corner of her fingers, trying to draw out blood the way she does when she’s stressed out. He knows how — he has children, he has people who call him ‘daddy’ and are utterly embarrassed by him and cry into his shoulder when they are sad or exhausted or overwhelmed. He knows what Mel thinks about that — how she throws longing glances every time they drop the kids off at Abby’s place and they run to ‘mommy’. She loves them — of that, Frank is sure — but she’ll never be their mother. They already have a mother. 

And she feels that every time the period comes and the second line on the test doesn’t appear. 

“I just don’t know what we’re doing wrong,” she says, her voice almost desperate. “I mean, I’ve tracked everything. It should’ve happened by now.” 

“I’m sure there’s nothing wrong,” he rushes to comfort her and then, “Sorry. Fuck, I know you don’t want to hear that.”

“Maybe I’m too old,” she chews on her bottom lip. “Maybe we put it off too long and now I have no eggs left. I mean, even if I do get pregnant, it’s considered a geriatric pregnancy becauseI’m above thirty-five. But how were we start before thirty-five? We weren’t even together then. It’s so ridiculous, too, because in the ER, geriatric fellowship usually has something to do with people above fifty-five — and that’s the lower limit — but in OBGYN, I’m considered geriatric. I’m thirty-seven. It doesn’t make sense. It’s so unfair.” Her voice breaks on the last word as she vehemently shakes her head. “Sorry, I’m fine.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he says softly, standing up to go to her. “I know you’re frustrated. I am, too. But we’ll redouble our efforts and we’ll see someone. Dr. Simmons, maybe? She likes us enough when she comes down to the ER.” He catches her hands in his, detangling her fingers from around each other. “Baby, I’m sure there’s nothing wrong but we’ll get checked — to ease your mind.”

“Really?” she asks, her voice small. 

“Really,” he promises. “I know this sucks. I know it’s harder for you. I’m sorry.” 

Mel blinks — once, twice — and then she nods, moving, borrowing close to his chest and staying there for a second like she’s trying to listen to the beat of his heart. He keeps her there, lacing his fingers through her hair, trying to gently brush them and detangle the knots the harrowing day had put there. “I’m just so scared it won’t happen.”

“I know,” he hums, “So am I.” 

“I want it so badly,” she admits. “I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anything this badly in my life.” 

“You will get it,” he says and he’s certain. He doesn’t know why — maybe it’s because it’s Mel and when it comes to her, his first instinct is to make everything come true, every single thing that she desires or maybe it’s a newfound talent in being a psychic that makes him this sure but he knows. He just does. “I promise you, Mel.”

“Okay,” she hums into his chest. Because he’s Frank Langdon and she believes whatever he tells her — she believes in him. 

He doesn’t know how long they stand there. All he knows is that he doesn’t want to let her go — he thinks his heart will stop if Mel pulls away, actually. And she must feel the same way, too, because she doesn’t pull away. She just stands there, allowing Frank to hold her, their breaths in sync. 

—

I love you, she’s texted him when he’s reached the hospital — ten minutes later than he had promised Shen but at least he doesn’t give Frank shit about it as he says, You’re back, boss, we were losing our mind without you — and he’s changing into his scrubs. I’m sorry for earlier. I know we’re going to make it. It’s just hard to stay optimistic sometimes. 

Nothing to be sorry about, baby, he texts back, I love you so much. We’ll get through this, I promise.

I believe you, the reply comes immediate. Have a good shift, Frank.

See you in the morning, baby.

—

12th September 2035: 

“Happy ten years!” he hears her voice before he sees her — before he even manages to pull together enough will to open his eyes and face the day. But his body, used to her presence, always tuned to lean into her, to pull her more into himself every day and to wish to melt into her, to crawl under her skin and stay there, to always reside in his head, to never be parted from her, takes over before his conscious mind, pulling her down as she lets out a soft gulp of surprise, laughing as he basically crushes her under his weight. “Frank, I can’t breathe.” 

“But I’m really comfortable, baby,” he hums, shaking his head. “And a decade of sobriety demands a special prize, doesn’t it?” He cracks an eye to see Mel looking up at him, her cheeks flushed and her eyes focused and his heart aches in his chest — the sort it always does when he looks at him, too full and too hollowed out at the same time, like he can’t decide how not to ache and long and yearn when it comes to Melissa King, a habit well pressed into the very fabric of his soul. 

“What kind of prize?” she asks, reaching out to push away a stray eyelash from under his right eye. “Make a wish.”

“I don’t have to,” he says like a completely fucking sap, “I already have everything I want.” And it’s so cheesy — and entirely untrue when they are parents to two-months old twins who are now surprisingly, and uncharacteristically asleep and he definitely can do well to wish them a full night’s sleep (he woke up at 2 a.m. and then once again at 4 in the morning to feed the twins with the bottle as Mel whined and pressed her face to the pillow saying she was so tired and achy all over) but right now, in their bubble of sentimentality and the twins safely and certainly asleep, he has no wishes. “No, actually, I have one wish.”

“What?”

He just wraps his arms around Mel’s middle, tugging her down as she lets out a quiet yelp — because whenever twins are asleep, everything is quiet in their little bubble because he loves them to death but he thinks he’ll cry with them if they start crying one more time. He can’t believe he had forgotten how hard it was to have a new born let alone two at the same time. Tess — Tessa, named after Mel’s mother — and Teddy — Theodore, named after Frank’s favorite grandfather who was the only was who believed that he could be whatever he wanted to be — are opposites in every way. 

When Tess cries, Teddy’s asleep — when Teddy’s fussy, Tess becomes an angel. Both of them are mostly restless (unlike Tanner who spent the first two years of his life mostly asleep and not as extreme as Penny who would scream bloody murderwhenever they put her down into her crib) but so far, Mel and Frank are both too charmed and too exhausted to have any complains. 

“To get two hours of uninterrupted time with my wife,” he mumbles, burying his face in the back of her neck and it’s just a second later when the sound of Tess’ cry interrupts their mommy and daddy’s peaceful time. (They have their distinct cries, too — Tess’ is more high-pitched, like her heart is practically breaking every time she cries. Teddy’s is lazier, like he needs to gather the energy to cry, like he doesn’t want to be bothered by a mundane act of crying.) “Fuck, I had forgotten that you’re not supposed to say the wish out loud.” Mel stiffens in his arms and then lets out a soft laugh. 

“I’ve got her,” Mel sighs, pushing herself off and then pressing a fleeting kiss against his temple as she walks out. Frank closes his eyes for a second more before sighing and pushing himself off the bed as well. His back has been protesting more and more (Because you’re old, Frankie, Becca’s voice echoes in his head, making him wince) and bouncing two kids on his hips are not helping much. 

He’s barely washed his face — and he needs to shave because his five o’clock shadow is definitely turning into a damn bird’s nest on his face so no wonder Mel winces every time they kiss — when Teddy’s lazy, stifled cry joins the mix. “Coming!” he calls, already reaching for the noise cancelling AirPods Mel keeps on their bedside table. 

Mel — still overwhelmed in her cocktail of hormones and doubts and overstimulation — tends to cry with them when their crying goes on for too long and when she has to calm the both of them down at the same time. She’s already extending her arm for Frank to put the AirPods there. At least they are a well-oiled machine when they are together — at least they work in the middle of all that chaos. 

“Good morning,” he coos, taking his son into his arms and it’s like the reminder that it’s morning makes the both of them cry harder. But at least Mel is smiling, unable to hear the bloody-curdling scream Tess lets out right next to her ears.

— 

Their days tend to pass in a haze these days. He can’t remember the last time they slept through the entire night or had a proper warm meal — Becca did try to make them poached eggs when she visited and saw them hallucinating people because of sleep deprivation and starving but bless the King sisters but neither have a single cooking bone in their body so that was an utter failure that ended with Frank trying to put out the small fire in the kitchen as Mel and Becca were trying to evacuate the twins. 

Cassie sometimes drops off some home-cooked meals that her mother has sent them since they started their leave of absence but Frank is going back to work the next week and Mel still has another month before her maternity leave is up. Sometimes, Yolanda drops off some take-out (because lesbians cooking is homophobic. Somehow.) whenever she’s in the neighborhood but Frank just thinks it’s because she misses the twins and their round faces. Samira tries to drop by as much as she can but having a kid under three herself, it’s not much help at all. 

So, most of the time, they are left to their own devices, trying to manage living with two little toddlers who can’t even hold their necks up — they can, it’s just not to Mel’s satisfaction who’s become rapidly obsessed with their milestones and if they’re reaching them on time. She has a chart, noting in everything about the twins in them at the end of the day — from spitting to the color of their poop and how many ccs of milk they’ve had. Their pediatrician actually appreciates the document but even he thinks it’s too much to cover how many onesies they go through in one day. (Three for Tess and two for Teddy on average. Their highest was a month ago when they had a mild fever and Tess threw up on three of her onesies and peed on two so they had to change her clothes six times in one day and Teddy, ever the competing soul managed to up his own record to four.)

But there are some days like this that despite the chaos in their life, they find the time to have a lazy morning. Frank is draped over the couch, the twins against his chest, both of them curled up, fisting at the fabric of his shirt, drooling all over him as Mel’s hair is up in a messy bun, the thermostat sticking out from it (she’d rather be prepared to measure any possible fevers in the kids at a moment’s notice) and wearing his white shirt that comes down to her thigh, moving around the kitchen. 

She’s making him a cupcake as is tradition.

He kept insisting that it was no need — that almost three years into their marriage and a pair of twins later, maybe she should let go of the cupcakes tradition but she insisted that it was special and that she needs to make it. This year, it’s a carrot cupcake with cream cheese icing. Tanner and Penny are coming later in the evening, too, she said yesterday when she was prepping in the short time that the twins were asleep, and Tanner’s favorite is the carrot cupcake. And Frank swears his heart grew three sizes too big for his chest at that moment. 

He tries to get up as quietly — and motionlessly — as he can as to not startle the twins before putting them down in their crib. Tess fusses for a second and Frank is so sure they’re fucked and she’s going to wake up screaming, demanding that daddy put her in her car seat and drive around the neighborhood until she falls asleep. (It worked for Penny and miraculously, it works for Tess, too, though Tess is much more stubborn than her sister so it takes her twice the time to be lulled to sleep by the lights flashing by. So far, they haven’t found such shortcuts for Teddy who seems to react to the most random things in the random-est ways possible.) (Most random? Random-est? He doesn’t even know anymore.)

But they remain fast asleep even as Frank hovers over them for another second to make sure they are peaceful and quiet. 

Then, he makes his way to the kitchen. “Hey, baby,” he whispers, wrapping his arms around Mel from behind, pressing her back against his chest. She gulps a little, letting out a soft laugh. 

“You’re going to make me burn the caramel filling,” she pouts a little but Frank doesn’t let go, just loosens his grip so they can sway around the room together as she reaches to move the saucepan around. “Penny loves the filling.” 

“I know,” he agrees. “You know what she told me the other day? She told me that she was the ‘specialest’ kid I had because all the rest have ‘t-names’ while she had a ‘p-name’ so that meant I loved her more. She wouldn’t leave me alone until I confirmed her conclusion.” 

“Well, you do love her the most,” Mel hums thoughtfully. 

“I love all my children equally,” Frank scoffs, feigning offence. 

“It’s okay, you can love one of them more,” Mel shrugs. “But we should choose the twins, so they are not traumatized by being both of our favorites. I was thinking Tess would be your favorite and Teddy would be mine but then that was too Freudian, so I think Teddy should be your favorite and Tess should be mine.” 

“We can’t choose favorites,” Frank loosens his grip, twisting Mel around so that she’s facing him. “People just are favorites. I didn’t choose to like you the most out of the people that started with us all those years ago — you just were.”

“Well, you couldn’t choose Santos because you fought with her. And Whittaker and Javadi were barely doctors,” she says matter-of-factly, “So you chose me.” 

“Actually, you chose me,” he smiles, pulling her into him. “You pointed at me and you said ‘I want that one’ when I came back and the rest is history.” 

“Yup,” she nods. “You were my favorite.”

“Were?”

“Well, now Tess is my favorite,” she smiles and he can’t help himself — it’s like he gravitates towards her the way the sunflower always seeks to turn in the direction the sun is. He hasn’t looked back since the day Mel chose him — as the doctor she trusted with his sister, as someone who was a person, as someone who was worthy and someone who was her soulmate. 

“You know what’s funny?” he asks as Mel leans against the counter and he puts his arms around her on the surface, trapping her in the middle of them. “The day I became sober is the same day that I met you — so technically, this is our ten-year anniversary.” 

“But we didn’t get together until so many years later,” she frowns. 

“But I was yours since the moment I met you,” the idea occurs to him in a heartbeat. “Even if I didn’t know it. I was yours. I’ve been yours all these days, Mel. Three thousand, five hundred and sixty days.” 

“Well, you’re not counting the extra days of leap years.” 

“Well, math has never been my strong suit,” he shrugs. “But I am well-versed in soulmate language. You know what the alphabet is?” 

“What?” 

“I love you,” he says, leaning in to place a peck on her lips that has Mel giggling a little, still trying to keep it down as not to startle the twins. “Melissa, you have no idea how fucking grateful I am that I met you,” he breathes out the words, the sheer force of emotions almost choking him out, “I don’t know what I would’ve done if I hadn’t. Fuck — I hope Frank Langdon meets Melissa King in every fucking universe out there because—” he cuts himself off, shaking his head. “Jesus, I’m just so fucking glad I met you, you know. I don’t know what I would’ve done without you.” 

She raises her head, carefully, gently, touching the sides of his face. “Good thing you never have to find out, Frank,” she whispers back. “I don’t what I would’ve done without you. I needed you so much — I need you so much. I used to feel guilty about needing you — about wanting to text you, wanting to be your friend, wanting you around all the time,” the words seem to spill out of them, old secrets they used to keep from each other but ten years in, they say them freely — like it’s okay. Encouraged even. “I don’t think I would’ve ever fallen in love if I hadn’t met you.” 

“I don’t think I would’ve known what love even meant if I hadn’t met you,” Frank returns the sentiment and perhaps one of them should object — to remind them that there might’ve been a life out of the two of them but right now, in this moment, they don’t have to. 

Right now, they are two people who made it against all odds — people who risked everything for each other and built something so overwhelmingly and uniquely theirs that even they are amazed at how all-encompassing this all has been. 

In the evening, his kids will come over and marvel at how small Tess and Teddy’s fingers are and Frank and Mel have to explain to them — for the hundredth time — that they used to be this small, too, and in a short while, the twins will be as big as them. Next week, he’ll have to go back to work and be teased relentlessly by everyone about how out of order he looks and I never thought I’d see the say Frank Langdon skipped his fifteen-step hair care routine jabs coming from Gracia. In a month, they have to leave the twins with the nanny Mel has started scouting — perhaps a quite tearful goodbye, too — and spend the entire shift staring at the baby monitor in between the intubations and STEMIs and cold medicine prescribed. 

But right now, in this bubble, they look back for a second — at the ten years that have passed since they saw each other. He wonders what his thirty-two-year-old self would think — his married self who was too busy stealing benzos to think about much else — if he told him that the girl he’s sat cross-legged on the ground with at the residents’ lounge would end up being the love of his life. What would Mel think about the fact that the senior resident that disappeared on her twice and then for ten months and turned out to be a drug dealer has ended up being the father of her children? 

He’d probably call ‘bullshit’. 

Or maybe, he would’ve tipped his head, looked at Mel and thought, Yeah, it’s possible. She’s pretty damn awesome. 

And she is. His wife, his other half, the one that makes everything better. 

She’s pretty damn awesome. 

And he’ll forever thank his lucky stars for that 12th September, 2025 — for all the shit that brought and for the one good thing; Melissa King. 

For giving him his life back. In every way imaginable.