Archive of Our Own

It was one of those days that Mel knew from the jump would be disastrous. Not even in any particular way, just the confluence of a million small things adding and adding and adding until it becomes a Bad Day. This morning she let herself hope that it would at least be manageable. Merely a blip in the grand scheme of things. An anxious, terrifying, debilitating blip, but a blip nonetheless. 

(In her wildest fantasies, she would glide right into the deposition room as cool as a cucumber, sitting across from some polished individual in a suit that cost more than her monthly rent, and she’d deliver such a devastatingly competent explanation that the lawsuit would be dismissed right then and there in the sixth-floor legal suite of Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center. She’d return to the floor with a newfound lightness, and no one would ever know that Melissa King was ever named in a malpractice suit within the first year of her new residency placement for a case she took in the waning hours of her first shift.)

(But that would never happen.)

After all, the universe doesn’t like to take half-measures with her. It loves its strange, all-or-nothing approach; its cosmic humor of giving and taking, but always in totality, like a strange little riddle. An orphaned twin, a sensitive doctor dead set on emergency medicine, a student finally graced with a mentor and friend who just gets her and makes her feel like she belongs, only for him to disappear into thin air the next day. 

You have to roll with the punches, little one, her dad used to tell her when she sniffled too hard into the rough fabric of his shirt. Even now, Mel doesn’t understand why these metaphorical punches come in flurries, leaving her sore and bruised, but still upright. Never quite knocked all the way down. 

Today, she supposed, was just another round in the ring, and her fists weren’t quite ready. Too focused on the big hit to anticipate the right hook. 

(Or something like that. The metaphor isn’t perfect.)

So, no, today wasn’t going to be simple. She couldn’t just talk to lawyers today.

Instead of simple, it began with a grand tour of emotions: loneliness, frustration, resignation, disbelief, relief, unadulterated joy, then mild mortification, only to land squarely back on resignation. 

She’d been so absorbed in her lawsuit stress this morning that she thinks she’s wearing two different socks. To look professional, she wore one of her rarely used scrubs shirts and in her haste, she’d managed to get one with a tag in it and the itching at the back of her neck was slowly driving her crazy. She’s never been so sullen and withdrawn, and yet everyone just kept pushing forward like nothing was wrong with her, or rather, they didn’t comfort her or ask her about it or anything, and if she had to bet there were more than a few whispers about her being so weird circulating by now. She couldn’t answer a question in a trauma earlier, and then Santos talked about her deposition much louder than she wanted, and she’s sure the entire department knows by now, and for some reason, her coworkers still thought it was acceptable to walk away from her before a conversation finished. 

At least, now, sitting in front of a talkative bike crash patient, the buzzing in her brain has dulled. Her resignation has softened to apathy. Mel feels a little more in her body, grounded in the repetitive task. Her hands stay steady as she sutures his leg lac closed, but her mind wanders. She’s polite, so she nods along and responds monotonously, never outright ignoring him, but every so often, her eyes drift to a spot on the floor a few feet away, smiling softly to herself. 

Because there, the universe had given her a little reprieve. There, she turned around and saw him again for the first time in ten months, and she felt her anxiety temporarily melt away, painfully aware of the irony of his return on this particular date.

Because, of course, on the day of her deposition, Dr. Langdon is back. 

Back back. Real and solid and in the flesh. Warm beneath her hands when they briefly circled his surprisingly big bicep, with his fond half-smile aimed down at her excitement like he was just as pleased to see her as she was to see him. Mel thought he might disappear if she blinked; a mirage in a fantasy she must have created in her brain to bring her hope on her darkest days. But when she did eventually close her eyes, and she opened them again, he was still standing there next to her, unmoving. 

They hadn’t had time to properly catch up before being siphoned off in opposite directions, Robby spitefully keeping him out in triage despite Mel’s offer and insistence and hope that maybe their paths could become entangled again like they did all those months ago. 

But he’s back, and that’s the important part. That counts as a win; she doesn’t get many of those anymore, never had many to begin with, and certainly more than she could hope for on a day full of the promise of testimony and polite professional anxiety. 

It’s ridiculous to have his presence ground her this much. Just knowing he’s in the same building as her makes her feel like she can breathe deeper and focus better. She’s known him for a dozen hours from one shift ten months ago, and she knows she shouldn’t be so attached to him, but an hour ago, when he slid up to morning handoff, it became abundantly clear that Mel felt unmoored within the walls of PTMC without him. 

The waiting room is still closer than they’ve been in months. If she wants to see him, all she has to do is look, no longer chasing some ghost around the department. She could always claim she needs some gauze to sneak back out into triage to catch him for even a second more. Walking there would technically be faster than going all the way to the supply closet, even if they both know she could’ve grabbed some from the next exam room if it was actually urgent.

The thought alone — the small shift from figuring out if she’d see him again to how — makes her giddy, enough that she turns back to her bike crash patient, Liam, with renewed energy and ready to recite wound care, if only to be free enough to enact her small rebellious plan. 

Mel shifts absently on the stool, tying off another stitch as she pushes her weight from one hip to the other, running through the mental library of conversation starters she’d been collecting over the past ten months. All the things she might get to say if she saw him again; all the greetings she’d practiced in the mirror, the car, even the shower, hoping that by the day she found the perfect thing to say, he’d be there to hear it. 

(Once, and she wouldn’t tell anyone this, she even tried to slip in a few Franks into her rehearsal (which she found on the public PTMC Staff Directory, under the Residents tab and next to a slightly grainy photo of him with his blue eyes and little amused smile and PGY-4 designation frozen next to his name, even when the website got updated two weeks ago to reflect accurate residency program details. Mel was grateful he didn’t disappear altogether). In the end, she nixed the idea, the monosyllabic name so foreign on her tongue. Knowing his first name is a little weird and probably too forward. Intimate, almost. That didn’t stop her from practicing it anyway. Just in case.)

She didn’t even get the chance to use the line she had landed on, because just as soon as she’d called his name and grabbed onto him, her brain went delightfully blank, and then suddenly he was walking away to triage, and she was trying not to cry before going to see the patient he should be treating.

It’s ok, she tells herself, over and over again. There’s still time. 

And it was going great; she almost feels steady again, a semblance of her usual self back, until suddenly there’s something pushing against her and she’s falling backwards.

The shove isn’t jarring, and should probably affect her more, but in the split second it takes to reach the tile, Mel doesn’t feel much at all. She’s not sure if the strange wash of apathy is because she’s too tired to react properly or if she’s just all too familiar with the universe’s swinging pendulum of luck, even if being shoved to the ground seemed a bit overkill for returning Frank Langdon to her. At least with the swooping feeling in her stomach from the free fall, she didn’t have a moment to worry about the looming lawsuit.

Mel knows that in reality it only takes a few seconds to fall from the backless stool and wind up flat on her back on the tiled floor, but the descent stretches for minutes, hours, years. Long enough for her to close her eyes and think: well, this might as well happen today.

What is jarring, more than the shoulder colliding with her sternum and the unceremonious fall itself, is the question still pinging about uselessly in her head.

No, what do you like to do?

Those seven words fuzzed out her brain completely, like one of those old television sets when the antenna gets nudged an inch too far and the whole screen cuts to static. She’s probably warm to the touch like it too, overheating and humming and useless.

What Mel wants, if she’s honest, is very simple: to not be on the floor, to be close to Dr. Langdon again, and to be as far from a lawsuit as possible. Preferably in some distant future where all of these problems are ancient history, and she no longer has an aching feeling when she remembers them.

Mel’s no stranger to the invasive and unwelcome noises of the emergency department. The beeping, the wailing, the yelling, the running. All mixing into a medley that, at best, she’s learned to tune out. When she’s lucky, she can steal a moment outside and let the noise-cancellation feature on her AirPods dull the buzzing in the brain.

None of those sounds, however loud or gut-wrenching, could compare to the sound of her own skull smacking against the linoleum floor. 

It ricochets in between her ears, loud and harsh, and pain blooms in the back of her head, urging a deep groan to rumble through her.

The accompanying scuffle blurs into something distant and indistinct, voices stretching and warping and fading until they’re little more than small vibrations rippling through the air. Sound doesn’t disappear so much as it thins out, turning fuzzy, muffled, like her ears have been packed with cotton balls stolen from a supply drawer. Footsteps retreat, but none seem to be rushing in to replace them. It’s strange, but not alarming. Almost peaceful, if it weren’t for the cold, hard floor beneath her, the chill seeping through her scrubs where her body makes contact with the floor.

But all at once, the floor stops feeling so solid, the surface instead softening, molding to her and cradling her in a way her mattress never quite manages. Cold gets replaced with a pleasant, silky warmth. The ache in her body dulls too. First, the soreness, then the deeper throbbing pulse until the only sensation left is a pleasant weightlessness. Darkness follows, quick as falling asleep.

If a patient described this feeling, Mel would nod knowingly and say this is likely the moment where you lost consciousness. Maybe, even accompany the statement with a kind reassurance that the sensation is a normal neurological symptom of trauma to the head. For once, she’s a little grateful to have said something enough to recognize it in herself. She likes knowing; it helps to reassure herself.

Time warps and bends. Slows to a halt until there’s nothing. No noise, no pain, just darkness and warmth as far as Mel can reach. Like time slowed down in a moment of peace before it snapped back into place, and she’d have to deal with the inevitable concussion she just sustained. The calm before the storm.

It’s sort of nice, she thinks dimly, as she lets herself sink into the feeling.

When she wakes up, she’ll ignore the pounding headache and she’ll graciously accept the ice pack that’s outstretched to her. She’ll repress the uncomfortable mix of guilt and pride churning in her stomach with the knowledge that, for a moment, people will have to stop and pay attention to her. She’ll say she’s fine, like she did when that gurney ran over her foot three months ago or when Whitaker accidentally elbowed her in the stomach so hard she doubled over in the trauma bay, and just like those times, she’ll slip away to tend to herself alone, so as not to burden anyone else.

When she wakes up, she’ll do that.

—

But, time doesn’t snap back into place. 

The quiet presses around her, the warmth grows, and the fluorescents don’t pierce though her closed eyelids like she anticipates, nor does the tangy, antiseptic smell of work flood her senses. 

Instead, the air smells… lived-in? The slightly sterile hospital is replaced with something comforting and familiar, but new all at once — the way your house smells novel after you’ve been gone too long and only notice it again once upon returning. When you’re reminded: oh, that’s what I smell like. 

Except this particular smell isn’t just what she smelled like, there’s something more. Something unplaceable. Kind of woody and clean. It’s weird, but not weird enough to stir Mel from the pleasant fog she’s sunk into. 

She stretches out, hands sliding against luxurious sheets, unable to find the edge of the bed, which is odd, because theoretically the beds in the hospital are much smaller than this. Even in her own bed, she can’t outstretch her arms without touching the edges. A small frown forms on her face as her hands continue their exploration, nestling beneath the pile of pillows under her head.

The stiff fabric of her scrub top has since been replaced by a worn shirt, one much larger than the one she was wearing, and it twists around her torso as she shifts around the bed; maybe exchanged when she was transferred to the room, though she probably would have remembered that even if she was out of it. Even under the blankets, she can tell it’s massive on her, and she has the distant thought to wonder whose it is.

Everything is so soft, so comfortable, and so quiet. There’s a soft, rhythmic clicking, but otherwise nothing. Nothing in a long time has felt as nice as this, and Mel wants to stay wrapped up in these sheets wherever she is forever.

It’s so nice. So peaceful, nothing like the hospital and she’s grateful. Some small part of her brain should be panicking about waking up somewhere completely, but she feels oddly comforted by it. Like when she was a little girl and fell asleep in the backseat of her parents car on the way home and awoke in her own bed, a little startled, but knowing that someone she loved carried her to where she is.

When she does open her eyes, it’s to the soft and peaceful glow of morning light streaking across her face, slipping in from the slotted blinds on the opposite wall of the room. Sleep still fogs her brain, leaving everything in a beautiful haze. Her vision is still fuzzy, but no more than usual, and she tries to squint the room into better focus.

Dusty blue walls rise up to meet the ceiling, bordered with a delightful white trim, only broken by a lovely and simple fan mounted in the center of it. The color makes her smile; it’s a shade she always imagined she would paint her house in the future. Calming and beautiful. She hums, pleased, then stifles a yawn with the back of her hand, stretching all her limbs out until her muscles seize up. Overhead, the fan circles slowly, the wooden blades slicing through dust motes dancing in the soft beams of light spilling into the room. She watches it spin, easily hypnotized by the motion, counting the rotations silently until a faucet turns on in the adjoining room, breaking her concentration.

Mel turns her head sluggishly toward the muffled rush of water, trying to orient herself in this unfamiliar space. 

This isn’t the hospital. That much is clear, but it’s also not her house. So, where is she?

It could be a coworker’s, though she doubts many people would rush to her aide like that — or that she’d accept the offer even if they did. A neighbor, then? Oh god, does the phone number in her emergency contact actually connect somewhere? Is she in a stranger’s house right now?

Her pulse quickens in panic, trying to draw steadying breaths in and out. In. Out. 

No, she thinks, pressing harder back into the pillows. It’s probably Becca in the bathroom, washing her hands before coming to tell Mel all about the parade she saw with the center yesterday. Someone must have called PTMC, and someone from the center must be taking care of them. Maybe it’s Carol — she’s always very nice when Mel comes to pick Becca up. She even offered to host them for Thanksgiving.

Or, maybe Mel hit her head harder than she thought, and didn’t remember coming home… or the color of her own walls. A severe concussion is not something she needs to be dealing with right now.

Through the door to the ensuite bathroom, a shadow shifts in the thin slice of yellow light, catching her attention. Try as she might, she can’t make anything out through the small opening. When she strains to listen, she can hear faint, broken humming over the rushing water before it shuts off. 

“Hello?” she calls out, voice thick with sleep, expecting a lovely, comforting Hi Mel! back.

Instead, a slightly-gargled-and-definitely-not-Becca voice responds chipperly: “Morning, sweetheart!” 

Mel bolts upright with a sharp gasp, heart pounding. Whatever haze she was in evaporated instantly, the familiar voice sending a chill up her spine and leaving her startlingly awake like someone had doused her in ice-cold water.

Because she knows who that voice belongs to. Could probably pick it out of a crowd, has picked it out of a crowd. Twice. Just heard it again for the first time less than an hour prior. Something in her chest tightens at the sound of it, but then the reality of the situation sets in and she panics, set into a flurry of motion.

Her hands fly to the back of her head. Gentle fingers turn frantic as they comb her scalp, threading through the tangled mess of her hair, searching for the tender spot she should have — a scar if she’d been out of it long enough to not remember how she got here — but no matter how hard she searches, the back of her head is exceptionally normal. There’s no pain, no goose egg, no blood, just the faint echo of the impact still rattling in her head, and the strangest sensation in her stomach.

Mel scrambles for her glasses on the nightstand, fumbling slightly when her wrist bumps into a glass of water, nearly teetering over onto a stack of papers she doesn’t recognize. With one hand she steadies the cup and the other grabs at her glasses, slipping them onto her face with practiced ease. They sit oddly on her nose like they’re heavier than she remembers and she scrunches her nose up a few times to get used to the weight of them.

Next to them sits a small ceramic dish, a little lumpy around the rim, but brilliantly painted, and somehow Mel knows instinctively that it’s handmade and cherished. 

Only a few pieces of jewelry rest inside. 

At first, Mel smiles at the small collection, struck by coincidence. Whoever owns this nightstand has eerily similar taste to her own. Simplistic, all gold, nothing that sticks out too far or would snag on things. There’s a simple necklace with a small daisy — dainty in a way that wouldn’t weigh down her neck, but is still big enough to catch the light as it nestles between her collarbones. Three rings: a simple golden band with what look like vines twisting around it, another with inlaid diamonds instead of mounted, and a practical silicone band.

Mel doesn’t wear much jewelry. Partly because she doesn’t like the sensation of it, partly because of occupational hazard; like many things in her life, it’s easier not to bother. She would love to have any of these pieces, though. She reaches out to touch them, wondering what they might feel like on her fingers, and lost in thought she slips one on with the intention to admire its shine in the morning, but when it slides flawlessly past her knuckles, her amused smile fades. 

A perfect fit. Weird.

Then her eyes snag on two pairs of earrings. The first, simple golden knots, the exact same as the pair she’s had since her ears were pierced; the material had corroded slightly from decades of wear. The second, two horseshoes, which could inexplicably belong to anyone — a silly, eerie coincidence — but one of the posts is bent in the exact slight angle that Mel’s own lucky horseshoes are, and the air in her lungs feels punched out of her.

This is her jewelry, but how’d it get here? How’d she get here? Why can she only recognize half of the jewelry? Why do these rings fit her so perfectly? Why can’t she remember?

She can’t dwell on that too long though because across the room, the bathroom door finally swings open. Mel snaps her hand back into her lap, quickly turning to see — 

Oh. My. God. Ohmygodohmygodohmygod.

Braced in the doorway is Frank Langdon. Wearing only a pair of black boxer briefs.

“Dr. Langdon!” she squeaks as her hands fly up to her face, shielding her eyes from his form now silhouetted in the open door. She tells herself she’s doing it out of professionalism. She parts her fingers slightly to peek at him, unable to curb the impulse. 

He looks older somehow. Grey peppering his temples, deeper smile lines etching his face, new freckles on his skin. Sort of like he aged since she last saw him.

She knows he didn’t look like that this morning; she was laser-focused on him, absorbing every difference in his appearance from that very first day. His hair was longer then, definitely not silver. If she weren’t so focused on the fact that he was nearly naked now, she might’ve remembered that. 

One of his forearms braces against the wall next to his head. The angle emphasizes the thick cords of muscle in his arms, creating a neat line down the hard plane of his chest. Mel very deliberately does not look anywhere below his waist, trying not to let her gaze wander over the endless plains of thick hair and exposed skin she’s now an audience to. Water drips off the ends of his damp hair, running in long lines down his body that she can’t help but trace before the water drips unceremoniously onto the tile beneath his feet. It’s impossible to ignore the heat that creeps up her neck at the sight of him.

Mel isn’t ignorant of the fact that Dr. Langdon is a very attractive person. She knows this, of course she does; she has eyes. She’s just never been so aware of that fact as she is right now.

Plus, he’s nice to her and looks out for her and understands her and jokes with her and actually pays attention and, yes, that was ten months ago, but maybe Mel harbored something of a crush from those intoxicating fifteen hours of being someone’s number one priority. A crush that smoldered in his absence, but never went out. One that had her searching directories for his name, and scouring social media for just a glimpse of him, as guilty as she felt afterwards. One that she thought she had repressed enough to be mostly normal when he returned. One that, she’s figuring out, hasn’t done that and this is very much not helping. 

“Oh,” he says, low and amused. The tone sends a small zip of electricity up her spine. His eyes darken as he rolls his shoulders out like he just realized they started playing a game, and he intended to win. Another shiver runs through her. Mel finds that very attractive. His pink tongue darts out to wet his lips, quick but unmistakable. “We haven’t done that in a while.”

It would be disingenuous to say Langdon did something other than stalk over to the bed. He moves in measured steps, not achingly so, but slow enough for Mel’s heartbeat to speed up to an unreasonable pace. Her body locks up, frozen in place, hopelessly caught between alarm and attraction. Two instincts refusing to reconcile in this bizarre scenario.

She’s had hyper-realistic dreams like this before. Seemingly normal, well-thought-out plotlines that feel real, until one detail crumbles apart the entire scene like a clock melting off the wall, or a giraffe poking through the window, or the ceiling bursting into a swarm of butterflies. But the closer he gets to the bed, the more real this all feels.

The mattress dips beside her, Langdon much closer than before, one knee already braced on top of the comforter — the only thing separating them at this point. Mel drops her hands from her face to clutch the quilt tight against her chest. She can feel the heat radiating off of him through the fabric; she wants to lean into it, give in to whatever fantasy this is, until she wakes up with a throbbing headache again. It’s the least she deserves, actually.

“What are you…” she asks instead, eyes wide.

“Mmmm,” he purrs, already slotting into the space above her. “Havin’ fun.”

His voice is sticky sweet, an octave lower than she’s heard it before, and it rolls through her in warm waves. She goes a little gooey under its syrupy timbre. Have his eyes always been this dark? Did the pixelation on her laptop make them seem brighter? Are pupils normally that big? 

Instinctually, her hand reaches out to brace against him, palm flat and open against his chest. The steady beat of his heart pulses under her skin, and she feels oddly comforted by it, a strange rhythm soothing her own anxiety. It’s not pushing him so much as grounding her. Warm flesh and coarse hair reminding her of the absurdity of the moment. One of his hands settles on her waist, fingers instantly finding a sliver of skin above her waistband, which makes her shiver, while his other comes up to circle her upstretched forearm, metal grazing the soft skin on the inside of her wrist. 

Mel frowns, looking down at the sensation.

He had a ring before. She remembers a ring. Not that she’s memorized everything about him, but she’s pretty sure she remembers a ring-shaped bulge under his blue nitrile gloves. A flash of gold from the thick hair of the dog she pet in the break room. An imperceptible click against a metal doorknob, the doorframe, the counter.

The ring on his finger right now doesn’t look the same. 

At least, she doesn’t think it does. This one sits snug against his knuckle, unmoving, and looks thinner. Less polished. Almost identical to the one she slipped onto her finger moments ago — a thought she quickly banishes. 

Ten months is plenty of time for things to change, she reasons. Circumstances, people. Rings, perhaps. 

She knows what people say about him in that regard: that he’s an inattentive husband (if he’s still married at all), that he’s reckless and boyish, a shameless flirt who probably had more than a fair share of extramarital hospital flings. It all makes her frown. Not only because they shouldn’t speculate about his personal life like that, but because she can’t imagine he’s anything but a kind and caring and devoted partner. 

At least, he was never inattentive with her; he knew exactly how to take care of her after fifteen hours, where to find her, when she’d had too much and needed to slow down, what she liked, what she flinched at. He saw that and adapted. If that’s how he treated a colleague — someone he barely knew — then surely the version of him who committed to a life with someone else would be all the more dedicated and attentive.

(When she does dream about him, it’s like that at least. Sometimes they hold hands in the park, or sometimes he makes her dinner after a long shift and has already done the dishes when she tries to turn on the tap, or sometimes he’s above her, panting, sweat dripping onto her before she wakes up with a gasp.

That last one always makes her feel the guiltiest, even if they’re always the shortest lived. It’s just her subconscious anyways, it’s not like she can control her dreams. She probably shouldn’t dream about someone she barely knows, someone who already has someone to do those things with, but at least she isn’t telling everyone in the hospital about it, which is more than other people can say. She just keeps those thoughts tucked far in the back of her mind.)

After ten months, who knows anything about him? She doesn’t judge or assume. Mel never listens to the rumors. Not after she heard them whispering about her one too many times. So, she knows what they say about him, but that doesn’t make it real.

But, she can ask. Because, even if he didn’t have a ring, why is he climbing into bed with her like this, like this is completely natural?

“What about—” her voice wavers, and she swallows thickly, scooting back farther against the stack of pillows and the headboard, but he just follows her with a playful smile on his face. “What about your wife?”

The smirk only grows at that. He laughs, a deep-gut sound, and she can’t imagine what she said that was so funny.

“I think she’s more than happy with this arrangement. Don’t you think?”

What?

“What?” 

Her coherence is brought low by his toothy smile, smug in the most attractive way, and he leans in to kiss her before she can think of something else to ask.

Time slows, and she’s sort of tired of it doing that. He’s so close, his breath ghosting over her lips. So close. This is normally when she wakes up in a cold sweat, should be where she wakes up in a cold sweat, but inexplicably, she’s still here under him. In her dreams, they never actually make it to the touching part.

Mel squeaks and turns her head just quick enough that his lips land on her cheek instead of her lips like intended. He laughs against her skin, the sound full of the kind of warmth that spreads through her body, and he tries to inch closer to her mouth, but she wiggles out of reach each time. 

Frank’s— Dr. Langdon’s? (she feels like she can probably call him Frank now, considering… well, this) eyebrows quirk up at her dodging, but he’s not discouraged, simply changing tactics, focusing instead on pressing open-mouthed kisses along her jaw and neck. 

“Come on, baby,” he pouts, nose nudging the skin right beneath her ear. Soft and sensitive. “I thought we were playing. I brushed my teeth and everything.”

Mel only hums questioningly in response, unable to think about anything but his tongue on her neck.

With each movement, his hands and mouth seem to find the precise spot she needs them. A practiced ease of a couple who’d done this thousands of times, rather than coworkers reunited the previous hour. Each point of contact burns with intensity, and Mel melts under his touch. 

Dream or not, he knows her body, knows what she needs, and for the first time, she lets herself sink into the pleasant feeling of being taken care of. 

And it feels so nice. She decides she wants nice for a while. She deserves a distraction.

Everything melts into montage snapshots rather than continuous thought: a hand cradling her head; fingers gripping her sleep-mussed hair; teeth against her collarbone; her leg slipping between his, dissolving into a tangle of limbs that feels natural; hands resting, grabbing without overthinking their placement, finding purchase in his hair. Nudging her head into his, just to see him.

“Oh, now you want a kiss, hmm?” He rumbles against her sternum. Something close to mhm vibrates through her. Her request isn’t granted, still lazily moving his mouth anywhere but her mouth. Something runs through her, zinging and hot, staticky across her body. 

Want, she thinks. I want this. This is something I want.

It forces a laugh to bubble up — a strange amalgamation of nerves and disbelief and his breath tickling her — even as her body leans instinctively into his attention.

Somewhere, deep in her brain, alarms must be ringing, but their screech is far less charming than the gravelly wash of Frank’s voice in her ear, so she ignores them in favor of the strong hands on her body that make her want to melt through the mattress, liquified and comfortable. 

But then, the hand on her hip pushes higher, climbing further under her shirt to rest right against her ribs just below her breast and her body tenses up, muscles locking in place.

A strangled sort of noise falls from her lips. She feels him frown and his head pulls back enough to look up at her. His hands pull back, the heat retreating with him. Mel whines a little at the loss, whispering nononono under her breath, trying to lean back into him. To right the wrong. 

Pleading, she stares back at him, willing her expression into something that can communicate exactly what she wants, hoping he can read her mind. He hushes her softly, eyes darting over her face. Whatever he finds there gives him pause. It makes her hesitate, too. Both pause where they are. The mattress creaks softly as he leans back to sit beside her on the bed instead, neatly folding one leg beneath him. Still within reach of her, still connected. 

Relief and disappointment wash over her at the crucial inches between them. The energy between them shifts — not gone entirely, but softened, warm instead of heated. He doesn’t withdraw fully which she’s grateful for, but gone is the consuming weight, now replaced by a gentler touch. His thumb moves in a slow, steady arc against her stomach, lower than before. Grounding instead of all-consuming. The kind of touch meant to soothe rather than take.

He studies her with careful attention, as if her expression spelled out a story and he was taking in every line. Her fingers busy themselves in her hair, smoothing it down from where his fingers tangled in it. Little nervous, repetitive motions to distract her from his laser focus on her. Even if she wanted to say something, her mouth went cottony at the thought of saying anything at all.

After a moment, she tries a smile, a little lopsided in the cheeks, but trying. Sheepish and a little guilty, as if to say surprise! We’ve never done that before and I’m scared I made it awkward! I don’t actually know what’s happening! Please don’t hate me! A small placating gesture for when he inevitably comes back to his senses and realizes she isn’t who he thought she was, or mutters a rushed apology and then never speaks to her again, or something else drastic reserved for when mistakes of this magnitude happen. 

Great, he’s just come back only for me to scare him away again.

“Hey,” he asks, catching her eyes, “you ok?” 

To which she realizes she’d been staring past his shoulder, gaze steadily fixed on nothing in particular as she catastrophized. She refocuses on him, really taking him in. Concern colors his features where playfulness was a moment ago. Brow furrowed, puzzled, tongue darting out to wet his lips while he remains deep in thought with his eyes unwaveringly on her. Normally, Mel would squirm under such an intense gaze, but she just feels seen in this moment.

She rolls her lip between her teeth, relishing in the sensation, and manages an unsteady nod. 

It’s not convincing based on his tight smile, but he doesn’t push further, which she’s grateful for. He does, however, huff incredulously, lips ticking upward in fondness as he ducks his head. A few strands fall across his forehead with the motion, and Mel really wants to reach out to brush them back into place. She grips the comforter tighter.

“I’ll go start some water for tea,” he says, squeezing her hip, then slides off the bed. He grabs a folded shirt out of the dresser next to the door, and he pulls it over his head, messing up his hair with the drag of the fabric. He pauses in the doorway, looking back at her on the bed while his fingers drum idly on the doorframe. “You can come down when you’re ready, yeah? That sound good?”

Mel nods again. This time it’s more sure.

The moment she can no longer hear his retreating footsteps, she collapses into the pillows, burying her head in the downy softness and lets out a deep groan.

What. Is. Happening.

She lies there, very still, with her eyes pressed closed, hoping, praying, that she wakes up. That the world returns to normal and she’s back on the floor of the hospital — something she thought she’d never wish for.

Now, she thinks.

Or maybe, now. 

…Now? 

But, alas, when she opens her eyes again and lifts her head from the pillows, she’s looking up at the same ceiling in the same strange situation. 

With a frustrated huff, she flops over dramatically so that she faces the nightstand next to the bed. Hair falls over her face in a curtain, and she blows at it a few times in irritation before giving up and freeing a hand from the blankets to tuck the offending strands behind her ear.

Alright, Mel. This is really happening. Let’s figure something out.

Ok.

Getting dressed seems like a good next step. Actionable and achievable and necessary to figure out what’s going on.

More answers could await literally anywhere else in the room, nothing will get done if she keeps laying here. 

When she does slide out of bed, it’s unsure, hesitating just above the cold floor. Wiggling her toes against the floorboards, she shivers as air moves against her legs, now that she’s extracted them from the warm cocoon of the comforter. Only then does she become painfully aware that the oversized shirt she’s wearing is the only thing she’s wearing apart from a pair of utilitarian cotton underwear.

Mortified, she remembers Frank hovering over her mere moments ago, remembering where his hands were, and where they were headed. Goosebumps erupt across her body. Maybe, it’s for the best that she froze up.

She begins to move about the room. The floor creaks loudly beneath her and she winces at the sound, her mind not yet caught up with the muscle memory of her body. She pauses, afraid Frank will reappear suddenly and catch her frozen in the middle of the room, half-dressed and frozen. He doesn’t, though, and she scurries over to the dresser.

There’s already an outfit on top of the piece of furniture, neatly folded and organized. This doesn’t stop her from opening the drawers and investigating. The organizational system is intuitive enough. She recognizes some things, marvels at others, and runs her fingertips over each individual piece of fabric in amazement. Everything is neatly folded, organized by material, and nestled nicely in the drawer. 

Mel still admires it as she tugs the outfit on, surprised at how well it fits her. The shirt doesn’t scratch, there’s no tag, the socks are delightfully soft. It all feels right.

The strangest thing is that everything here feels right. Things are organized the way she likes, things feel comfortable, it all just makes sense. 

Even Frank being here feels natural. She doesn’t flinch at his presence like she usually would if someone had been so close to her  — had it been anyone else to walk out of the bathroom, she would’ve freaked out, but seeing him open the door made her relax, even if she did still panic slightly. 

That’s the most unsettling part of this entire thing.

For some reason, he’s different. He slots in where he’s supposed to, right into a space Mel didn’t even know existed before today. 

Mel shakes the thought away, unwilling to further question how natural Frank Langdon fits into her life, instead turning to the bathroom.

She flicks the light on, finding the switch in a fluid motion, then folds her glasses neatly, placing them on the vanity beside the sink. The faucet groans to life, and she cups her hands beneath the flow letting water pool in her palms, letting it overflow before she brings her hands to her face. The cold shock is refreshing. She repeats the motion, once, twice, maybe, in some hopes that water might work where wishing failed. But her own face stares back at her from the mirror when she looks up again. Still surrounded by unfamiliar walls. 

It’s clear that there is no running from whatever this is.

Her face comes into clearer focus when she slides her glasses back on.

She also looks older, more angular in places that were soft. More settled into her face. New freckles dust across her nose and under her eyes. She pokes at them. Her glasses are a brighter blue, sharper in the corners. Her hair is longer than she remembers, falling to almost her sternum in loose waves. When she threads her fingers through it, it’s much softer than she expects, much softer than it was when she battled it into a tight braid that morning. Mel’s used to its roughness, mostly from her apartment’s hard water, but here it’s smooth and luxurious. This hair feels cared for, even though it’s the same hair she’s had all her life.

Her fingers fiddle with it, running through it absentmindedly, as her eyes wander around the rest of the room. 

On the sink below sit two toothbrushes in one holder; in the shower, two different kinds of shampoo and conditioner nestled neatly together; around the mirror, sticky notes cluster with two sets of handwriting. Most of them are kind reminders and affirmations; others are love notes — some of which make her cheeks flare red-hot. Part of her wants to glance away, afraid she’s intruding on an intimate display of some other couple, but the other part notices the way some notes resemble her handwriting. Down to the way she loops her y’s and accidentally crosses any letter following a t, a holdover from rushed notes. It’s almost like she wrote these notes.

She can’t help but feel like she’s missing something. Details floating into her mind, but never sticking in any arrangement that made sense. Some strange unreadable message looming above her.

Her investigation becomes more frantic. Her preferred brand of toothpaste balances next to the toothbrushes, purple and blue; half the bottles in the shower are plucked straight from her bathroom, the others distinctly… manly, for lack of a better word. 

It’s not as if she’s not used to sharing space. For practically her whole life, she’s cohabited with Becca — apart from two years in undergrad, when she instead shared a hall bathroom with 20 other girls. But all of the things that nestle beside hers here are not Becca’s. Becca doesn’t use Irish Spring soap, and she’d never use a toothbrush that wasn’t pink, and most importantly, she’d never ever write a sticky note for Mel that read Lookin' good, hot stuff.

From there, everything seems to snowball together. The jewelry, new mixed with old. The rings. Her clothes in unfamiliar drawers. Her things in this bathroom, effortlessly enmeshed with a distinctly manly presence. 

Frank coming out of this very room to greet her. Almost like he also inhabited the room.

How practiced and comfortable his touch is. How easily he can read her. The familiarity with which he talked to her. His state of undress. The playing. The teasing, the caring. His lips against her neck. Are they—

Mel flinches as a sharp buzzing noise cuts through her spiralling. An alarm cuts through the silent room, chirping and vibrating rhythmically. 

A phone! Of course! How could she forget about phones? Answers live in phones. Dates, messages, the Internet! She should’ve done that first, instead of playing Nancy Drew.

Mel rushes to silence it, stumbling only slightly over her own feet. The alarm is incessant, the vibrations making the phone jump slightly between the chimes. She overturns the screen, quickly silencing the noise, but before she can do anything else, she’s distracted by the photo that stares back at her.

Her phone sits heavy in her palm — and it is her phone, despite a different case and a strange weight, because the lockscreen is a picture of Becca, Frank, and two children, all crammed together at what looks like the zoo. A boy sits crammed between her sister and Frank, and a girl is perched in Frank’s lap. They’re a spitting image of him. Dark hair, blue eyes. The boy with a slight cleft in his chin. The girl, his cheek dimples. They’re all making faces at each other, blurred in laughter. 

Mel stares at the image so long that the screen goes black, and she has to tap it again to read the date and time, biting the inside of her cheek until a coppery tang brings her out of her haze. She blinks away tears, refocusing on the task at hand, clicking on the screen again.

Well. That can’t be right. It was July last time she checked, but this says it’s May. The year is nauseatingly too far in the future, eight years too far; the combination of digits too distant to truly comprehend the passage of time it takes to reach such a date. 

The screen dims once more, and for a second, all she sees is herself — frown warped slightly in the glass.

Suddenly heavy, her hand drops to her side, lowering the phone to read the journal on the nightstand she almost spilled water all over, hoping that maybe she misread the date, scrolled too far in the calendar app as a fun before-bed game, but the boldfaced print at the bottom of The Lancet reflects the same distant future. 

It doesn’t smudge off or peel away when she runs a finger over it. Tiny inky bumps pass beneath her thumb, before it slips to the edge of the paper, flipping through the pages in search of an answer.

Answers she does not find — handwriting she does.

Unmistakably hers. The same as the bathroom sticky notes, scattered in looping, assured strokes throughout the margins, spelling out thoughts she doesn’t remember having, on pages she’s never seen.

She feels suddenly dizzy, collapsing hard back onto the bed.

This could still be some elaborate Becca prank. 

Two years ago, she somehow managed to change every clock in their house — the alarms and oven and Mel’s laptop and phone — to Pacific Standard Time in some elaborate bid to convince Mel to move to sunny California for her residency by creating an immersive experience. She was late to three of her shifts of her internal medicine rotation before she figured it out. 

But this?

This is much different. Much more elaborate, too impossible to actually happen. Namely, because her sister and Langdon would’ve had to meet to pull something like this off. Spend countless hours making a room and a backstory, and then to go change everything. Something with the kind of logic that could only really happen in a dream, or some movie.

Or, well. 

It’s an out-there idea. A deeply inconvenient, highly implausible idea, but if the countless hours of cinematic education courtesy of Becca (and her unwavering loyalty to early 2000s romcoms) have ever amounted to anything useful, it’s this: Mel is pretty sure she’s in the future.

Not just any future, her future.

The room starts to spin. Bits of her surroundings going fuzzy and blurring at the edges. Mel grips the edge of the bed, willing her breathing into a normal pattern. In. Out. In. Out. The fistful of mattress keeps her hands from shaking as she draws deep, full breaths that move her full body with each drag. The air feels thin, but real.

If she hadn’t already splashed water on her face, she would do it again, and if she thought for a second that it would help reset whatever this is, she’d grab hold of her forearms until crescent moons bloomed, scarlet and rosy, beneath her nails. She presses her fingers into her own skin anyway, slightly harder than necessary, just to feel the sting, chasing feeling because feeling can’t be replicated. Just to confirm she’s really here.

Which she very much is, despite feeling like she’s floating above her body, observing all her movements in a strange environment from overhead.

She’s here. She lives here. She’s married. 

The words land like a stone in a still lake, disturbing the perfect reflection and rippling outward. Each second spent turning the thought over in her head reveals another thing. She’s married to Dr. Langdon, and they live in a house together, and her lockscreen is of him and her sister and his kids. Their laundry probably gets mixed up, and they share drawers, and they leave each other notes in the bathroom, and he makes her tea in the morning, and he brushes his teeth before he kisses her. 

It’s not a daydream she indulged in after too many late shifts, not some hypothetical. It’s apparently her life, eight years deeper than minutes ago. A life filled with all the things she never gave a second thought to. Something she didn’t really know she wanted until it was in front of her.

So what does she do?

Act natural seems like the obvious answer, but that raises a new host of questions. Namely, what is normal? Normal for who? Normal for present day Mel? Or normal for Future Mel? Is it the same? How much had she changed?

Clearly, normal was not what she was doing, not if Langdon shifted the way he did — Frank, she chastises herself, Frank Frank Frank, repeating it like all those months ago in her mirror trying to hold onto another part of him she didn’t quite have. Here she definitely didn’t call him Dr. Langdon. 

(Well. Apparently, sometimes she did, but if she thinks about that too long, she won’t be able to look him in the face again. How was she supposed to go back to work with him in her own time with that knowledge? With that promise?)

Normal doesn’t amount to Frank pulling back like he did. Not if he read something in her body, her face, and shifted from playful to concerned in half a breath. She always knew that she didn’t have a poker face, but that just feels… transparent. As if he could see completely through her. 

Is she supposed to lie through this? Is she supposed to tell him? Can she tell him? Will that break some time travel rule? More importantly, will he believe her? What if he just laughs at her and she’s stuck here?

What if she’s stuck here?

If she’s going to survive this — whatever this is — she has to breathe.

What’s the saying? The only way out is through?

Her feet move before her brain does and Mel finds herself in the doorway of the room, peering out into the hallway, awash with morning light. She takes another look around the bedroom, exhaling deeply. And she steps out into the hallway.

—

It’s easier to navigate the house by following the noise, so Mel does just that, drifting down the stairs and towards the sound of Frank whistling in the kitchen.

Well, it’s like whistling. It’s more like a close approximation, measured and mixed with a healthy amount of humming when the notes climb to high. Deliberate and restrained in an oddly respectful way like he knows exactly where the noise would tip into too much and stops just short of it. 

Usually, Mel dislikes loud or repetitive noises, especially in the morning, and she wonders if she’s told him that, and this was his compromise.

The kitchen is cozy. Like the rest of the house, it feels very lived in, very loved — marked by the soft clutter of real use. It doesn’t quite feel like a stranger’s house. 

Frank stands with his back to her in the corner, in front of a kettle that’s just begun to sputter. One cabinet door hangs open above his shoulder, revealing a colorful variety of boxes and containers of loose leaf teas neatly stacked up and organized with care.

She pauses in the doorway and just watches him, drinking in how comfortable he is in this space, completely relaxed and domestic in a way Mel doesn’t think she’s ever seen. There’s energy in his absent movements, but not frantic. More than before, she drags her eyes over him, really letting herself take him in, tracing the lines of his body. He really is very handsome. Perfectly casual, the first time she’s seen him in anything but his scrubs. A small appreciative hum rolls off her lips. 

“Oh good,” he says, quickly glancing behind him to verify she is there, still fiddling with something on the counter. “I was starting to think I’d have to bring the cabinet up to you.”

Blood creeps up her neck into her cheeks. She tangles her fingers together in front of her, grateful he’s still angled away from her.

“Now, what are we thinking today?” he asks. 

He rummages briefly through the cabinet, then stops, withdrawing his hands and bracing a palm against the marble countertop, turning toward her while he waits for an answer. An amused smile flashes across his face as he catches her staring at him. Mel quickly looks away, glancing at the boxes in the cupboard past him, eyes flitting over the labels, finally landing on a familiar one with a sigh of relief. At least some things never change, she supposes.

“Uh,” she clears her throat. “Peppermint. Please.” 

The please slips out reflexively and she winces at the formality of it, but Frank doesn’t seem bothered by it, instead one corner of his mouth twitching upward before glancing down to his hand. Mel follows his gaze. Something peaks out between his fingers and his hand quickly unfurls to reveal a tea bag pinched between his pointer and middle finger like a playing card at the end of a magic trick. The green packaging revealed in flourish was in fact her card.

He lets out a whooping sort of noise, laughing through his words. “Am I good or what, baby?”

Her cheeks flush with the endearment. Frank places the packet between his teeth to tear it open and she watches his tongue wet his lips again as he drops the tea bag into the mug on the counter.

It’s the twinkle in his eye that makes the smile growing on her face impossible to tamp down. Not even biting her lip can keep it from spreading wider. He’s silly. She almost forgot how silly he was. With his jokes and his palms tapping against a doorframe she had no hopes of reaching and how he spun around to face her whenever they walked, slowly orbiting her but always talking at her. It’s his silliness that eases her nerves.

“I still got it, don’t I?”

He keeps making the tea, as if this were a normal conversation for them. When she doesn’t answer, Frank gestures at her, waving his hand like he’s prompting something more out of her. Expectant. She turns her head to the side as if to say I don’t know. A silent clue in with a guileless motion that she’s out of the loop. About as far out of the loop as one can be, actually.  

“Oh come on, you’re supposed to say never lost it in that monotone voice. You know the one, the you’re not funny voice,” he teases, poking his finger toward her. 

Mel’s mouth drops into a small o shape.

The kettle clicks back onto its stand and it seems to echo in the silent kitchen. She supposes she should’ve said something by now, but all that’s in her brain now is static.

“Oh. Sorry.” Her tone tilts upward at the end, sounding more like a question than an apology.

Mel watches his smile waver, a suspicious expression overtaking the easy one he just wore. She’s never had a particularly good poker face, but she tries a toothy grin anyways. It feels more like baring her teeth and as much as she hoped it would, the smile does not smooth out the skeptical wrinkles on his forehead.

“Seriously,” Frank prods then, quieter. “Are you ok?”

“Yeah, what—” she presses her palms tighter together, ground herself in the pressure. “What makes you think I’m not?”

“Mel. Honey.”

“What are you—”

He steps closer to her, so they now stand chest to chest with barely any room between them. Mel can see every detail of him, count every freckle, every wrinkle, every pore. His tongue pokes out in concentration, and Mel stares for a moment too long. The back of his hand comes up to her forehead, then down to her cheek, checking.

“You’re not warm,” he murmurs, mostly to himself. His thumb brushes her temple as he looks at her eyes, tilting her head with practiced ease. His hands slip down prodding softly below her ears, below her jaw. Gently palpating the soft skin there. It’s delicate and practiced, lacking any clinical stiffness. Lingering. Eventually, Mel catches his wrists and drags them away from her face.

“I’m fine,” she says automatically, then pauses. “Really.” 

When Frank tries to take his hands back, she flinches. He frowns. Deep and unsatisfied and full of worry.

If there’s something Mel doesn’t like, it’s feeling caught. Her face goes red and blotchy and try as she might, she just can’t lie her way out of a situation. It’s a skill she’s never possessed. Never even attempted to get better at. Over time, she’s gotten very good at skirting the truth, something necessary for doctors delivering life-changing news delicately, but she’s never been good at the lying. 

When they were much younger, in a house with a backyard, and Mel and Becca played catch in that yard, an unruly ball smashed one of the back windows. To this day, she doesn’t remember who threw it, but she remembers the sinking feeling in her stomach when both of their names sounded through the yard in a bellow. She remembers the split second panic, trying to find words. But, instead of hiding her glove behind her back, like someone else might, she burst into tears. Loud, wracking sobs as she apologized for breaking something, even as her parents tried to soothe her, even as they told her it was alright, even as she wasn’t sure she was at fault.

Right now, she feels kind of like that. Caught out, with no explanation, just about ready to burst into tears. So, really, it’s better to rip the bandaid right off. To just get the awkwardness over with and come right out with the truth, because he clearly will not let this go.

“I’m not Mel,” she says plainly, then winces when he cocks one eyebrow questioningly. “I mean, I am Mel, but not your Mel.” A pause. “I think.”

“Ok.” Frank shifts his weight, his face still contorted in confusion. “Not… my Mel?”

There’s not really a good way to describe this is there?

“Well, I think this is a dream or hallucination or something. I was just with a patient and we were talking and then I fell — or I guess I was pushed — but I fell backwards and I hit my head. Everything went all dark and then I woke up here. Could be a prolonged hallucination. I haven’t really thought about it.” 

She punctuates the statement with a bounce on her toes, waving her hands at the house in general to clarify. Frank narrows his eyes at her, studying her. The intensity bides her to clasp her hands together before her, squeezing and releasing to try to ground herself.

Silence stretches on too long and she begins to chew on her lip.

“Are you going to say something?”

“I’m trying to finish the punchline,” he replies. “Gimme a second.”

“It’s not a joke.”

“It’s not?” He tilts his head to the side.

Mel shakes her head.

A moment. He narrows his eyes at her more. “No, you’re fucking with me,” he huffs after a moment, shaking his head. On the counter, his fingers still nervously fidget. “You’re holding up better than you usually do, baby.”

Her cheeks flush and whether it’s from the way his voice dips down on the name or the feeling of feeling caught in a lie she can’t quite tell.

“Dr. Langdon, I promise I’m telling the truth.”

Frank’s eyebrows furrow deeply, and his mouth pops open like he’s about to say something, but he closes it just as quickly.

“So you’re not… that’s not— I thought you were doing the—” he stammers, crossing his arms across his chest. Mel watches the way it makes the muscles bulge and she chides herself for thinking about that.

“I’m not doing anything, I assure you, Dr. Langdon.”

He makes a small choking noise. “You have to stop doing that, Mel.”

“I was just at the hospital and now I’m here and I don’t remember anything else. I mean I can’t be 100% sure of the actual physics of how I’m here or what here is, but I’m pretty sure,” Mel babbles. “And you’re here, like really here, and maybe this is the future. For me? So. Yeah.”

After a moment. “Ah.”

“Yeah.” 

“I’m sorry, Mel,” he sounds remorseful but she keeps getting caught up in his voice and hearing her name in his voice and it makes her go all warm and gooey and melty inside and she really wants him to keep saying it.

“It’s ok,” she says, “or I think it’s ok. I’m not really sure.”

How is she supposed to get back? Will she ever? 

“Sooooo,” Frank drags out the syllable, while rocking back and forth on his heels. “Time travel.”

It’s as if he can sense her spiralling, a familiarity that feels unearned to her, but must be second nature with the way he gently redirects her.

“Kind of?” She replies a little shakily. “Maybe.” She considers for another second. “No. Not exactly? I remember before I woke up and then total darkness and now… here. More like a time skip? It’s sort of like—”

“13 Going on 30,” Frank finishes her thought for her before he takes a sip from his mug. She looks at him bewildered and he smiles against the rim, endeared.

“Becca keeps me busy,” he explains with a tilt to his head, fondness threading the sentiment. Then: “She has a Ruffalo phase.” He raises his eyebrows pointedly at that. 

That sounds like Becca. He’s friends with Becca. Indulges in her movies. Has, he said, like Mel can look forward to it. 

Mel blinks dumbfounded at Frank. She hesitates, the reminder of her sister pinging around her brain. She’s been so busy trying to figure everything out, she completely forgot about Becca. “Where is Becca?” Her eyes widen, rushing now, “Oh god, please tell me your kids aren’t here. What do I— I don’t even—”

Frank hushes her softly, his hands stretched out to her in soothing motion. “It’s just us, it’s Ab— their mom has them this week. Becca’s at her apartment. Just you and me.” 

Her heart doesn’t beat any slower in her chest, but she tries to take in deep breaths. He moves to put a hand on her shoulder, slow enough for her to refuse, but she doesn’t. Instead, she sinks into the touch, reminding her that she’s here, he’s here, it’s real. His touch is so comforting that Mel steps closer to him, wordlessly asking for a hug, and there in his arms, she matches his own breathing’s steady cadence.

They stand like that for a moment, comforting and quiet. He never releases the pressure of the hug, never moves to step back, only lets her take what she needs for as long as she wants. When she finally pulls away, it’s only enough for her to look up at his face. There’s a goofy smile spread across his face, and she swears his gaze fixes on her lips immediately. 

Mel clears her throat, extricating herself from his warmth and taking a step back. Too close. She’s letting herself get too close. Her arms come up to hug herself in his absence. A twinge of sadness joins the confusion that seems to perpetually cloud Frank’s expressions, and she knows he’s trying to figure her out again, rebuilding his habits to accommodate for this totally new version of a person he’s known forever now. 

If she were him, she thinks she’d be freaking out far more than he is. Instead, he’s just… methodical.

“You’re… very calm about this. I feel like, I don’t know, maybe I expected more pushback. Disbelief, maybe?”

Frank shrugs, “Why would you lie about something like that? Also if you were lying, which I know you’re not because I know my Mel and you’ve never been able to lie without your cheeks going very, very red, I’d like to think it’s inconsequential to play along.” He pauses again, an idea blooming across his face, a wide smile following. “Like Back to the Future.”

Her nose scrunches up, “I don’t think—”

“ —it’s not a perfect one for one, but for the adventure of it all,” he interrupts, eyebrows raising on the word adventure.

“I’m still not sure that fits,” she counters. 

He raises his mug to his lips again, muttering still fucking cool into it before taking a sip. It’s a bit surprising how much of a nerd he is. Maybe that’s why they got along so well that first day. Birds of a feather flocking together.

“So you’re—” his brows knit together. “When are you from?”

“Fourth of July,” she says quietly. “Your first day back.”

“Ah, yeah. Huh, go figure,” Frank hums, seemingly lost in thought. After a moment, he adds, “Before or after the deposition?”

“Oh my god,” Mel groans and drops her face in her hands. “I’m getting sued. And I’m here!”

“Hey, it’s going to be ok.”

From between her fingers, Mel can see him step closer to her, but hesitate, not quite sure if he should close the distance. It’s weird to see someone stop their first instinct so abruptly. When she looks back up at him, a conflicted look is painted across his face.

“So we haven’t…” he trails off, one hand flitting between them in a vague helpless gesture, fingers uncurling like maybe she’s supposed to fill in the rest of the sentence and he isn’t quite sure of how to prompt her. 

Mel isn’t really sure what she is supposed to say, so she doesn’t say anything, just stares back at him with her arms crossed across her chest. She shakes her head after hesitating a moment. 

They haven’t. They haven’t anything. They barely know each other at this point. Or she feels like she knows him, but only because she’s thought about every moment they’ve shared on loop for the past ten months like her own personal highlights reel just to get her out of bed in the morning.

“Right,” he says, clipped. The floor creaks as he shifts his weight from side to side uncomfortably. “Right.”

Now, this is the Langdon she saw twenty minutes ago, before she hit her head and wound up here. Slightly out of his depth in a familiar place. Timid where he was comfortable a second before. The sudden change in his disposition makes her frown, but she’s grateful for a little comfort in this moment.

He runs his hands down his face when the silence stretches a little too long. He cards a hand through his hair, ruffling the strands so that the back one sticks up a little with the motion. Mel wants to reach out and adjust them, but restrains the impulse. 

“So we’re… involved here?” Mel asks after a moment. Hopeful, in a way she tries to tamp down even though she knows the answer already.

Frank laughs, hearty and incredulous. “Involved?” Mel watches him fiddle with his wedding band, smiling down at his hands. His voice shrinks, growing wistful as he adds, “You have no idea.”

It’s hopelessly romantic, Mel thinks, to see him like this. Domestic and in love and lovely and yet she feels stuck in someone else’s story. Like none of this is meant for her.

“You’re right, I don’t.”

“Fuck. I mean.” He seems stilted after that, a pink creeping into his cheeks. “So when I—with the Dr. thing— I— Jesus.”

“Do we,” she stops, shaking her head. Too much. Too embarrassing. Frank's head tips to the side, eyebrows jumping in an expectant expression. 

She drops her voice to a whisper. “Do we really do that?”

“What? Roleplay?” He asks a little too loud. 

She winces then nods, cheeks flaming. The tips of her ears burn.

“Uh, sometimes. Not a lot, which is why I was, uh, excited. Sorry.”

They share an awkward giggle, breathless and unsure. His cheeks also pinken, a nervous hand ruffling his hair then rubbing at the back of his neck. Mel bites her lip, stifling a grin. 

At some point they migrate to the stools on the other side of the counter, facing each other, knees knocking occasionally. This time she doesn’t jump at the contact, but he does, respectful and sheepish as he pivots his legs back into his own space.

It’s actually not hard at all to exist near him. Strange, yes, but not hard. His presence is as comforting as it was that first day, and they easily find conversation between them. Mostly, he asks about her, about her day, about life, not quite revealing more about him or their life to her. Between sips of her tea, which is both overbrewed and too cold, she answers. He’s utterly enthralled by her. She absently wonders if he’s making up for lost time, like he didn’t get to do this the first time around.

If she just lets herself pretend for a moment, letting the rest of the world melt away, forgetting about why exactly she’s here, this is how she wants all her mornings to be. Slow and light and full of conversation. With him by her side.

It feels safe to want that now, she supposes.

Her gaze drifts around the kitchen, shifting slightly at all the reminders of a life she’s yet to live. At this lovely mosaic of all the things she’s never done. Pictures she doesn’t remember, drawings she’s not received, mugs of places she hasn’t been. All of it distinctly her.

She’d never let herself think much about the future; so stuck in survival mode for so long that the next day seemed too far away sometimes, and never, ever did she think about where she’d be. It was always where MelandBecca would be. Together.

The smile on her face falters, she can feel it dropping, can feel Frank staring at her as it happens.

“Shit. Is being here weird?” Frank straightens, looking around the room like he suddenly became aware of his surroundings. “I think it’d be weird for me. We can… go somewhere if you want?”

“That would be nice, thank you,” Mel thinks for a second, what is the world like now? Would she even know where to go? Is there somewhere that won’t bring up this strange feeling of being out of place?

“Molly’s is still on the corner if you’re hungry?”

She breathes a sigh of relief. At least some things stand the test of time. She nods enthusiastically.

“Alright,” he says, patting his thighs in emphasis, moving to the front of the house to grab his keys from a dish next to the front door. He winces in the doorway, looking back over his shoulder at her. “They don’t have the wrap anymore.”

Well, fuck.

—

They sit at her usual table, instead of their usual table, and from the half booth that she thought she adored more than anything, she keeps finding herself transfixed on the dark wood of the table that Frank had automatically drifted to when they stepped into the cozy space.

The matching chairs look far more cushioned, a sweet and worn red plaid on each seat. It’s right beside the window, far from the door, in sight of the rest of the cafe. Where they are now is right under the vent and cold air keeps blowing on her and the seats don’t feel right. The longer she looks at it, the more she’s realizing she does sort of like it better than where she is now, but maybe that’s only because she has another option to consider.

It’s weird. 

There’s no other way to describe the feeling.

Mel is so curious; she wants to know everything about him, about them, about her. How he takes his coffee and where he’s been all this time and will he ever go again. After long days, do they watch a show together? Read? Maybe they do puzzles together and vent about work above the pieces. She discovers that he holds doors open, that he slows his stride to let her dictate the pace, that he tries very hard to stop staring at her — he fails, but it does look like there’s a struggle.

And it’s unfair.

It’s unfair, because Frank already knows how she likes to walk on the sidewalk, and he already knows she would be cold as he wordlessly extends a jacket he’d been carrying, and he already knows exactly what she would order, and she liked it tremendously once she got over the grief for her usual order.

Where she’s figuring things out, he already knows. In getting what she wanted, she missed all the parts that she didn’t know she needed.

“We can talk about it if you’d like,” he tilts his head to the side, finger tracing over the top of the travel lid on his cup.

“About what?”

“About whatever is floating in your brain? If you’re really from—” he clears his throat. “You have things to say to me. This can be like a practice run. I’m less fragile here.” His eyebrows raise and oh, it’s a joke.

And he’s right. There’s a million things she wants to say and wants to ask, but right now there’s only one thing in her head, it’s been the same thought she’s had all day. All year, really. 

“I missed you.”

Relief sinks into his body; she hadn’t even noticed how tense his shoulders had gotten. His expression softens, taken aback that the first thing she has to say is so earnest, but in equal measure, fondness creeps in, as if that’s precisely what he expected. 

“I missed you, too.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” he rubs at the back of his neck and his cheeks pinken slightly. Mel watches it in fascination. “Oh, this is embarrassing to admit a second time. I thought about you a lot when I was gone. Like a lot.”

Oh.

“I thought you’d forget me. I wouldn’t have blamed you if you did,” she shrugs, ending on a small shaky laugh, trying to sound light and earnest. 

(Of course, she didn’t really mean that, though. He made such an impression on her that no matter how insignificant their interactions seemed, she stubbornly hoped that he held onto the idea of her the same way she held onto the idea of him.)

Across the table, his smile falls.

“I don’t think I’ve ever forgotten anything about you, Mel.”

He says it so casually, so earnestly like it’s just a fact of being. She’s Melissa King. He’s Frank Langdon. He’d never forget her; he didn’t even forget that she had a deposition one day eight years ago.

His fingers twitch toward her against the table, once again holding himself back. She frowns, placing her own hand face up next to his in clear offering. A shiver runs through her when he takes it, grinning. It feels natural, like something shifted right into place, and Mel doesn’t really know how to reconcile finding her missing piece in the most unconventional of ways.

“You were the bright spot in a very dark day. In a lot of them, actually.” His voice is careful and earnest, his eyes never leaving hers as he speaks. “The best thing that ever happened to me.”

There’s something so stripped, so bare about the confession that allows it to settle so resolutely. Just as much as she means something to him now, she meant something to him then, and many, many days in between. Mel wasn’t just some phantom force that drifted in and out of life without leaving its mark; at least, not when it comes to Frank. Meeting each other redirected the entire course of both their lives. 

She means something to him, even if it’s not the same thing that his Mel means to him, she means something — changed something. That alone makes her sit up straighter.

“I think you’re going to be my bright spot, too,” she admits softly. 

Frank squeezes her hand twice, a secret sign she doesn’t really need to know to understand what it means. I got you. I love you. Her stomach flips and flutters and twists. The moment is sweet, but brief, broken by Frank leaning back abruptly, arms crossing over each other. 

While they finish their meal, she really does wonder how they do anything with how much they talk. Each time she tries to take a bite, he says something else that makes her want to keep talking. To ask another question or tell a different story, and it feels so nice to just talk to someone again. It’s easy. Never a lull, never a lapse. She thinks about all the times she’s stumbled through conversation in the past year, even in the past decade of her life, and compared them all to this moment, relief and frustration sinking into her bones in equal measure. Even after their plates are cleared and their drinks are nothing more than melting ice and sweating cups, they still continue, laughing and sharing until their cheeks hurt from smiling so much. 

“So,” Mel eventually says, finally over some of her nerves. “Can I ask you about things then? My Frank things?”

He chuckles and the motion jostles another strand of hair onto his face. “Still the same guy. Fire away.”

“You were gone,” she starts. “Where? Why? I thought— well, I thought I’d never see you again.”

Something indiscernible crosses his face, an expression with too much in it for her to really know what it means or why he’s making it. 

“I was in rehab. For an addiction to benzos.”

“Oh,” Mel says, abrupt and soft. It’s not a complete shock, just odd to finally get closure.

He lets out a laugh at her reaction, eyes crinkling at the corners, “God, it’s the exact same. Fuck.” Mel’s head tilts in a guileless motion, not quite sure what he means. Thankfully, he doesn’t leave her hanging, “That’s what you did the first time, too. Like spot on.”

“I’m sorry?” 

“No, no, don’t apologize, it’s… nice. I think. I wasn’t,” he lets out a deep sigh, contemplative as if he’s put himself back somewhere. “I wasn’t completely honest at first. Not to everyone, not to you, and certainly not to myself. It took me a long time to actually come to terms with certain things and it wasn’t easy to put everything into words and — at least early on — it felt like just going through the motions. But I got there in time, you know, the switch flipped or whatever, I got out of my head. So, I guess, a do over is sort of nice.”

Every bit of this moment is one she wants to savor. To tuck away close to her heart, in the back of her brain, right next to her lungs so that with each inhale she can be reminded that this is happening for the first time for both of them at the same time. This is novel. 

Mel nods, chewing the inside of her cheek. “What changed?”

“You.”

“Oh,” she whispers again, not sure what else to say. Embarrassment creeps up her neck, surely leaving a strange crimson patchwork in its wake. Another wry laugh rattles through him.

“I think it was having someone in my corner, who wasn’t bullshitting me or hating me or—or something else,” he smiles. “You were just Mel. Right from that very first day.”

“I’m glad I was there for you,” she trails off, stuck thinking about how alone he sounded. Early recovery isn’t easy, a process made much more difficult in unsupportive relationships. All she wants is to have been there sooner, to not leave him by himself for so long. Mel’s good at being alone now, but she wishes— 

Her brow furrows, lips turning downwards as she continues to think. “And your wife didn’t…”

“Ex-wife,” he corrects quickly. “Well I guess maybe not right then, but on the way. But no, uh, not really.”

“And then when did we—”

“Ah,” he cuts her off. His lips curl upward, settling crooked in a smirk that made Mel want to ask what over and over again. There’s no cruelty in it, just joy. Boyish, she thinks, like he’s younger somehow. “Now that, I can’t tell you.”

“Why not?” That feels more petulant than she wants it to, but why would he walk so far just to stop here? She wants to know.

“Like the laws of time travel or whatever! You’re not supposed to find out too much about the future, otherwise it’ll change or something like that.”

“Frank,” Mel groans.

He ignores her, barreling forward. “It’s like if you go back—”

“ —When.” 

“What?”

“You said if. If I go back. It’s when,” she says forcefully. Probably louder than she intended. “When I go back. I am going back.”

“Sorry. When you go back, you’ll already be spoiled on what happens.”

“This isn’t a movie, Frank,” Mel chides, sinking lower into her chair. It’s not a movie. At least she doesn’t think so, but it’s all ridiculous. Why should she abide by some nebulous rule that got her here in the first place?

“Isn’t it?” He asks; she’s already annoyed enough that the twinkle in his eye almost doesn’t affect her. (Almost). “I don’t know Mel, you’re here aren’t you? That’s not normal to begin with, it might not be a movie but it’s pretty fucking weird, and I don’t know what exactly to do, so.”

“Well, I don’t know either.” She punctuates the statement by crossing her arms firmly across her chest. Hair falls into her face and she does her best to blow it back into place, but fails, needing to reach back up and tuck it behind her ear. 

The tension between them only lasts a second, both making eye contact and dissolving into a fit of giggles. Even now, Mel can’t imagine a world where she stays mad at him. Disagrees with him, most definitely — probably frequently — but never staying upset. An apologetic smile grows on her face.

Mel stretches her hand out again and when Frank takes it, she squeezes twice. For a moment, he just stares at their connected hands, then shakes his head and says, “Alright then, Doctor, what do you want to get up to today?”

—

The minute they’re out of the cafe, back out in the warm light on the sidewalk, Mel feels an overwhelming need to turn left and start walking. There’s a used bookstore three blocks from Molly’s; one with a bell when you walk through the door that smells of old paper and dust. It’s no surprise that’s where they end up. 

It’s comforting to be surrounded by old things. There’s no reminders of the time she’s missed, very minimal new releases, even then they’re all clustered in the front of the shop. For now, it’s just a corner of her own world with Frank there. Another moment she can close her eyes and pretend is normal.

The name on the marquee out front is different, a vibrant blue rather than the peeling maroon it’s painted in Mel’s own time, but other than that it’s still standing and still a bookstore. Everything is even relatively the same as she remembers it. There’s a small closet of historical fiction tucked in the back, and a smaller section of medical books that are mostly donated from former Pitt students and faculty, and there’s several milk crates of records. 

It reminds her of walking around Carytown on the weekends with Becca whenever she got a decent enough break in med school, one that was long enough so that she didn’t quite feel like she was drowning. They’d look in all the windows and be surrounded by that thrifted clothing earthy smell, the one that made them think of their dad’s old flannels. Taking turns, they’d pick ironic shirts or overly flamboyant pieces up and show the other, giggling at how silly it was, imagining a version of themselves that would wear a hot pink fur coat or a fringed leather jacket, before quietly putting it back on the rack.

They work through the store thoroughly, exploring with no particular urgency or purpose.

There’s a hesitation at first, but Frank’s content to let her steer— both their walking and the conversation. He’s very good at letting her lead without making it seem like she’s leading. He lags behind just a half-step to let her turn them wherever she wants, always asks follow up questions to draw more out of her. (The only exception is when he really gets going on something, but in that case, Mel’s more than content to listen.)

It’s a special kind of attentiveness she’s utterly unfamiliar with being on the receiving end of. A way of thinking that can only come about from being completely in tune with another person. And Mel knows it’s because they’ve been familiar with each other for a long time here, but it does feel like he’s reading her mind. 

Once they’re out of the cashier’s earshot, or rather, deep enough into the store that Mel feels less awkward having a conversation at full volume, she probes. He’s leaning against the bookshelf next to her, head braced against the wall, with no pretenses of browsing any books.

“So, I can’t ask you about us or life-altering details or world events,” she recounts the surprisingly long list of don’t’s from their walk over from the cafe. He sure does know a lot about the laws of spacetime, or at least watches a lot of movies about it. Ones where the stakes are much more dire than the ones Mel watches with Becca. It’s actually astonishing how much thought he’s put into this very strange hypothetical. Charming. He nods along, fixing his hair, and as she stares at the glint of gold from between those strands, she mumbles to herself, “Although I think a couple are already out of the bag.” She pauses. “But can I ask you about me?”

Frank shifts, lifting his head in more attention now. “Well, I guess it depends on what you ask. You’re pretty clever.”

Mel preens at the compliment. “Thank you,” she nods primly, tapping a book she’d been looking at back into place.

“The cleverest.”

She has to turn to hide her blush. “I wasn’t going to be tricky or anything — just, I’m happy right?” 

“Yeah, you are.” From where they’re tucked into his arms, his hands flex, tendons shifting and stretching under the skin. 

That’s all that matters right? That she’s happy and content and fulfilled in life. 

“Really happy?”

“Yes, baby, very happy,” he says, impossibly fond, in that very specific way couples reassure each other of things. Realizing what he said, he straightens, cheeks brightening immediately, “Fuck I— shit I’m sorry.”

A garbled acknowledgement scratches out of her throat, something resembling a frankensteined version of it’s fine and all good coming out before she turns deeper into the store. 

It’s natural! She shouldn’t feel so awkward with the endearment, but it feels stolen somehow. Like she’d taken a look at a pretty shade of nail polish in the store, slipped it into her pocket, but forgot to take it out when she got to the checkout. Something she wouldn’t be able to wear without thinking about how it shouldn’t really be hers.

He follows, hovering just out of her orbit, parking himself nearby as she moves about the space. Occasionally, she’ll show him a pretty cover or ask if he’d read something to which he always responds. Tension still sits heavy, loosening with each second, but stilting their conversation nonetheless.

For how very easy it is to be around Frank, it’s so very hard. Maybe it’s just new — she has to remind herself this is still technically the second time she’s ever met him, talked with him, and it’s the first time they’ve been outside of the hospital together.

But here, there’s this invisible rope connecting them, and she can’t help but feel like it’s slipping through her fingers every time. She wants to grab it and hold on, feet planted firmly on the ground, and make everything stay. For just long enough to figure out.

“That’s a good one,” he eventually comments, breaking her from her thoughts. Still in a daze, she hums in question. A sheepish smile curls up on his face as he points to the cover she’s holding. Oh, right. Returning his soft smile, she tucks it under her arm for no reason in particular and moves deeper into the store, seeking out the records.

She likes to be methodical. Likes to see every single option, prefers it to skimming. If it were up to her, she’d spend hours in places like this. Usually, she can’t do that — Becca gets too impatient, or they only have a few hours to run their errands. Right now though, she takes her time, feeling no particular rush from her shopping partner.

Her fingers diligently work through the FOLK bin, cover after cover flipping past, but she can feel Frank’s eyes boring into her skull from a few feet away. He does that quite a bit.

“You’re staring again,” she muses, not looking at him, cheeks still firmly pink from his previous endearment.

He clears his throat. His ears are probably bright red right now, she thinks, a quick glance up confirms her suspicions. She’s not known him as long as he’s known her, but she’s picked up a few things in the past few hours. The playing field is evening out — well, as much as it can.

“Can you blame a guy?” He mumbles under his breath, flirtier than she expected, and she sees him wince after he says it. 

Her fingers pause, stuck for a moment. “I’m sorry. This must be really weird for you, too.”

“Mel, it’s ok,” he pulls a record from the crate, turning it toward her. The sleeve is covered in flowers, all pretty and colorful, a drippy, bubbly font splashed across it, and she hums in approval. He looks pleased with his attempt to cheer her up. Sliding the album back into place, he adds, “You do know I’m friends with my Mel, too.”

And she tries very hard to ignore the warm feeling spreading in her stomach and through her limbs when he says my Mel. MyMelmyMelmyMel. Like a soft heartbeat. The worst thing is she knows she’s not his Mel, can’t be his; she’s the other Mel, the interloper. But when he says it like that, she can almost ignore the reality of it all and just be his Mel.

That means that at some point in the time between now and then, there’s a moment that something changes. Where she becomes something else, someone’s. His.

Outside of the fluttering feeling in her stomach, something still feels… off. For a minute, she studies him, trying to puzzle out exactly what is throwing her off kilter. The seconds slide by as her eyes rove over his face, watching every muscle twitch, each blink. Like they could telegraph a message she was missing. Slowly, and maybe mortifyingly, she realizes it’s because he said friends. Mel doesn’t have many of those. Coworkers, yes; acquaintances, sure; Becca, absolutely, but not friends. In the end, it’s friends that wraps around her heart and squeezes, constricting just a touch too far for comfort. It’s friends that pricks at the corner of her eyes, tears welling up for the first time today.

Maybe it’s the way his eyebrows raise, maybe it’s the way he sees right through her, maybe it’s everything coming down on her all at once, but one singular tear escapes, running down the length of her face. The only reason she even notices it is because of the way his eyes track the movement down her cheek.

“I’ve only ever had one best friend.”

It feels like a lame admission. Embarrassingly small once she says it, a confession she should’ve kept tucked away instead of placing it, trembling, in his hands. But she also trusts him with her very being, so. 

“I know,” he replies, voice low and quiet and devastatingly sincere. Because of course he knows.

She sniffles, the tiniest of laughs escaping, “That’s not fair. You can’t keep doing that.”

His arms are already outstretched for a hug, and she’s already stepping into the space that’s carved out for her. Pressed against his chest, she swears she feels the smallest pressure at the crown of her head, but it’s gone just as fast as it’s there.

“Come on, we’re not even to the best part yet,” he says, pulling back.

Mel lets him pull her to the back of the store, into the small closet she cherishes so. Her smile is so wide, she’s sure he can hear it when she asks, “There’s a best part?”

He spins around, a sparkle in his eye, a bounce in his step, and suddenly, she’s back on the floor of the emergency department on her first day, helpless to follow after him. 

“There’s always a best part,” he answers. 

For a moment, she stands frozen in the doorway, watching as he scans the shelves swiftly, clearly looking for something in particular. Almost as quickly, he finds what he’s searching for, a singular paperback tucked behind a row of books on a higher shelf. Something that wouldn’t easily be found unless you knew to look for it.

After waving it around excitedly, he finally holds the cover still enough for Mel to process what she’s looking at. 

It’s small, fitting right in the palm of his hand, like the old bodice rippers she used to borrow from her college roommate and read under the covers when she was gone. Unlike so many of those romance books, though, on this cover, there’s a man and woman standing shoulder to shoulder, instead of braced against each other. The woman has an apron, her blonde hair billowing in the wind; the man sporting a tricorner hat, an equally billowy pirate shirt tucked underneath a blue vest. The book is yellowed and cracked from years of use, but Mel knows what he’s trying to say. 

It’s them, the two characters resemble them. Mel isn’t quite that blonde and the hat obscures too much of the man’s face to tell if he has the same blue eyes, and his white shirt doesn’t expose nearly enough chest hair for it to be Frank, but generally, it’s them. Clearly, this has been a silly bit for them before, having hidden the book away from the general public so they can readily find it. She likes that they have inside jokes just the two of them.

She doesn’t say anything, her lip tucked snugly between her teeth, watching his expectant face as he shakes the book once again. He looks like he’s trying to coax a response out of her.

“Notice anything?”

Frank strikes a pose not unlike the protagonist on the cover, puffing out his chest in the same heroic manner, and it’s all too silly. Her bitten lip contains most of her giggle, but not all. 

“Hmm, can’t say I do,” she teases, knowing that the blush on her cheeks is betraying her.

The book is now right next to his face. She couldn’t miss the similarity if she had her glasses off. By all means, a farce of a joke. “Really? Nothing?”

Mel squints her eyes at him, willing her expression into one of discovery as she says, “Oh, is it that she has glasses?”

His arms drop to his sides, the book thumping against his leg. “C’mon, Mel.”

A finger comes up to her mouth and she nibbles on the end of it. Her cheeks burn, but she steels herself, continuing on. “It’s me, right? With the skirt and the hair, that’s me, right?”

“No, Mel—” 

She decides to put him out of his misery.

“It’s us, Frank.”

“It is us!” The smile that splits his face is absolutely worth the teasing. “It’s our ren faire costumes!” 

She feels her smile falter. Oh. 

“We—” she clears her throat nervously. “We do that? Together?”

“Oh yeah. It’s like your thing. Totally in your element. You convinced me to go with you,” he admits. “And the rest is history.” He punctuates the pun with a wink. What a dork.

She has things. Things that make her special and that she’s in her element for. And not only does she have things that are notably hers, but she shares them. Shares those things with him.

“Is that what I do in my spare time?” 

Frank pauses, lips drawn into a tight line, clearly determining if this is worth skirting around. A small crease appears between his eyebrows.

“Mhm,” he finally responds. “At some point, you got back into sewing, there’s a little studio upstairs at home. You remade your skirt a couple summers ago. Most of my stuff is just hodge-podged together, but you help me out where you can. There’s this handkerchief you embroidered with all these little flowers on it that sometimes you wear and sometimes I wear, but it’s so absolutely stunning. I’m telling you needlework and sutures are transferable skills.”

Mel collects each detail and tucks each of them away, all these little pieces of herself breadcrumbed through time that still lead to the person she is today — that still lead to the person she was before she got so busy that she couldn’t do anything but work and care for Becca. Because she is still Mel no matter where in time she is. 

There’s a boundary she knows he’s pushing, but he just seems so excited to talk — brag — about her, that he’s completely forgotten the rules that he’s set for himself.

“And you do a character too? Or are you just Frank?” She asks delicately.

“Oh my god. So, this one time,” he excitedly swallows as he continues, “these reenactors from Fort Pitt — you know Fort Pitt right?” She nods. “Well, they came in on the Fourth of July and oh my god I was so stoked to talk to them.” Her Fourth of July? “And then a few weeks later, we were talking about historical dress and then your renaissance woman came up and I asked if I could join and we totally got into it about how incompatible a sixteenth century French woman and a Revolutionary soldier would be—”

“ —Well, they are. I mean, geographically speaking, and that’s not even taking into account the time differential, not to mention shortened life expectancies,” she cuts in.

“No exactly, that’s it, but then we started scaling it back, because obviously you were keeping yours, like hands down, and really I was content with just keeping the hat, so the pirate was born.” He finishes with a huff.

She smiles, fond and happy. “Oh, I really like that, we did a good job with that.”

“We did, didn’t we?”

After a minute of comfortable silence, Frank’s face lights up. His lips curl and his eyes crinkle and if it were possible Mel would see a light bulb appear above his head with the thought that just crossed his face. Quickly, he slots their book back into its hiding place, ready for their next return, and he turns back to her with unadulterated excitement.

“I’ve got something else to show you.”

—

Mel finds herself under a trellis of climbing vines in a garden that she thinks she wants to die in.

Pinks and reds and purples and greens crowd the room, crawling across the ground and up the glass panes that line the walls, the soft setting sun painting the sky in matching shades. Winding paths weave through the garden, grey stone slabs neatly laid out on the peripheries of the hall, and arches stretch up over the walkways. A large pond sits in the middle, small fish swimming and swimming in the lily-speckled water. The air feels dense in a way only nature can make it.

In the car here, Frank had been nervous. Hands frantic with unplaced energy, drumming on the wheel, the console, on his thigh, and he kept glancing at her, silently checking in on her. All day he’s been her rock, a solid presence whenever her anxiety bubbled up, so this attitude change was jarring. 

She didn’t quite know what to expect with his mysterious big finale for the day, but standing in this massive conservatory, surrounded by fragrance and color and life, Mel thinks he had absolutely nothing to be nervous about.

Even still, he’s more contemplative here than anywhere else they’ve been today. He moves slowly, taking in every detail of the space, lingering in strange places, like he’s reliving some kind of memory, seeing ghosts in hallways. 

Mel wants to ask about it, but she also knows whatever she asks would be rebuffed. It seems far too important to even get small details from, but even that tells her this place means something.

Once she takes in the scene, once her eyes have landed on each leaf she can see, and her feet unglue themselves from that spot, they walk around the pond, silent and admiring, hands occasionally brushing in the space between them. Every time their pinkies touch, a zap of electricity shoots up her arm. A shock to her system that leaves a pleasant buzzing in its wake, and she just wants to do it again and again and again. Each time it happens she wonders when he’ll cross his arms, or clasp his hands behind his back, firmly putting distance between them. Neither widen the gap, though, consciously choosing to stay close, but not yet committing to crossing the invisible line between them.

They’re hurtling toward a point of no return. She can feel it in the air.

This is a date. 

This whole day has been a very long date, she thinks, but with absolute certainty, this moment is a date. To be surrounded by such beauty, to have Frank be so nervous that she’s having a good time, the butterflies in her stomach. This is less lively than their other outings, and feels far more private. Feels much more like them. It’s all very endearing.

Mel is only reminded of the depth of her feelings for him, and while she might not be able to name exactly what they are, she knows they are vast. 

He leads her through the garden, and in her periphery, she can see that his gaze is solely trained on her, only straying when she points out a particularly beautiful cluster of flowers or perfect shade of purple somewhere. 

Eventually, they find a secluded bench to sit down and observe.

By now, the sky’s fuchsia hues have softened, giving way to twilight. One of Frank’s arms slings over the back of the bench, his fingers brushing her shoulder every time she inhales. For the first time today, she leans into him fully, ignoring the rapid beating of her heart and his sudden intake of air when her head makes contact with his shoulder. 

For some reason, she thought there would be some big revelation with the moment, like fireworks would go off, or confetti would rain down on them, or some big blooming warmth would overtake her body when she finally gave into this feeling between them, but instead she just feels at home. Pleasant and comfortable and natural and exact where she’s meant to be. 

Maybe that’s just what it feels like when you find your person. 

She tilts her head up to look at him, and he’s already looking down at her. All day, she’s been trying to figure out his facial expressions, trying to solve this complicated puzzle and think about each crease and crevice on his face and what they mean. Right now, uncertainty clouds contentment, a silent are you sure? spelled right across his features. Her chin dips in affirmation; she’s probably never been surer of something in her life. She smiles up at him, savoring the way his apprehension melts away.

A tender moment passes. Frank’s hand slides down around her shoulders properly, hugging her close. They both stare up at the glass ceiling, watching night set in over them. 

It’s Mel who breaks the silence.

“You know, when Becca and I first moved to Pittsburgh, before I started at the VA, before she went to Middle Hill, we woke up really early one morning and drove out into the country, and we watched a sunrise together. Like, as a new-beginnings thing.” She shifts, bringing her hand up and letting her fingers dance with his. “When we were little, our parents would pack us in the car the week before school and drive up to an overlook on Skyline Drive to watch the sunrise for good luck. It was always so beautiful, and I think both of us wanted something like that now that we moved so far away. The sunrise was really pretty, but I don’t know, I think something was missing.” A noise of affirmation vibrates in his chest. “The sky hasn’t felt like home here until today.”

Seconds slip by, only the thumpthumpthump of his heart pounding in her ears. Then, quiet and barely above a whisper: “I didn’t know that.” 

His fingers interlace with hers. Two squeezes. I got you. I love you. And Mel returns it. Nothing else in the world matters, just them in this moment. There’s no her time, his time, just them together in this second, moving forward.

Perhaps, it is just easier to fall when everything has already worked out, when there’s a reassurance that there is something beautiful on the other side, but she wonders if it’s like that for him too, just in reverse. If seeing the novelty of it all again reminds him of something, if it makes him fall harder, faster, even all this time later. 

How beautiful is it to learn new things about the people you love?

More than beautiful, it’s hopeful. This point in time isn’t the end for Mel. There’s another day and another thing to learn and more things to want. Just because she now has a precious moment to look forward to, there’s so many between now and then. And there’s so many after now.

What a wonderful thing to look forward to.

—

Lights melt past the car window in smears of yellow and red and green. In her lap, Mel’s glasses sit folded so she can lean her temple against the glass comfortably. The vibrations of the car shake her body, jostling her head, but she couldn’t be more content.

On the center console, their fingers tangle, Frank’s thumb moving across her skin in gentle soothing motions. Each brush of skin lulls her deeper into a sleepy state, and she fights to keep her eyes open, finding them fluttering every so often. 

Comfortable silence fills the cabin, only broken by the drifting instrumentals of whatever is playing on the radio. It’s perfect. Relaxing and calm and comfortable. She feels cared for, loved. 

If she were to get stuck here forever, she thinks it wouldn’t be too bad.

She ends up drifting off in the passenger seat. Frank gently shakes her awake, standing in the open passenger side door, haloed in their porch light like her own guardian angel. It’s weird to think that at the start of this day — the real start of this day — she didn’t know that she’d even see Frank again, and now, here she is, in the driveway of their home, his hand brushing her hair softly out of her face.

“Morning,” she mumbles, trying to stretch out the sleepiness. A small laugh huffs out of Frank and she savors it.

He coaxes her out the seat and up the driveway and through the front door. With every step forward, her sleepiness fades, sobering again to being in their shared home. After the lock slides into place, they keep lingering, both unsure of what to do and nervous to take the next step. Delaying the inevitable, sharing just another moment together before going to sleep.

Something shifted between them in the garden, but what, Mel still can’t name. Maybe shifted isn’t the right word, but growing — something’s growing between them, something that Mel previously thought was only reserved for daydreams and fantasy. 

But then again, something’s growing in Mel, too. Desires she kept dormant, wants she’s tucked away for too long, not just for him, but for herself. Because of course, she wants to hold his hand when they walk somewhere, and watch stupid movies together and talk the whole time, and she wants to kiss him (a lot), but she also wants to rearrange the books on her shelves, and get new ones to read when she has days off. She wants to start taking photographs, and spend hours hunched over her laptop figuring out which ones she should print, which ones should be black and white. She wants to move the couch, just to frown at the new placement and move it right back, and she wants to collapse back onto it with him, winded and giggling.

When was the last time she had so many thoughts about what she wants? Any thoughts about what she wants? It feels like everything is a need to or a have to, never a want to. That’s changed now, too.

There’s some shuffling about as they head upstairs to their room, where this bizarre scenario all began. Blood is pounding in her ears, nervous about more proximity, or perhaps worried about Frank walking back over the line they drew and then jumped over. She’d never want to push, can’t let her desire to be close to him, ruin all this.

Pausing in the doorway of the bedroom, Mel gives him an out. 

“I can sleep in the guest room if you’d like,” Mel offers.

Frank pauses for a moment, looking up from where he was rooting around in the dresser. When he does answer, it’s careful, like he picked the most diplomatic way to say fuck no.  “If that’s what would make you comfortable, we can do that. Or I can sleep there. But if you’re really asking me what I want, I want to sleep next to you.” He pauses again. “I don’t think I can do it without you.”

Relief sinks into her. Their wants are compatible, of course they are. 

“I don’t really want to go,” she finally says, barely above a whisper. How he hears her across the bed, she doesn’t know, but his expression instantly softens.

(She doesn’t know if she means from the room, or from this life.)

(She’s not sure there’s a difference.)

He nods, in stuttering motion, then peels back the covers pointedly. “Then yeah, ok. Ok.”

Frank lets her use the bathroom to get ready first, handing her soft pajamas and settling on the edge of the bed until she comes back out. A dopey smile spreads on his face when she reemerges, and when he slips past her, he drops a small kiss to her temple. She thinks about it as he ducks in to get ready himself, and she finds herself waiting until he returns to do anything else, her fingers lightly brushing the skin where his lips just were.

They each crawl into bed, still keeping to the edge, a massive ocean of sheets and space between them. Mel folds her glasses, placing them carefully on the nightstand, and Frank leans over to flick the light off. 

For as tired as she was moments ago, she lays there, still, staring up at the ceiling, unable to fall asleep. Next to her, she hears Frank readjust.

“What if I wake up tomorrow and I’m still here?” She asks quietly into the dark.

More shuffling, like he’s turning on his side. “Well, then we’ll figure it out.” She also turns to face him, eyes adjusting to the darkness to make him out. “You’re pretty clever.”

“The cleverest,” she whispers. His laughter shakes the bed.

“I feel bad, I feel like maybe I should’ve told you lottery numbers or something.”

It’s her turn to laugh. “I don’t think those are that important to me. Not if we end up here without it.” She blushes as she says it, and in the dark, she hopes he can’t see it. His hand cups her cheek, thumb soothing over the rounded skin, and she knows she can’t hide from him, not like that, maybe not ever. It reminds her of that first day they met, him seeing right through her and telling her to take a break; it reminds her of this morning when he could tell something was off immediately. Being that vulnerable will be an adjustment, she thinks, but it’s reassuring to know it never stops.

“You’re right. Just be you, sweetheart,” he says fondly. “We got here once, I don’t think it’ll be too hard to come back.”

She hums, letting herself believe that. They will. She will.

“Just,” Frank gestures to the back of her head and she nods along, following his logic. “Let me take care of you. You know when you wake up, I’ve got a uh— couple things to say to you.”

His hand retreats from her head, falling lamely onto the pillow. The space between them feels too wide, after today she wants to close it. 

“You can—” she screws her eyes closed, breath shallow in the dark. “You can hold me. I think I’d like that.”

He doesn’t respond right away, but she feels him shift closer on the mattress. He moves closer in stages, unhurried, giving her every possible out without hesitating. It’s careful, but not unfamiliar, and impossibly tender. 

Mel knows he’s being very careful right now with his hands, his eyes, his breathing, all tempered and still, waiting for her next move. Eventually, his arm comes around her, solid and warm and gentle. His fingers sprawl out on her back. The warmth of him is comforting, his breathing steady, his chest rising and falling beneath her head.

She’s never been good at goodbyes, and this certainly feels like one. Her stomach churns at the thought of leaving, but she aches for all the time that she missed. She tilts her head up to look at him in the dark. Trying to take him in like this, in case it’s the last time she ever can. Just like in the garden, his eyes are already trained on her. This time, though, there’s no hesitation in his gaze.

Slowly, she takes in every detail of him, careful and methodical as she catalogues every part of his face in the dark. She commits it to memory so she can always come back to this moment and recall the exact slant of his lips, the exact shade of blue of his eyes, how his hair falls against his forehead when he lays down. He just lets her, equally as attentive to her.

It’s the perfect moment to kiss him, she thinks. The crescendo to a day of crawling closer and closer and closer. The thing to send her off with. She lets her eyes linger on his mouth, then flit back up to his eyes, but just as she leans in, he stops her. Instead, he presses his lips to her forehead, whispering, “Let it be him.” He pulls her against him, hushing the noise of protest she makes.

Disappointed, she nestles right under his chin so that her hand fists in his shirt and her ear rests against his chest. Her leg slots between his naturally. They really do fit together like puzzle pieces.

The sound of his heartbeat is the last thing she hears as sleep takes her.

—

The waking up is similar to the falling asleep — just reversed. 

The softness goes first. The bed, the warmth, the feeling of Frank pressed against her, his heart thumping beneath her, they all give way to the hard ground. Sound fades in around her, footsteps approach, the ringing in her ears returns. Her head throbs; an incessant reminder of the start of this all, coming painfully back. Fluorescent light burns through her closed eyelids and she groans at the brightness, turning her head slightly to get away from its intensity.

And suddenly, Dana’s above her, a hand already extended to cradle her aching skull, and Mel’s back in her time. Her real time.

“You alright kid?”

Mel blinks, disoriented and dizzy, and the ceiling resolves into the familiar grid of the emergency department. Everything feels fuzzy, dreamy almost. 

“That was a doozy.”

Dana helps her up, gently guiding her to an open chair, where Perlah waits with an ice pack, ready. Mel takes it gratefully, pressing the cold against the head as Perlah’s other hand settles on her shoulder. Perlah’s comforting hand soothes her and Mel leans into the pressure.

Mel pulls off her glasses, blinking through the blur, letting Dana gently look over her eyes and face. The haziness is nice momentarily, if a bit embarrassing to be sat at the nurses station.

When she slips her glasses back over the bridge of her nose, the first thing that comes into focus is Frank — Dr. Langdon — rushing over to her, fluorescent light shining behind him. 

“What happened here?” He asks, a little breathless as he braces against the counter. Mel watches him for a second, distracted as Dana explains what happened. His eyebrows are drawn together like they do when he’s thinking really hard. When he notices her staring, he flashes a charming, reassuring smile. 

And she thinks, it’s all going to be ok.