Work Text:
Sun lights up the daytime
Moon lights up the night
I light up when you call my name
And you know I'm going to treat you right
Frank felt his phone buzz against his thigh just as the automatic doors slid open, the sterile chill of PTMC slipping past him. It had taken him thirty minutes—thirty slow, deliberate minutes of clicking, typing, rechecking—to wrestle his charting into submission, each line of text another tether tying him to the day he was trying desperately to leave behind.
By the time he finally stepped out of the ER and into freedom, his body carried that familiar, hollowed-out exhaustion, the kind that settled deep into bone and softened the edges of thought. Still, when he pulled his phone from his pocket and saw the message waiting there, something in his chest loosened, warmth threading through the fatigue like early morning sunlight through cracked blinds.
Will you be home soon? :(
His mouth curved without permission, as if her words had reached out and touched him directly. The cold air outside bit lightly at his cheeks, but it felt thinner somehow, less oppressive.
He could picture her immediately—curled into their bed, probably wrapped in too many blankets or none at all, stubborn even in misery—and the image tugged at him with a gentle, insistent pull. It was almost funny, in a way that made his breath hitch into something softer than a laugh, how easily she had shifted into the center of his leaving, his returning, his everything in between.
Fortunately for Frank, this year he had managed to slip through winter untouched, dodging the influenza outbreak with a precision that felt almost suspicious.
Unfortunately for Mel, she had not been granted the same quiet mercy, and the virus had found her with a ruthless, deliberate certainty.
This year in particular had come with weekends filled by two school-aged children, sticky hands and careless laughter and the kind of affection that carried germs like invisible confetti.
“If you don’t catch it at the Pitt, you’ll definitely catch it from one of these germ factories. I’d go wash your cheek off if I were you,” he had said, watching Penny’s enthusiastic, slobbering kiss land squarely against Mel’s skin.
Mel had just laughed, bright and dismissive, swiping at her cheek with the sleeve of her sweater as if that could undo the moment. There had been something fond in the way she’d ignored him, something warm and easy that made him let it go even as he knew better. And now, days later, the memory lingered with a quiet sort of inevitability, like the beginning of a story he already knew the ending to.
Because he had been right.
And whatever this strain was, it had taken hold of her with a kind of merciless thoroughness that left no part of her untouched.
She’d had the flu before, of course—knew its familiar rhythm, the way it crept in and settled, uncomfortable but manageable. Back in fifth grade, in Mrs. Guthrey’s classroom, she’d been seated beside a boy who never quite grasped the concept of covering his mouth when he coughed.
The memory lingered in fragments. The sharp sting of fever behind her eyes, the dull weight of her head against her pillow, the way the world felt distant and muffled for a handful of days. It had been enough to keep her home—headache, chills, a mild misery—but not enough to feel truly alarming, just an inconvenient interruption to long division and classroom routine.
Her freshman year of high school had brought a different kind of illness, one wrapped up in something–unfortunately–far more memorable. The gym had been strung with cheap decorations for the homecoming dance, the air thick with sweat, and perfume, and somewhere in the middle of it all, she’d had her first real kiss. It had been clumsy and uneven, more teeth than intention, the kind of moment that felt monumental at the time and vaguely embarrassing in retrospect. Looking back now, it almost made her laugh—how inevitable it had been that she’d come down with mono shortly after, like her body had decided to mark the occasion in its own inconvenient way. Two weeks out of school, another four excused from gym, and she’d carried on, mildly miserable but ultimately fine.
But this—this was something else entirely.
This didn’t settle into her quietly or pass through with any sense of mercy.
Her body ached with a deep, punishing soreness, as if she had pushed herself past every limit and straight into something unforgiving, each muscle heavy and uncooperative. Her head throbbed with a constant, insistent pressure, every pulse reverberating sharply against her skull like something knocking from the inside.
She couldn’t find any real comfort—one moment desperate to cocoon herself in every blanket they owned, the next clawing them off, skin too sensitive, too restless, unable to tolerate even the lightest touch.
The vomiting had finally stopped—thank god for that small mercy—but her body still felt like it hadn’t quite recovered from the violence of it. Those first few days had blurred together into something relentless and exhausting, each attempt to stand sending nausea crashing back over her in waves that stole her breath. Food had been impossible, water barely manageable, every swallow uncertain, every movement calculated around the fear of setting it off again.
She’d been reduced to something fragile and unsteady, caught in a body that refused to cooperate, and for someone so used to pushing through, it felt almost disorienting in its severity.
And yet, somewhere beneath all of that, there was something else—something softer, steadier—that she had learned, slowly and reluctantly, to accept.
When she and Frank first started dating, she had seemed untouchable, immune to everything the ED could throw at her, moving through chaos with a kind of effortless endurance. It had almost become a quiet joke between them, the way she never got sick, the way nothing seemed to stick to her.
But then came the second year, and with it norovirus, and the illusion had finally cracked. Being forced to stop, to sit still, to let herself be cared for—it had been harder than the illness itself at first, her instincts pulling her toward control, toward independence, toward anything that felt like strength.
But Frank had been patient in a way that softened all her resistance, steady and unyielding without ever feeling forceful, his care something offered rather than imposed. He had made space for her discomfort, for her stubbornness, for the quiet fear of needing someone, until slowly, almost without realizing it, she had let go.
By the end of that week, something fundamental had shifted inside her, a tight grip loosening just enough to let someone else in. And once she had learned what it felt like—to be held, to be taken care of without expectation or weight—there had been no going back.
Now, even in the haze of fever and exhaustion, that trust remained, woven into her like something permanent.
So when she sent that message, fingers sluggish and slightly trembling against her phone, it wasn’t just a question.
It was a request.
Very soon sweetheart. I’m getting done now, but have to make one stop before I get home to you.<3
He sent the message with a quiet, lingering smile, the glow of the screen reflecting faintly against his tired eyes as he slid into the driver’s seat. When he turned the key, the engine answered with a low, steady rumble that vibrated up through his feet.
For a moment, he just sat there, hands resting loosely on the wheel, letting the sound ground him—something solid and predictable after a day that had asked too much of him. Then he exhaled, long and slow, and pulled out of the lot, the hospital shrinking behind him in the rearview mirror like something quickly loosening its grip.
The roads were quiet in that in-between hour, the sky dimming into a muted blue-gray that softened the edges of everything it touched, and he drove with an easy, unhurried focus. Streetlights flickered on one by one, casting warm pools of gold against the pavement.
There was a steady pull in his chest, something warm and insistent guiding him forward—not just toward home, but toward her, waiting there in the quiet. It shaped the way his hands rested on the wheel, the way his thoughts kept circling back to the image of her.
In their bed, bundled up and miserable.
He made a quick stop at the co-op, the bell above the door chiming softly as he stepped inside, bringing with him a gust of cold that lingered briefly in the entryway. The air was warmer here, filled with the earthy, comforting scent of tea and herbs, something grounding and alive in contrast to the sterile sharpness he’d left behind.
He moved through the aisles with quiet efficiency, fingers brushing over glass bottles and cardboard cartons until he found what he needed—bone broth, rich and steady, something that felt like it might coax strength back into her, ginger ale for the nausea that still lingered at the edges, and a small chocolate truffle, tucked carefully beside everything else like something almost ceremonial in its quiet importance.
“A sweet treat,” she had called it that morning, her voice soft and scratchy from sleep and sickness as she lay tangled in their sheets while he dressed for his first shift back after taking the previous off to care for her.
He could still hear the way she’d said it—half teasing, half sincere—like she was trying to make the request sound smaller than it really was, even though he would have brought her anything she asked for without a second thought.
When he’d paused at the edge of the bed, fingers brushing absently over her arm, and asked if she needed anything on his way home, that had been her only answer. Just something small, something sweet, something that felt like comfort.
By the time he pulled into the driveway, the house sat in a soft, welcoming hush, its windows glowing faintly against the deepening dusk. As he stepped out of the car, the cold air pressed gently against his skin, carrying with it the quiet stillness of the evening, and for a moment everything felt suspended.
Then, just as he reached the walkway, he caught it—a flicker of movement behind the bedroom curtain, the brief, unmistakable shape of her face peeking out before disappearing just as quickly. It was small, almost nothing, but it sent something warm unfurling in his chest, a quiet, undeniable tenderness that softened every remaining edge of the day.
He pushed the door open and stepped inside, the familiar creak of the hinge greeting him like something lived-in and known, and immediately the space wrapped around him in a different kind of warmth.
It wasn’t just his house anymore—not in the way it had been before—and the evidence of her was everywhere if you knew how to look.
A sweater draped carelessly over the back of the couch, a mug left on the counter with the faintest ring of tea at the bottom, the subtle shift in scent—something softer, layered over the neutral baseline of his old life. None of it was loud or deliberate, but together it formed something unmistakable, something that had taken root slowly and steadily until it felt impossible to separate from the space itself.
He paused just inside the doorway, keys still in his hand, and let himself take it in—not just the objects, but the feeling threaded through them, the quiet presence of her woven into every corner. It had been almost a year since they’d started living together, and still, there were moments like this that caught him off guard, that made something in him pause and take notice.
It didn’t feel routine, didn’t feel settled in the way people sometimes described comfort. Instead, it felt alive, like something ongoing and gently unfolding. Like a sleepover that never quite ended, where the novelty never fully wore off, where every night still held that same undercurrent of closeness, of choosing each other again and again without needing to say it out loud.
He heard the soft click of the bedroom door before he saw her, the sound so faint it almost blended into the quiet hum of the house, and when he turned, there she was—wrapped completely in their comforter, a small, shuffling shape with only her face peeking through.
The fabric swallowed her whole, pooling at her feet and dragging slightly against the floor, and for a second the sight was almost endearing in its absurdity, if not for the exhaustion written so clearly across her features.
Her skin looked flushed beneath the dim lamplight, her eyes glassy and unfocused, like she was moving through fog just to reach him. It hit him all at once, sharp and immediate, the lingering reality of how sick she still was despite the days already behind her.
“Oh, baby,” he murmured, the words softening as they left him, his brow pulling together with an instinctive, helpless kind of concern. “I’m so sorry you’re still so sick.”
He closed the distance between them without hesitation, arms sliding around her in one smooth motion, pulling her fully into him, blanket and all. She melted into the contact immediately, her face pressing into his chest with a quiet, almost relieved sort of surrender, and he could feel the heat of her through the layers, the subtle, uneven rhythm of her breathing.
“Come on,” he said gently, shifting his weight and guiding her with him, “let’s get you on the couch. I got some bone broth—you need something in you.”
“I missed you,” she murmured, her voice muffled against his shirt, the soft vibration of it brushing warm and fleeting across his skin.
A small smile pulled at his mouth despite everything, something warm and instinctive, and he tightened his hold on her just slightly as he began to back them toward the couch.
“I missed you more,” he replied, the words easy, familiar, like something he didn’t need to think about to mean.
He helped her settle onto the couch, adjusting the blanket around her with quiet, practiced movements before reaching for the remote, flicking on The Great British Bake Off without needing to ask.
The gentle music filled the room, light and steady, and soon the soft cadence of British accents followed, wrapping around the space in a way that always seemed to ease something in her. She had once tried to explain it to him—something about the voices, the pacing, the warmth of it all—and he had nodded along, mostly because of the way her eyes lit up when she talked about it.
By the end of that week, they had watched entire seasons back-to-back, curled into each other on this very couch, and now it had become something like a ritual, a quiet kind of comfort they both understood without needing to revisit the explanation.
She curled in on herself, smaller somehow despite the blanket, her movements slow and careful as if even shifting her weight required all of her energy. He crouched down in front of her, lowering himself until their eyes met, and the moment he really looked at her, something in his chest tightened.
She looked exhausted in a way that went beyond just being tired—drained, worn thin, like whatever this illness had taken from her hadn’t quite been given back yet.
“I’ll be right back,” he said softly, reaching up to brush a loose strand of hair away from her face, his fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary before he leaned in to press a quick, gentle kiss to her cheek.
In the kitchen, he moved with quiet efficiency. The broth warmed slowly on the stove, releasing a soft, savory scent that filled the air, grounding and steady, while he reached for her favorite mug—the one shaped like a cat’s head, slightly chipped at the ear from where it had been dropped months ago.
He poured the broth carefully, watching the steam curl upward in thin, twisting ribbons, then cracked open the ginger ale, the sharp hiss and fizz cutting briefly through the quiet.
He set everything down within her reach before gently guiding her upright, one hand steady at her back, the other bracing her arm as she shifted. Almost immediately, she pushed at the blanket, her expression tightening as if the heat had become unbearable all at once, and he was already moving to help her, peeling it away in careful layers.
It was second nature now, the way he adjusted without being asked, the way he read the small, subtle shifts in her body like cues in a language he had learned over time. He knew when to speak and when to stay quiet, when to offer something and when to wait, every action shaped by the quiet, steady accumulation of moments just like this—until taking care of her felt less like effort and more like instinct.
“Blanket too hot now?” he asked, a soft smile threading through his voice.
“Not by itself,” she murmured, her voice quieter now, worn thin by exhaustion, “but I want to lean on you, and with the blanket I would’ve been.” The last part came out almost shy, like she was admitting to something small and unnecessary, even though neither of them treated it that way.
His smile deepened, something warmer settling behind it, and he shifted slightly, opening his arm without hesitation.
“Well, come on then,” he said gently, tilting his head toward himself in invitation, “let me hold my girl.”
She moved into him slowly, and the moment her weight settled against his side, he felt it—the heat of her skin seeping through his shirt, far too warm, far too persistent. It made something in his chest tighten again, that quiet, helpless awareness of how sick she still was, even as she tucked herself closer, seeking comfort without thinking twice about it.
“When’s the last time you took any Tylenol?” he asked, glancing down at her, one eyebrow lifting slightly as concern edged back into his expression.
She shifted just enough to grab her phone, her movements sluggish as she checked the timer she’d set earlier, the screen casting a faint glow across her flushed face. “I still have one hour before I can take any more,” she said, her words soft but certain.
Of course she had been keeping track carefully, the timer on her phone less a precaution and more a quiet extension of who she was beneath everything else. Even now—feverish, worn down, her body pulled in too many directions at once—there was still that steady, practiced awareness running in the background, something ingrained too deeply to be shaken loose by illness alone.
It showed in the small things. The way she monitored the hours, the way she rationed her energy, the way she answered him with certainty instead of guesswork. Because before anything else, before the blankets and the flushed skin and the exhaustion weighing heavy behind her eyes, she was still a doctor—and some instincts didn’t fade, even when everything else felt like it might.
But she let Frank take care of everything else any chance she got.
After many instances of him moving quietly around her, bringing water she didn’t ask for, pressing cool cloths to her skin, anchoring her through the worst of it, something in her had softened into his care. It had become easier to reach for him, easier to let herself want things without immediately pulling back, even if a small part of her still flinched at the feeling.
There was a flicker of guilt sometimes, a quiet voice that whispered selfish, that reminded her of who she used to be—who she should be—but it never stayed for long. Because with him, selfish didn’t feel sharp or taking. It felt safe, like something gently held between them, something he offered freely without ever making her feel like she owed him in return.
“Okay,” he replied, his voice quieter now, his gaze lingering on her just a second longer than necessary. It was impossible not to notice her like this—pressed against him, warm and real, her tank top wrinkled from sleep, her shorts bunched slightly at the hem, her braid loose and uneven where strands had escaped.
Her eyes drifted shut again, lashes resting lightly against her cheeks, and even like this—feverish, exhausted—she was still the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, something steady and undeniable that settled deep into his bones.
They stayed like that for a while, the world narrowing down to the quiet space they shared on the couch, the soft murmur of the show filling in the silence without demanding attention. Mel sipped at the broth slowly, each swallow small and careful, followed by the occasional sip of ginger ale.
On the screen, Paul Hollywood critiqued sponge cakes with measured precision, while she simply soaked in the fact that Frank was there—finally home, beside her, exactly where she wanted him to be.
Frank, meanwhile, found himself watching her more than anything else, his attention drawn to the subtle rise and fall of her chest against his arm, the quiet rhythm of her breathing, the small, almost absent-minded sounds she made as she sipped.
There was something deeply grounding in it, something that settled him in a way nothing else ever could anymore—the simple, steady confirmation that she was here, with him, safe in a way that somehow felt both fragile and certain. It wasn’t just comfort, it was familiarity, the kind that came from knowing someone so completely that even their silence spoke clearly.
That morning lingered at the edge of his thoughts, the memory still fresh and heavy in its own quiet way. He had hovered near the bed longer than necessary, apologizing more times than he could count, offering to call out again if she needed him to, if she wanted him to stay.
He had meant every word of it, the promise sitting solid and unwavering in his chest, ready to be acted on without hesitation. But she had only smiled at him, tired but reassuring, insisting she’d be okay—especially with everything he had already set up for her before he left.
And he had done so much.
Water and tylenol within reach, a trash can nearby just in case, extra blankets folded at the foot of the bed, little snacks prepared and ready for her to just grab and go, the thermostat adjusted just enough to keep the space comfortable without overwhelming her.
Small, deliberate choices, each one rooted in experience, in instinct, in the quiet, practiced care of someone who knew exactly what sickness looked like and how to soften its edges. He had made her promise to text him if she needed anything, his voice serious in a way that left no room for doubt, and she had nodded, knowing he would come back without question, without hesitation.
And now, curled against him with the steady warmth of his arm around her, she could feel the quiet reward of that choice—not absence, but return, the simple, grounding comfort of him always coming back exactly like he said he would.
Mel finished the last of the broth in slow, careful sips, the warmth settling gently into her stomach as she handed the mug back to him. The ceramic clinked softly as he placed it on the coffee table, and in the same motion, he passed her the nearly empty ginger ale, condensation cool against her overheated fingers.
She tipped it back, finishing it in one steady swallow, then she sat up just enough to look at him, her movements unhurried and heavy, exhaustion still pooled deep behind her eyes, and she smiled—soft, unguarded, something entirely hers.
“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to how amazing you are,” she said, the words slipping out without hesitation, unfiltered in the haze of fever and comfort.
He smiled back at her, something warm and steady, like this was the easiest truth he’d ever been handed. “Well… you make it pretty easy.”
“That’s not true,” she countered lightly, a faint laugh threading through her voice, “I’ve been completely miserable.”
“You deserve to be miserable every once in a while,” he replied gently, the words carrying no edge, only a quiet kind of reassurance.
She hummed beside him, the sound soft and content despite everything, settling back into the cushions like her body had finally decided to stop fighting for a moment.
“One second—I’ll be right back,” he said, already standing, his movements smooth and purposeful as he disappeared briefly into the kitchen.
She watched him go, her gaze slow but attentive, and when he returned, there was something small pinched between his fingers—a glint of gold foil catching the light as he approached. He sat beside her again, holding it out with a quiet sort of ceremony, and her face lit up in a way that felt almost disproportionate to the size of the thing itself.
“Ooo, yay,” she breathed, a soft laugh following as she took it from him, her fingers fumbling slightly with the wrapper. “I honestly forgot I asked for something sweet.”
The foil crinkled softly as she peeled it back, revealing the chocolate beneath, and she popped it into her mouth without hesitation, her eyes slipping closed as it melted slowly across her tongue. A quiet hum of satisfaction followed, low and instinctive, and he couldn’t help but smile as he watched her, something fond and deeply settled threading through his chest.
He shifted then, gently guiding her down, settling her head against a pillow on his lap, one hand coming up to stroke along the side of her head in slow, steady passes.
“Thank you, Frank. For everything,” she said softly, her voice catching just slightly, something more than just the moment itself woven into the words.
He felt it immediately—that weight beneath the surface, that quiet acknowledgment of more than just these past few days—and his hand stilled briefly before he leaned down, closing his fingers gently around hers.
“Of course, Mel,” he said, his voice low and certain as he brought her hand up, pressing a soft kiss to the back of it. “You know I’d do anything for you.” He paused only a second before adding, quieter still, “I love you so much.”
She yawned then, the sound stretching through her, her body sinking further into the space he held for her. “I love you—” another yawn cut through her words, soft and inevitable, “—more,” she finished, her voice thick with sleep and something warm and certain.
He didn’t argue… this time.
Instead, he moved.
One arm slid beneath her knees, the other around her shoulders, lifting her with an ease that came from both strength and familiarity, like he’d done this enough times to know exactly how to do it without jostling her.
She let out a small, surprised yelp, but there was no resistance in her, no hesitation as she curled instinctively into him, her face tucking into the warm space at his neck. Her lips brushed there in a fleeting kiss, soft and absent-minded.
He set her down gently on the bed, the mattress dipping softly beneath her weight, and for a moment, he lingered, making sure she was settled before slipping away again.
When he returned, his arms were full—comforter, thermometer, Tylenol, her water bottle—everything gathered with the same quiet precision he brought to everything else.
He moved through it methodically, tucking the blanket around her, pressing the thermometer beneath her tongue, waiting in that small, patient silence until it beeped.
“100.9,” he said, glancing at the number before meeting her eyes again, something easing slightly in his expression. “Okay… better than this morning at least.”
He leaned down to press a soft kiss to her forehead, his lips lingering just a moment against the warmth of her skin before he rounded the bed and climbed in beside her, the mattress shifting gently under his weight.
“Do you want to cuddle,” he asked quietly, his voice soft and careful, “or are you too hot?”
He didn’t push, didn’t assume—just offered, the choice entirely hers.
She paused, her brow knitting faintly as she took stock of herself, the warmth in her skin, the weight in her limbs, the quiet pull toward him that seemed to override everything else.
“I want to cuddle,” she said finally, a small smile finding its way back onto her face as she looked at him.
“I was hoping you’d say that,” he murmured, already reaching for her, drawing her gently into his arms.
She fit there easily, her body soft against his, her head tucked beneath his chin as he adjusted the blanket around them both. They lay like that in the dim quiet of the room, the world outside fading into something distant and unimportant, leaving only the steady rhythm of their breathing, the warmth shared between them.
“I love you so much,” she whispered after a while, her voice barely more than a breath, already drifting toward sleep.
“I love you so much more,” he replied softly into her hair, pressing a gentle kiss there, the words settling into her like something meant to stay.
Sleep took her quickly after that, her body finally giving in, her breathing evening out in a way it hadn’t all day. And in his arms, even with the fever still lingering, even with the ache still threaded through her, she felt lighter somehow—like the worst of it had loosened its hold, leaving behind something softer in its wake.
And for him, lying there with her, one hand resting lightly against her back, feeling each slow rise and fall, there was a quiet certainty that settled deep into his chest.
This?
This was it.
Not just the care, not just the instinct to protect or provide—but the way it all centered on her, the way it felt less like obligation and more like purpose. Like something he had found rather than chosen.
To take care of Melissa King.
To make sure she was comfortable, safe, and held in all the ways she so freely gave to everyone else.
Always.