Work Text:
The question comes sometime after 11, late enough that the house has finally gone still but not so late that either of them has admitted they should be asleep.
Frank's stretched out on one end of the couch with his feet resting on the coffee table, his glasses low on his nose as he scrolls through something on his phone that he hasn't actually absorbed for the last 10 minutes. Mel sits sideways at the other end with her legs folded beneath her, wearing one of his old sweatshirts and a pair of leggings, her hair pulled loosely away from her face. There's a half finished glass of wine on the table near her elbow, forgotten long enough that Frank knows she isn't really drinking it anymore.
Upstairs, Penny and Tanner have been asleep for more than an hour.
At least, Frank assumes Tanner's asleep. At 11, Tanner has developed the irritating ability to remain awake in complete silence while somehow convincing the rest of the household that he's gone to bed. Penny's easier to clock sort of speak, because Penny falls asleep like someone's unplugged her. One minute she's asking questions about whether penguins have knees, and the next she's sideways across the mattress with half her blanket on the floor.
Tonight had been ordinary in every possible way.
Dinner had been chicken, roasted potatoes, and green beans in which Penny had complained about until Mel pointed out that she'd already eaten 7 of them while explaining why she didn't like them. Tanner had needed help with a history assignment. Penny had spent 40 minutes attempting to teach Frank a hand clapping game from school before finally declaring him “rhythm-ic-ally disappointing.”
Mel had laughed so hard she'd nearly dropped her water.
Afterward there'd been dishes, showers, 2 separate negotiations about bedtime, and a brief crisis involving a missing stuffed penguin that was eventually found beneath the dining table even though Penny insisted she hadn't taken it downstairs.
Nothing had happened, and that's probably why the question feels so large when Mel asks it.
She's watching tv without really watching it, some documentary playing low enough that the narrator’s voice has become part of the quiet. Frank's still looking at his phone when she says, almost absently, “Have you ever thought about having another kid?”
His thumb stops moving.
For several seconds, nothing else happens.
Mel realizes the weight of what she's said almost immediately. Frank sees it from the corner of his eye, the subtle way her posture changes, the way her fingers tighten around the cuff of the sweatshirt covering part of her hand.
He lowers his phone slowly. “What?”
She looks at him. “I said, have you ever thought about having another kid?”
“I heard you.”
“Oh you did? Oh, okay.”
He waits and so does she.
Frank sets the phone facedown on his thigh. “That's a pretty big question for 11:15 on a Thursday.”
Mel gives a faint smile. “I didn't check the approved time window.”
“There should be one.”
“What is it?”
“I don't know. Maybe Saturday afternoon. Full daylight. Snacks available.”
“There's snacks. I think you left half a bag of Cracker Jacks there.”
“No," he says slowly, "I finished those, need to get more but that isn't the point.”
“I know.”
He looks at her for a long moment.
The thing is that Mel's trying to make the question sound casual and if she's honest with herself, she'd doing a decent job too. To someone who doesn't know her, it might even work. Her voice is even, her expression's mild and she hasn't moved closer or farther away.
Frank knows her too well now.
He knows the difference between casual Mel and careful Mel. This, he can't help but deduce, is the careful version of her.
He takes off his glasses and sets them on the coffee table. “Where'd that come from?”
She looks back toward the television. “Nowhere.”
He says nothing.
Her mouth twitches. “Don't do that.”
“Do what?”
“The silence.”
“I'm just sitting here.”
“It feels like you're interrogating me quietly.”
“You asked me if I want another child.”
“I asked if you've ever thought about it.”
“There's a distinction?”
“Yes.”
“What's the distinction?”
“One sounds theoretical.”
“And the other?”
She looks at him again. “Doesn't.”
Frank feels something shift low in his chest. For a moment he hears the refrigerator hum from the kitchen. The documentary continues murmuring about deep sea ecosystems and from somewhere upstairs, the house creaks.
He leans back against the couch. “Yeah.”
Mel’s expression changes slightly. “Yeah?”
“I've thought about it.”
She blinks.
Frank almost laughs, though there's nothing particularly funny about the look on her face. “You look surprised.”
“I don't know what I expected.”
“Apparently not that.”
“I guess not.”
He studies her. “Have you?”
Mel looks down at her hands. There's his answer before she gives it. “Sometimes,” she says.
The word lands softly. Frank leans forward, forearms resting on his knees. “Sometimes as in ... recently?”
She hesitates. “Yeah.”
“How recently?”
“Frank.”
“I'm asking.”
“I know." She exhales, then draws one leg up closer, wrapping an arm around her knee. “I don't know, a while... I guess.”
“A while meaning?”
“Months, maybe.”
He turns fully toward her.
Mel notices. “Don't look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I just told you I've been secretly planning a nursery.”
“I didn't say that.”
“Your eyebrows did.”
“My eyebrows I feel like I can safely say are incredily neutral.”
“Your eyebrows have never been neutral in your life.”
Despite himself, Frank smiles, but the smile fades quickly. “Months?” he repeats.
She nods.
“And you've never said anything.”
“I'm saying something now.”
“Why now?”
Mel glances toward the staircase. Frank follows her gaze automatically, though there's nothing there.
When she speaks again, her voice is quieter. “Tonight.”
He frowns. “Tonight what?”
She rubs her thumb along the cuff of his sweatshirt. “Nothing dramatic of course, but Penny was sitting at the table complaining about green beans, and Tanner was pretending he didn't need help with history until he absolutely needed help with history, and you were trying to answer both of them while burning the chicken.”
“I didn't... burn the chicken.”
“The skin was very committed to the bit.”
“It was crisp.”
“It was... charcoal adjacent.”
He lets out a sigh because he knows that she technically isn't lying. “Continue.”
She smiles faintly, but her eyes remain lowered. “It was just... normal.”
Frank waits.
Mel takes a breath. “And I caught myself thinking about what it would be like if there was another little person there.”
His chest tightens.
She keeps going before he can interrupt, as if stopping would make it harder to begin again. “Not immediately. Not in some fantasy where everything's easy. I just had this picture for a second... A high chair shoved into that corner. Somebody throwing peas on the floor. Penny being offended because the baby likes Tanner better one week and her better the next. Tanner pretending the baby's annoying and then being the first one to check when they cry.”
Frank looks toward the dining room, and in a weird way, he can see it, too. That unsettles him more than anything.
Mel glances up, sees his expression, and immediately starts retreating. “It was just a thought.”
“No.”
She pauses.
“Don't do that,” he says.
“Do what?”
“Be dismissive of your own thoughts simply because I'm quiet.”
Her face softens slightly.
Frank rubs both hands over his face. “I'm quiet because I'm trying not to say something stupid.”
“That's never stopped you before.”
He looks at he and she cant help but give him a small, nervous smile.
That's when he understands that she's nervous too.
Mel, who can argue with surgeons twice her age with definitive reasoning and walk into a trauma bay without blinking, is sitting beside him in his sweatshirt and is nervous.
It changes everything about the conversation. Frank shifts closer, not touching her yet. “Okay.”
“Okay what?”
“Tell me.”
“Tell you what?”
“Whatever you've been thinking.”
She lets out a breath. “That's dangerous.”
“Probably.”
“You might regret asking.”
“I doubt it.”
She studies him for a moment as if deciding whether she believes him, then she looks down again. “I never thought I'd want kids,” she says.
Frank stays still.
She continues slowly. “Not when I was younger at least. I didn't... dislike them. I just never had that thing some people seem to have where they always knew. I didn't picture a wedding or a nursery or a certain number of kids. I pictured work, school, and when I knew that I wanted to be a doctor, I thought about getting through residency. i genuinely thought about being good at what I did. Maybe traveling if I ever had enough time and money at the same time, which apparently is, probably impossible.”
Frank smiles faintly.
“I liked my life,” she says. “I still do. I didn't feel like something was missing.”
He nods.
“And then I met you.”
The smile disappears from his face.
Mel looks embarrassed by the simplicity of the sentence. “That sounded more dramatic than I meant.”
“Leave it.”
She looks at him.
“Leave it dramatic,” he says quietly.
Her expression softens.
She looks toward the stairs again. “And then there was Tanner and Penny.”
Frank feels that one somewhere deeper.
Mel’s voice becomes careful again. “I never wanted them to feel like I was trying to insert myself somewhere I didn't belong. I still worry about that.”
“You belong.”
The answer comes so quickly that she looks back at him.
Frank doesn't hesitate. “You do.”
She swallows.
He continues, “They know you do too.”
“Penny would probably put my name on the mailbox herself if you gave her a label maker.”
“She absolutely would.”
“And Tanner's harder to read.”
“Tanner likes you.”
“I know he likes me.”
“He trusts you.”
That means more.
Mel’s eyes lower again.
Frank watches her carefully. “Did that change things for you?”
She nods. “I think so.”
“How?”
She considers the question for a long time. “I started noticing things I'd never paid attention to before,” she says. “Little things. Parents with babies at the grocery store, a kid asleep on somebody’s chest in the waiting room, tiny shoes and now that I say that out loud it probably sounds ridiculous.”
“It doesn't.”
“It felt ridiculous.”
“Why?”
“Because I'm 30 something years old and apparently being emotionally compromised by tiny sneakers.”
Frank laughs softly.
Mel smiles too, but there's moisture beginning to gather in her eyes now, and she blinks it away quickly. “It wasn't even babies at first,” she continues. “It was watching you with Penny when she gets overwhelmed. Or Tanner when he's trying so hard not to need you. it genuinely did something to me just watching you be their dad.”
Frank goes very still.
She shakes her head slightly. “And then sometimes I would think about what it would be like to see you with a baby.”
“Mel.”
“I know.”
“No, I just...” He looks down at his hands. “That's a lot.”
She immediately pulls back. “We can stop.”
“No.”
“You don't have to answer tonight.”
“No.” He turns toward her again. “We aren't stopping because it's hard.”
She watches him.
Frank takes a breath and lets it out slowly. “Babe, If I could be honest... I've thought about it too,” he says.
“How?”
He leans back and stares at the dark television screen around the documentary image, trying to find somewhere neutral to look while speaking.
“It started after the divorce.”
Mel says nothing.
“I thought about it because I was sure I never wanted to do it again.”
Her eyebrows lift slightly.
Frank gives a short laugh. “Not exactly romantic.”
“No. But honest.”
“Yeah.”
He rubs his hands together. “After Abby and I split, the idea of starting over sounded insane. Diapers again, no sleep, daycare, the whole thing. I had Tanner and Penny. I was already terrified I was screwing them up just by splitting the house in two.”
“You didn't.”
“I know that now more than I did then.”
She stays quiet.
“For a long time, I thought 2 was it,” he says. “Not even because I didn't love being a dad. I love being their dad more than anything. But I thought that chapter was closed.”
“Because of the divorce?”
“Because of me.”
Mel turns toward him more fully.
Frank keeps his eyes ahead and he can't help but pinpoint how the corners of one particular wall don't necessarily match. He lets himself focus on that for a bit before he snaps himself back to the conversation at hand.
“There are parts of my marriage I still don't understand,” he says. “Not in a blame way. Abby and I both had things we could've done differently. We weren't good together by the end, we were tired, angry, resentful and at one point we stopped seeing each other as people and started seeing each other as problems that needed solving.”
Mel’s face tightens slightly.
“I was good at work,” he continues. “I was good at being useful. I came home and thought that should count for more than it did. I thought providing and showing up physically meant I was showing up emotionally too.”
“Frank.”
“I know. I'm not trying to punish myself.”
“Okay.”
“I am telling you because if we're talking about this, then you need to know where my head goes.”
Mel shifts closer without seeming to realize it.
Frank’s voice lowers. “I was scared for a long time that maybe I wasn't built for doing this right.”
“Being married?”
“Being someone’s partner. Being a dad while being someone’s partner. Both at once.”
She looks at him steadily. “You're a good father.”
“I know I love them.”
“That's not what I said.”
His jaw tightens.
Mel doesn't let him look away. “You're a good father.”
Frank swallows.
He isn't sure why that one sentence affects him so much. Maybe, because she says it without hesitation, maybe because she's seen him on bad mornings and exhausted nights, when Penny's crying over something that makes no sense and Tanner's angry but can't explain why. She's seen him frustrated, she's seen him snap and apologize, and of all things she's seen him get it wrong.
She still says it like a fact.
“Thank you,” he says quietly.
She nods.
He looks down again. “Then you came along.”
Mel lets out the smallest breath.
Frank smiles without meaning to. “And everything got complicated.”
“Sorry.”
“You aren't.”
“No.”
“You like complicating my life.”
“Only recreationally.”
He looks at her.
The humor disappears on its own. “I started thinking about it again after the science fair,” he says.
Mel blinks. “Tanner’s?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
He leans back, thinking about that night. Mel at his dining room table, Penny braiding her hair, Tanner listening to her because she didn't make him feel stupid.
“You fit,” he says.
The words come out rougher than he expects.
Mel stills.
“You came into this house and you fit,” he continues. “You didn't try to take over, you didn't act like you were doing me some huge favor, you just sat down and helped my kid build a better hill.”
A laugh escapes her through the emotion. “A better hill.”
“A significantly better hill.”
“It had drainage.”
“It was impressive.”
She smiles.
Frank watches her for a moment. “Then there was the 5K.”
“The one where you nearly died?”
“I didn't nearly die.”
“You made peace with several gods around mile 2.”
“I was reflective, I think I could safely say.”
“You were definitely bargaining.”
He ignores that. “You slowed down.”
Her smile fades.
“I know we talked about it afterward,” he says. “But I kept thinking about what you said.”
Mel’s eyes hold his.
“You said you wouldn't leave me behind because we were in it together.”
She nods faintly.
“That messed with me.”
“Badly?”
“No.” He looks down. “Actually, maybe a little.”
She reaches out then, touching his hand lightly where it rests on his knee. Frank turns his palm over, and their fingers settle together.
He watches their hands.
“I spent a long time thinking love was partly about keeping up,” he says. “Doing enough. Not needing too much. Making sure nobody had to slow down because of me.”
Mel’s thumb moves over his knuckles.
“And then you said it like it was obvious,” he continues. “Like... of course you were staying. Of course we were finishing together, like, you didn't think my pace was a burden.”
“I didn't.”
“Yea, imagine my surprise. Especially when I found out your real pace.” He looks at her. “That's when the idea stopped feeling impossible,” he says.
Her eyes widen slightly. “Another kid?”
“Yeah.”
Neither of them moves for a moment.
The documentary ends and the television begins playing some quiet transitional music. Neither reaches for the remote.
Mel asks, almost hesitantly, “What did you picture?”
Frank laughs softly. “You really want to know?”
“Yes.”
He thinks about it. “You pregnant.”
She inhales sharply.
Frank immediately looks embarrassed. “That sounded weird.”
“No.”
“It sounded clinical and... weird.”
“It didn't.”
“I had a more complete sentence in my head.”
Mel smiles, her eyes suddenly bright.
Frank squeezes her hand. “I pictured you pregnant.”
She looks down, almost shy.
“And I pictured Penny losing her mind.”
“That I can see.”
“She'd tell every person she has ever and would ever meet.”
“She'd tell strangers.”
“She'd tell the cashier at Target.”
“She'd tell the Target itself.”
Frank smiles. “Tanner would pretend he was too old to care.”
“And then?”
“He'd absolutely want to know how big the baby was every week.”
Mel laughs softly.
“He'd Google it,” Frank continues. “Then he would act like he hadn't.”
“He'd probably correct the fruit comparisons.”
“He'd say the app was scientifically inaccurate.”
“That sounds exactly right.”
Frank’s expression softens. “And I pictured you holding them.”
The laughter fades. Mel’s eyes fill enough that this time she can't blink it away entirely.
Frank notices immediately. “Hey.”
“I'm fine.”
“You're crying.”
“I'm not.”
“You are.”
She laughs under her breath and wipes beneath one eye with the heel of her hand. “This is rude.”
“What is?”
“You having thoughts.”
“I apologize.”
“Don't.”
He shifts closer until their knees touch.
Melissa looks at him. “Did you picture a boy or a girl?”
Frank thinks about it. “No.”
“No?”
“No. Just ours.” That does it.
Mel looks away quickly, pressing her lips together.
Frank feels his own throat tighten. He squeezes her hand again. “Come here.”
She moves before he finishes the sentence.
Frank pulls her against him, one arm around her shoulders as she turns into his chest. It isn't dramatic, there's no sobbing. Mel simply presses her face into the front of his shirt and stays there, and Frank rests his cheek against the top of her head.
For a while, neither of them says anything. The house remains quiet around them.
Eventually, Mel speaks against his chest. “There's part of me that's scared I waited too long.”
Frank’s arm tightens.
She continues before he can answer. “I know people have babies later. I know all the statistics and what they actually mean, I know medicine makes everything sound worse when you look at numbers without context.”
“Mel.”
“I'm still scared.”
He shifts slightly so he can see her face.
She doesn't pull away entirely, she stays tucked against him, one hand resting on his chest.
“What are you scared of?” he asks.
She gives him a look. “Do you want the physician answer or the actual answer?”
“The actual one.”
Mel takes a breath. “Not being able to.”
He goes still.
She looks down at her hand against his shirt. “Wanting it and finding out it isn't possible, or that it's harder than I thought, or that I waited until I finally knew I wanted this and my body has other plans.”
Frank listens.
“I'm scared of a miscarriage,” she says quietly. “I'm scared of complications, I'm scared of getting pregnant and then spending 9 months knowing every single thing that can go wrong because I've treated the things that go wrong.”
“Yeah.”
“I'm scared I would be terrible at being a patient.”
“You would.”
She gives him a watery laugh. “Thank you.”
“I would be worse.”
“You absolutely would.”
“I would be banned from every appointment by week 12.”
“You'd bring your own blood pressure cuff.”
“I already own one.”
“That's exactly the problem.”
They both smile, but the fear remains beneath it.
Mel’s voice gets softer. “I'm scared I'd lose myself.”
Frank waits.
“I worked really hard to become who I am,” she says. “I like being a doctor, I like running, I like having parts of myself that are mine. I've watched women disappear into motherhood because everybody around them acted like the mother was supposed to be the whole person.”
“You wouldn't disappear.”
“You can't promise that.”
“No.” He thinks for a moment. “But I can promise I'd notice if you started to.”
Her expression changes.
Frank’s hand slides slowly along her back. “I can promise you'd still run, you'd still work, you'd still be Mel and not just somebody’s mom.”
She looks at him.
“And when you forgot that,” he says, “because I'm guessing everybody forgets pieces of themselves sometimes, I'd gladly remind you.”
Her eyes close briefly. “That's a dangerous promise,” she says.
“Why?”
“Because I might believe you.”
“I'd like you to.”
She looks at him for a long moment. Then she asks, “What are you scared of?”
Frank exhales. “Besides everything?”
“Pick the biggest ones.” He considers deflecting, he doesn't. “I'm scared Tanner and Penny would feel replaced.”
Mel’s face softens immediately. “Frank.”
“I know they're old enough to understand.”
“That doesn't mean feelings are logical.”
“Exactly.”
He looks toward the stairs.
“Penny would be excited,” he says. “I know that. Tanner probably would too, eventually. But there's a difference between talking about a baby and actually having one in the house. Newborn gets attention, baby lives here all the time.”
Mel understands before he says the rest.
“Tanner and Penny go back and forth.”
He nods.
“With you and Abby.”
“Yeah.”
His jaw tightens. “A baby with us would be here every day. Every morning, every Christmas morning in this house, every random Tuesday and part of me worries they'd see that and think it was the family I wanted more.”
Mel’s entire expression breaks open. “Oh, Frank.”
“I know," he lets out a breathe while running his hand through his hair, it springing back to place almost immediately, "it sounds irrational.”
“No.”
“I'd never want them to think that.”
“They know you love them.”
“I know.”
“You tell them.”
“I know.”
“You show them.”
“I know.”
She touches his face, turning him gently toward her. “Then we make sure they know there's no replacement.”
Frank looks at her.
“We don't act like a baby makes us a real family,” she says. “Because we already are one.”
His eyes sting unexpectedly.
Mel continues, firmer now. “Tanner and Penny aren't from some previous version of your life that gets pushed aside because we make something new, they're part of it, they're part of us.”
Frank swallows hard.
“And if we ever had a baby,” she says, “that baby would grow up knowing Tanner and Penny were there first. Not in a competitive way. In a history way. In a they helped build this way.”
His hand comes up over hers where it rests against his cheek. “You've thought about this,” he says.
“I told you.”
“Months?”
She nods.
Frank laughs softly, emotion roughening the sound. “You really were sitting on all this?”
“I did't know if you wanted more.”
“You could've asked.”
“I just did.”
“At 11:15 on a Thursday.”
“Timing was never my strength, I feel like you would of caught on by now.”
“No, apparently not.”
She smiles.
Frank’s expression sobers again. “I'm scared of the newborn part.”
Mel raises an eyebrow. “Really?”
“Yes.”
“You've had 2.”
“That's why.”
She laughs.
“I remember it,” he says. “People romanticize it because babies are cute and everyone forgets sleep deprivation is a form of torture.”
“That's fair.”
“Diapers, reflux, crying for hours on end because you don't quite know the language yet, constant fear that they're too hot, too cold, breathing weird, not breathing enough, breathing too loudly.”
“You monitored their breathing?”
“I was a doctor with a newborn, yea babe I did. At one point I think I was writing everything down in a notepad.”
“Of course you did.”
“I knew too much, and yet not enough.”
“We both would.”
“Exactly.”
Mel smiles.
“And I am older now,” Frank adds.
“So am I.”
“My back already hates me.”
“Your back hated you before.”
“Imagine carrying a car seat.”
“You'd survive.”
“Barely.”
“I run a 19 minute 5K, I can carry the baby.”
Frank gives her a look. “Don't use your cardio against me, plus I wouldn't let you.”
“I'll use it against you constantly.”
He smiles again.
The conversation stretches.
What begins as one impossible question turns gradually into a dozen smaller ones.
They talk about work schedules and how insane it would be to coordinate childcare around emergency medicine. They talk about whether nights would ever be manageable, whether one of them would cut back temporarily, whether grandparents or Abby or trusted babysitters would become part of the logistics. They talk about how neither of them wants a nanny raising a child more hours than they do, but both understand that ideals often surrender to reality.
They talk about money, not because they can't afford a baby but because Frank has 2 children already and college exists like a distant financial threat on the horizon. Mel tells him they aren't discussing tuition projections at midnight. Frank says fiscal responsibility doesn't observe bedtime.
They talk about names, accidentally.
It happens when Mel says, “Penny'd try to name it something insane.”
Frank says, “She'd name a girl Sparkle or something.”
“She'd name a boy Lightning McQueen.”
“She'd argue it's gender neutral.”
Mel laughs. “It probably is to her.”
Frank looks at her. “Do you have names?”
She freezes.
He smiles slowly. “You do.”
“No.”
“You absolutely do.”
“I have names I like. That doesn't mean I have a list.”
“By that sentence alone you defintely have a list.”
“I don't have a list.”
“Where is it?”
“There's no list.”
“Phone?”
“Frank.”
He reaches jokingly toward her phone on the table.
Mel grabs it first and pulls it against her chest. “You aren't going through my notes.”
His eyes widen. “There's a note?”
“There are several notes.”
“Mel.”
“Not all about babies.”
He laughs, delighted now. “You have baby names in your phone.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
She narrows her eyes at him.
Frank shifts closer. “One.”
“No.”
“C'mon, one name.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Come on.”
She looks at him for several seconds before giving in with a sigh. “Olivia.”
Something about hearing it aloud changes the room.
Frank’s smile fades into something softer. “Olivia, Olivia,” he says again, as if testing the name, "Olivia Langdon."
Mel watches his face carefully. “You like it?” she asks.
“Yeah, I do.”
“Don't say yes because I said it.”
“I'm not, I actually, genuinely like it.”
He repeats it quietly, testing it once more, as if he can imagine the kindergarten name plate on her desk, or the way it'd slip out while she ran away facing mediocre reprimand because let's face it, he'd probably melt at the thought of a half him and half Mel kid. “Olivia Langdon.”
Mel’s expression changes.
Frank notices immediately. “Too much?”
“No.”
“Too real?”
“A little.”
He nods.
They leave the name there between them for a while.
Eventually Mel asks, “Would you want another boy?”
Frank thinks. “I loved having Tanner first,” he says. “There's something about a son.”
She nods.
“But then Penny happened.”
Mel laughs.
“And that destroyed any illusion that gender predicts personality.”
“True.”
“I don't care.”
“Really?”
“Really.” He looks at her. “Healthy. Yours. Mine. Loud enough to ruin our sleep schedule. That's about as specific as I get.”
Mel smiles at the thought because in a funny way, the way that they've gone about this entire conversation, the thought of a child is no longer just that, a thought.
“What about you?” he asks.
She rests her head against his shoulder again. “I think I used to imagine a girl.”
“Used to?”
“Before there was an actual person attached to the idea. Now I don't care either.”
Frank looks down at her hair.
“I do think about a little girl who has your eyes,” she admits.
He laughs softly. “My eyes?”
“Yeah.”
“That seems unfair to you.”
“I like your eyes.”
He turns his head. “You never told me that.”
“I'm telling you now.”
“What else have you been withholding?”
“A lot.”
“Concerning.”
She smiles against his shoulder. Another silence settles, this one lasts longer. The clock on the wall shifts past midnight, then 12:30.
Frank becomes aware that they've been talking for more than an hour and have somehow only moved deeper into it.
He asks, “Would you want to be pregnant?”
Mel answers immediately. “Yes.”
He looks at her.
She seems almost surprised by her own certainty.
“Yes,” she says again, quieter. “If we could, I think I would.”
“Even knowing everything you know?”
“Especially knowing.”
He doesn't understand.
She looks down. “I've seen birth go wrong, yes, but I've also seen it go right.”
Frank stays quiet.
“There are days in medicine where everything feels like evidence that bodies are fragile and life's unfair,” she says. “Then sometimes somebody hands you a newborn and for a second you remember the human body is also completely insane in the best possible way.”
Frank smiles.
“I think I would want that,” she says. “To feel it happen. Even knowing I would complain constantly by the third trimester.”
“You'd be unbearable.”
“You'd be worse.”
“I'd be attentive.”
“You'd be hovering.”
“Useful hovering.”
“You'd track fetal movement with a spreadsheet, I wouldn't put it past you if you did a power point comparing them to pieces of fruit or send me a screenshot because you found an app.”
“I wouldn't....”
“You absolutely would.”
“Maybe an app, I mean, it's on the app...”
“Frank.”
“Fine.”
She laughs softly, then her expression changes, turning more vulnerable again. “Would you still want me if pregnancy changed everything?”
Frank frowns immediately. “What?”
She looks away.
“Mel.”
“I know it sounds stupid.”
“It sounds like something you're actually worried about.”
She exhales.
“My body,” she says. “If it changed a lot. If I gained weight and it didn't all come off, or If I had a C-section scar. Or what I hear alot from patients, like, If I felt terrible for months... If sex was weird after or it wasn't fulfilling...”
Frank stares at her for a moment, not because he can't answer, but because he can't believe she thinks the answer requires thought.
He shifts until he's facing her. “Look at me.”
She does.
“You think I'm going to watch you grow our kid and then complain about what it does to your body?”
“I didn't say complain.”
“You asked if I would still want you.”
Her eyes lower.
Frank touches her chin gently and lifts it again. “Yes.” The answer's simple.
She blinks.
“Yes,” he says again. “I'd still want you, every version of you because that's not something I'd take lightly.”
Her mouth tightens with emotion.
“I'd want you pregnant,” he says, “I'd want you postpartum, I'd want you exhausted and furious because your jeans don't fit, I'd want you if you had a scar, I'd want you if you want the Yasso pints of yogurt you happen to like, I'd want you when your cravings wouldn't make sense to me but they would for you-”
“Frank-”
“I'm serious.”
“I know.”
“And I'd probably still annoy you about eating enough.”
“You already do.”
“Exactly.”
A tear slips free this time.
Mel wipes it away, annoyed. “I hate this conversation.”
Frank smiles softly. “No, you don’t.”
“No, no I don't.”
He pulls her closer again, and she can't help but absolutely settle against the man she's come to love in every facet of life.
After another long quiet, Frank asks the question neither of them has asked yet. “Do you want to?”
Mel goes very still, and he feels it immediately.
He clarifies, “Not tonight, unless you do.” That gets a startled laugh.
“I mean try,” he says. “Someday. Do you actually want us to try?”
Mel sits up.
The question hangs between them now, stripped of hypotheticals.
She looks at him for a long time. "Yes.”
Frank’s breath catches slightly.
Mel’s voice shakes when she continues. “I think I do.”
He nods once, very slowly.
She looks terrified now, as if saying yes has made everything suddenly real.
“What about you?” she asks.
Frank looks toward the stairs.
He thinks about Tanner asleep upstairs, probably with one foot hanging out from under the blanket. He thinks about Penny and her stuffed penguin. He thinks about his first marriage, the good parts and the painful parts and the ways he grew afterward whether he wanted to or not.
He thinks about Mel in his kitchen, about Mel running beside him about Mel sick on his couch, about Mel helping with homework, about Mel laughing with his children and especially about Mel in his bed when she had the flu, thanking him in the middle of the night because she wasn't used to being cared for.
He thinks about a high chair in the corner, about tiny socks in the laundry, and he can't help but swallow at the thought of a baby asleep against Mel’s chest.
Then there'd be Tanner complaining about crying while standing in the nursery doorway because he wants to help. There'd be Penny telling everyone she's a big sister even though technically she already has a brother. He thinks about himself holding another child and realizing this one has Mel’s nose or her stubborn mouth or her ability to look unimpressed before they can even speak.
The image doesn't scare him the way it once would have, it scares him sure of course it does but it doesn't scare him away.
Frank looks at her. “Yeah,” he says.
Mel doesn't move. “Yeah?” she whispers.
“Yeah.”
He reaches for her hand. “I think I want that too.”
Her eyes close.
Frank lets out a shaky breath that turns into a quiet laugh because apparently this is happening, this enormous decision being spoken into the soft dark of his living room while a deep sea documentary menu loops silently on the television.
Mel laughs too, a little tearfully. “We're insane,” she says.
“Probably.”
“We work emergency medicine.”
“Bad start.”
“You already have 2 kids.”
“Great kids.”
“We sleep terribly.”
“Could get worse.”
“Babies are expensive.”
“So are Penny’s dance classes.”
“Tanner will need braces.”
“I know.”
“I'm serious.”
“So am I.”
She looks at him, half laughing and half crying.
Frank squeezes her hand. “We don't have to decide everything tonight.”
“No.”
“We don't have to start tomorrow.”
“Good, because I'm scheduled tomorrow.”
He smiles. “We can think,” he says. “Talk to your doctor. Figure out timing. Figure out what you actually want.”
“What we want.”
He nods. “You're right, what we want.”
That matters.
Mel shifts closer and rests her forehead against his. For a moment, they simply breathe.
Then she says, very softly, “I keep thinking about a kid who's half you and half me.”
Frank closes his eyes. “That is terrifying,” he murmurs.
Mel laughs. “Why?”
“Stubborn.”
“From you.”
“Argumentative.”
“Definitely you again.”
“Too smart for their own good.”
“That would be me.”
“Emotionally repressed.”
She pulls back enough to look at him. “We would work on that.”
He smiles.
“Could have your laugh,” she says.
Frank’s expression changes.
“Or your dimples.”
“I don't have dimples.”
“You absolutely do.”
“I don't.”
“You do when you really laugh.”
He looks away. Mel smiles. “There.”
“What?”
“One.”
He shakes his head.
She touches his cheek. “Maybe your eyes.”
“Maybe your hair.”
“Poor kid.”
“Maybe your ability to run.”
“And your inability.”
He pulls back in faux surprise. “Rude.”
She laughs again.
Frank takes her hand and kisses her knuckles with the gesture quieting both of them.
“Are you scared?” Mel asks.
“Yes.”
“Me too.”
“Good.”
She frowns. “Good?”
“I'd be more worried if we weren't.”
She considers that. Frank looks toward the ceiling.
“You know Penny's going to go completely feral when this happens.”
Mel smiles. “We'd have to wait to tell her.”
“Absolutely.”
“She'd tell the school, she'd probably break into the principles office and announce it in the microphone.”
“She'd tell strangers at stores.”
“Sounds just like her.”
“Exactly.”
“And Tanner?”
Frank thinks. “He'd ask if we were sure.”
Mel laughs softly.
“Then he'd probably want to know when.”
“He'd act annoyed when the baby cries-”
“Then volunteer to hold them?”
“Yeah.”
Frank smiles.
Mel watches him with an expression he doesn't quite know how to name.
“What?” he asks.
“Nothing.”
“C'mon, Mel, what is it?"
She shakes her head but Frank waits because he's aware that with a little bit of time she's more than willing to tell him what's on her mind.
Eventually she says, “You look happy.”
The words stop him because he realizes she's right. Not excited in a frantic way. Not euphoric.
Happy.
The deep kind, the kind he's learned to distrust because happiness sometimes feels like a thing life notices and takes personally.
But Mel's here, his kids are upstairs, there's no emergency, no one's leaving so he lets himself have it.
“I am,” he says.
Mel’s eyes shine again just as Frank touches her face.
“So am I,” she says.
They don't make a plan that night, not a real one at least.
They don't calculate cycles or dates or due dates, they don't open calendars, they don't research obstetricians or compare parental leave policies, they don't tell anyone, because there's nothing yet to tell.
Instead, they keep talking.
About stupid things and serious things.
About whether a baby would sleep in their room at first. About how Penny would absolutely try to climb into the crib, about whether Tanner would ever agree to babysit, about whether they'd need a bigger car. Frank insists his car's fine and Mel asks whether he intends to strap an infant to the roof. He tells her there's plenty of room and she asks if he's forgotten the amount of equipment babies require.
They talk about names again but refuse to commit to anything although there's clearly a favorite from the both of them. They talk about what kind of parents they think they'd be together.
Mel says Frank would be the parent who says no and then secretly brings snacks five minutes later. Frank says Mel would be the parent who sets boundaries and then gets manipulated by a toddler with her own eyes.
She denies this and he can't help but laugh.
They talk until the room grows colder and the wine remains untouched and the clock moves beyond 1:30.
The vulnerability changes shape as the night deepens. It's no longer frightening in the same way because they've survived saying the hardest parts aloud. The fears haven't disappeared, but they have names now that sits between them instead of inside them.
Eventually Mel leans into him again, exhausted. Frank wraps an arm around her.
“We should go to bed,” he murmurs.
“Probably.”
Neither of them moves. A minute passes, then another.
Mel says, “Frank?”
“Yeah?”
“If it doesn't happen…”
He knows immediately.
She swallows. “If we try and it doesn't happen, I don't want you to think I'd feel like this isn't enough.”
Frank’s chest aches.
She gestures vaguely around them. The house, upstairs, them.
“Tanner and Penny,” she says. “You. This. I- I, need you to know that.”
Frank tightens his arm around her. “I know.”
“No. Really.”
“I know.”
She looks up as Frank meets her eyes.
“You aren't with me because of some hypothetical baby,” he says. “And I'm not with you because I need another kid.”
She nods.
“We're already a family.”
Her face softens.
“Anything else would be more,” he says. “Not proof anf not completion.”
Mel closes her eyes.
“More,” she repeats.
“Yeah.”
She rests her head on his shoulder again. “More sounds nice,” she whispers.
Frank kisses the top of her head.
“Yeah,” he says. “It does.”
Upstairs, something thumps and they both freeze.
A second later, Penny’s sleepy voice carries faintly through the ceiling. “Dad?”
Frank closes his eyes.
Mel starts laughing silently against his shoulder.
Frank calls back, “What?”
There's a pause as Penny calls out, “I need water.”
He exhales and starts to stand but Mel catches his hand before he gets far.
Frank looks down at her. She's still smiling, eyes tired and warm. “What?”
She squeezes his fingers. “Nothing.”
He understands anyway.
Frank bends, kisses her forehead, and heads upstairs to get his daughter water.
Mel stays on the couch, listening to the quiet sounds above her. Frank’s footsteps, Penny’s sleepy voice, adoor opening and closing. The ordinary noises of a family settling back into sleep.
Her hand drifts without conscious thought to her stomach, there's nothing there, not yet, and maybe not ever and she can't help but look at the uncertainty being frightening.
But for the first time, the thought doesn't feel lonely.
A minute later, Frank comes back downstairs.
“Crisis resolved,” he says.
Mel lowers her hand before he notices, though she isn't sure why.
“Water?”
“And an urgent question about whether fish sleep.”
“Do they?”
“Apparently we're researching tomorrow.”
Mel smiles just as Frank holds out his hand.
“Bed?”
She takes it. “Bed.”
They turn off the television, carry the abandoned wineglass to the kitchen, check the doors, and make their way upstairs together.
Nothing has changed and yet everything has.
And when Frank reaches for her hand in the dark hallway without looking, Mel threads her fingers through his and follows him toward their room, already knowing the conversation isn't finished.
It may never really be finished, but for tonight, that's enough.