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ay0nha · 20 days ago

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The Awful Daring of a Moment's Surrender | Dr. Frank Langdon

SUMMARY: Maybe it was the exhaustion, or the rain, or the way your guard had been ground down over weeks of double shifts and subtle stares--but you felt solt. Unarmored. And Frank noticed. Of course, he did, but he let you have

Creative Event: A Doctor A Day 18, Prompt: "I was hoping it'd be you." Color: Black

PAIRING: Dr. Frank Langdon x f!reader (nurse)

WORD COUNT: 6.3K

WARNINGS: Canon-typical things, tension-filled 'enemies' to lovers, the one-bed trope, a pervy patient, nurse harassment, cheesy conversations and tropes, inner turmoil, mentions of divorce and kids, rehab, MOVIE MAGIC PLOT AND PACING lol, fluff, angst, etc.

A/N: This was so much fun to be a part of! I word vomited, but oh well. Thank you for creating this @ananonymousaffair, @clubsoft, and @letsgobarbs!

Frank’s eyes found you again. They always did—like muscle memory, like a bad habit he would never break.

He’d been trying to distract himself all day, trying not to think about the subtle shifts in gravity around you. Rewriting notes, rechecking vitals that didn’t need checking, drowning in inboxes and labs like they could offer sanctuary from a single truth: things between you weren’t the same.

It was in the way you smiled at everyone but him. The way you didn’t joke anymore, the way you walked right past him like the space between you wasn’t even worth acknowledging.

Frank didn’t notice at first because you weren’t cruel with it, just distant. Professional. Fine. Yet, that was what cut.

Frank had been through enough to know when something was wrong. Rehab taught him to hear quiet rejection, to notice when people flinched, or made space, but it hadn’t prepared him for this; for being back, being so-called better, and still losing something he hadn’t even realized mattered so much.

You—The person who used to crack jokes entirely at his expense. The one who once split stale vending machine chips with him during back-to-back codes. The one who used to call him Frank, like it meant something.

Now it was just Langdon, again. You’d pressed a reset, and he had no idea why.

It made him restless, fidgeting between cases and rushing through notes just to keep moving. Even now, leaning over the desktop was just another performance; posture rehearsed, hand perched on the mouse, eyes blank on the screen, but he wasn’t reading. He was watching you.

Not with malice, not even with interest, but with a persistence that had come to a point. The nurses whispered, the med students’ eyes bouncing between the two of you when you shared a case, and even the patients read between the lines to find something you were purposely ignorant of.

You posed yourself well, ignoring it. You moved through the ED with the kind of grace only long shifts could carve out: quick, tired, and efficient.

You’d been on your feet for too long, and it showed. Blood pressure cuffs slung around your neck, bruises bloomed under your eyes, and every that started neat was now purely functional. Still, you managed to find warmth for everyone: patients, techs, and that fourth-year who forgot how to use the glucometer.

Everyone but Frank. That’s what made it personal.

Frank shook his head, trying to refocus. “God–!”

“Now’s not the time to find God, Langdon.” Dana hummed sarcastically, pushing a clipboard into his chest. “...nor is it the time to makin’ eyes—leave the girl alone.”

“I’m not—” He’d almost fallen for the trap. It took effort to pull his eyes away from you to come up with something clever. “You wear that cross around your neck, but that doesn't make you a saint.”

“You’re warming up.” She was half-impressed with his counter. “If I still had a heart, I’d find this all moving.”

“There’s nothing to find.” He scoffed, flipping through the chart—chest pains, mild tachycardia, probably anxiety. “Give this to Whitaker, I have to…”

Dana watched his thoughts trail off his tongue. Frank didn’t look at his surroundings, moving swiftly with instinct, and chasing after you.

You were in Room 28, helping an elderly woman with a bedpan situation that was rapidly becoming a story. You were tired—so tired. The fluorescent lights felt like a second skin, and your scrubs smelled like antiseptic and cafeteria curry.

That was when he walked in.

“Need a hand?” Frank leaned in the doorway, stethoscope slung loose around his neck like a badge of charm.

You didn’t turn; there was no need. “Not unless you want to glove up.”

“Tempting.” His hands remained secure in his pockets.

You exhaled, kept your focus on the patient, and murmured, “I’m almost done here.”

The woman in the bed chuckled. “He’s handsome. Is he yours?”

“No—”

“—Not yet.” Frank, amused, muttered, not even sure why he said it. Habit. Hope, maybe.

You shot him a glare.

“Just offering help. I know the nurses have their opinions, but c’mon.” He held up his hands with feigned innocence. “I’m ER Ken. Infectious charisma, average height but above-average presence—”

“I’ll remember that for the next peer eval.”

“Put it under ‘Team Dynamics.’” He grinned.

You finished settling the patient, making sure she was clean and comfortable, ignoring the resident.

You tucked the woman in, adjusted her oxygen, and brushed her shoulder in a way so small and human it made Frank ache. He remembered that version of you. Kind and unflinching, a better presence than he deserved. Yet, you walked past Frank like he wasn’t there, heading to the sink.

“I’ve been trying to figure out if I did something…” Frank followed you, knowing he’d have to spit it out; you only reserved so much time for his antics. “If I said something. You’ve been—”

“Don’t make this a thing.” You turned the faucet on.

“I’m not. I just…” Frank hesitated, uncharacteristically uncertain. “You used to talk to me.”

“I still talk to you.”

“Barely.”

Your jaw worked, tension spiking along your spine. You didn’t meet his eyes. You focused on scrubbing your hands raw.

“I didn’t relapse, if that’s what you’re thinking.” Frank was quieter now, afraid of mentioning his slip-up would doom him further. He spoke, though, desperate for your trust. “I’m keeping up with the meetings. Still doing the steps, I just—”

That made you pause. Just a fraction.

Frank exhaled like he hated himself for even needing to say it. “I just—I don’t know if you think I’m…”

“I know.” Your voice clipped, cutting him off before the self-deprecation. “Everything’s fine, Langdon.”

The silence was stretching, and you still wouldn’t look at him.

And he didn’t know—couldn’t even guess—that it wasn’t judgment in your distance. It was longing. Because the truth was, you missed him.

You missed the guy who lit up night shifts with jokes and zero-hour brilliance, who remembered weird details like who drank Diet Coke and who had knee pain when it rained. He’d pull someone back from a code and then flirt with a phlebotomist in the same breath.

You missed the chaos, the gallows humor, the late-night vulnerability he didn’t show anyone else. You missed what he’d been to you before everything fell apart, before he disappeared into rehab and came back someone careful and trying.

You stared at the faucet, letting cold water run over your hands longer than necessary because Frank Langdon was all wit and half-sincere charm and just enough vulnerability to make it dangerous. You wanted to let him stay steady. You wanted to respect the ground he’d fought to gain.

So, you’d built walls instead of reaching for what you used to have. And Frank mistook the bricks for bitterness.

“I just…” He was careful this time, more measured with confidence for the first time in a while. “I don’t want to make it worse.”

You finally looked at him then. You opened your mouth—

All the pagers buzzed.

Rapid Response, Room 19. Frank’s name echoed overhead. You didn’t say anything else, just turned toward the call.

—

There were three trauma codes before noon. Two staff call-outs. The crash cart had gone missing for forty goddamn minutes—later found wedged behind the elevator by an intern who looked like he might cry. There was a broken limb in nearly every bay. The psych consult was MIA. And the coffee in the breakroom had devolved into some viscous, black, tar-like substance that no one had the heart to dump out.

You hadn’t sat down since 06:45.

Your legs ached. It felt like your brain was holding itself together with surgical tape and gauze. And somewhere in the blur of vitals and codes, Frank had appeared—gliding through the chaos like he was born for it, which, annoyingly, he probably was. He hadn’t said much to you, just glanced a little too long across charts and supply drawers, handing you things you didn’t ask for like it was muscle memory.

You didn’t speak about the curt conversation.. You didn’t need to. The silence between you had changed shape, warmer, heavier. Unspoken. Observed. Especially by everyone else.

“You seeing this?” Perlah had muttered in Tagalog near the med cart earlier, watching the way Frank hovered too long beside you as you updated a chart. “He’s not even being subtle anymore.”

Even the med students were catching on. They tracked Frank’s movements like nervous meerkats, always watching, half-scared he’d snap if someone asked a dumb question near you, but there was no time for teasing now. The ED claimed your time.

“Room six—” Dana called, waving a chart. “Gary’s back.”

That name landed heavy. A regular, known for the kind of slow, slurred vulgarity that turned any nurse’s stomach. He came in bruised and bleeding every few weeks, drunk and grinning, always with something disgusting to say.

Princess made a face. “I got him last time.”

“We’ve got two fresh traumas, a seizure in the hallway, and a combative patient screaming about lizard people in four. Who’s got the thickest skin today?” Dana tried. In moments, she’d start picking whoever locked eyes with her.

So, you’d already stepped forward, grabbing gloves. “I’ve got it.”

“You sure, kid?” Dana gave you a look.

You nodded. Confident and detached, you’d handled worse. You were wrong.

Gary was worse than usual—reeking of rotgut whiskey and stale piss, the cut above his eye oozing lazily. He grinned when he saw you. That same slow, lecherous grin.

“I was hoping it’d be you.” He drawled.

“Let’s keep this quick, Gary.” You didn’t blink.

“Aw, c’mon, sweetheart. Don’t play hard to get.”

Behind you, one of the med students cringed.

“Vitals first.” You added flatly. “Then we can deal with that eyebrow.”

Gary wouldn’t let up. Kept leering. Mumbling shit you didn’t want to hear. When you reached for the BP cuff, he grabbed your wrist, fingers greasy and possessive. Something in you snapped like brittle wire.

“Baby, come on, let’s—”

“Gary—!” You broke, pulling away.

You didn’t remember what you said next. Only that your voice was sharp, loud enough that Kiara was in the room a second later, followed by an orderly. Only that your hands were shaking when you left the bedside, that your breath came too hard, too fast.

The room froze.

You didn’t notice Frank, not yet. Not standing at the mouth of the trauma bay with a chart in his hand, his whole body stilled in the chaos. Not the med students watching him watch you, eyes flicking nervously between his unreadable expression and your barely-contained rage.

“Hey, hey!” Kiara appeared behind you, palms up, gentle. “Hey—I’ve got it. Security’s on their way.”

“He put his hands on me.” Your words came out harsher than you meant.

“I know.” She reassured quickly. “...but you’re shaking. Go breathe. I’ve got this. Go.”

You couldn’t move at first. Then you did.

The second you stepped out of the trauma bay, the air felt different. Too bright. Too cold. Like you were vibrating just under your skin. You braced your arms on the half-wall near the ambulance entrance, trying to ground yourself.

It was stupid, maybe. Overblown. He hadn’t hurt you. But it wasn’t just about Gary. It was about all of them, the patients. The way they looked at you. Talked to you. Touched you. Like being a nurse meant being furniture with a pulse.

Still inside, voices filtered through the ED. Beyond the worried gossip, Dana clocked Frank quickly, reading his intention through his body language.

“Don’t.” Dana warned. “Don’t go charging after her.”

Frank’s tone was quieter. “I’m just—”

“She doesn’t need a savior. She needs backup.” She looked at him sternly, eyes direct above her reading glasses. “And if you’re gonna be in her corner, be in it. Don’t mess around.”

“I’m not.”

“Then listen to me—” Dana eased in a way he didn’t expect. “From mother to son: she’s one of the best we’ve got. This place barely holds together on a good day. She needs someone she doesn’t have to fight with or protect. So, just do it right.”

When the door clicked behind you. You didn’t need to look.

Frank.

He leaned against the wall beside you, just close enough to count.

“You okay?” He asked eventually.

You exhaled slowly. “Fine, Langdon.”

He didn’t push. Just nodded once. “Saw what happened.”

“I was supposed to be the one with the thick skin.” You stared at the asphalt, borderline mocking yourself.

“You are.”

You looked at him then. Really looked. His face was tight, concern tucked under practiced calm. His eyes didn’t move from yours.

“I’m just so tired.” You put aside everything, admission taking over. “Tired of being professional when I’m shaking. Tired of being the one who doesn’t get to snap.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” You asked, the words sharper than intended. “You’re a resident. You raise your voice, and people listen. I raise mine, and they send me outside.”

Frank didn’t answer right away. The siren-whine of an ambulance in the distance curled under the tension between you.

“This place grinds you down.” He answered thoughtfully. “Chews up good people and spits out burned-out husks. Especially nurses.”

You looked over at him. “That’s poetic.”

“You get poetic when you’ve had two hours of sleep and four patients die on you before noon.” He teased.

“It’s not just today, you know.” You needed it all out. “It’s all of it. The short-staffing. The harassment. The way we get called emotional when we push back.”

“You’re not wrong.”

“Then what do we do?” You turned your body toward him, arms still crossed.

He looked at you then—really looked. Eyes softer than they’d been all day. Maybe all week.

“We look out for each other.” He said. “We start there.”

The words hit harder than they should’ve. Maybe because they weren’t vague. Weren’t said with distance. They were about you. About him. About now.

“You’ve been doing that.” You caved. Your bravado was thinning. “More than I expected.”

“I don’t always get it right. But I’m trying.” He smiled a little, not like he was proud of himself, but like it hurt to admit.

“I’m not used to someone having my back.”

“I am,” he said, almost gently. “Used to having yours.”

That was when you met his eyes again. Something cracked open between you. Something that felt like acknowledgment. A beginning without the comfort of denial. A door you could choose to walk through—or not.

“I don’t need rescuing.” You sniffed over your disdain, pride getting the better of you.

“I know.” Frank smiled, just a flicker. “Doesn’t mean I won’t step in if you need someone in your corner.”

You let yourself breathe for the first time in what felt like hours. And when the door behind you swung open again—Dana’s voice calling your name, Robby barking for Frank—you didn’t move right away.

Neither did he. Just for a second longer, you stood there. Together. Quiet. Seen.

—

Twelve hours bled into twenty-four.

The day-shift staff were long gone, replaced by the night crew with their thermal mugs and haunted stares. The vending machines buzzed like they were short-circuiting. Someone's half-eaten dinner steamed under the warming light in the break room, forgotten in the rush of a trauma that never came.

But now it was quiet. Too quiet.

The kind of still that only came when the ED hit a strange middle space, where the sickest patients had been stabilized or shipped upstairs, and the waiting room had emptied enough to mop the floors. There was no screaming, no alarms. Just the low murmur of machines, the shuffle of shoes over waxed linoleum, and the tired hum of lives slowly sorting themselves back into place.

And through it all, there you were, still there, still moving.

You were doing a double. Again.

The badge clipped to your scrub top felt like it weighed more than you did. Your feet throbbed, your hands were dry and red from sanitizing a thousand times. You’d been charting for so long, your signature didn’t look like handwriting anymore.

Then, somewhere around hour fifteen, you noticed Frank wasn’t orbiting anymore.

He was still there, but not present. Not watching you like before. No one-liner flirtations, no smug grins when you passed in the hallway. No caffeine jokes, no impromptu debates over IV push vs drip. No teasing. No lingering. Just…doing his notes in the corner like a ghost.

At first, you welcomed it. Space was good. The distance made it easier to forget the way he laughed at 3 AM, or how he always remembered who hated banana-flavored anything and kept those syringes off your trays.

But now, it just felt off, wrong.

Even when he passed by your station earlier, he didn’t offer a look. You felt it in your stomach; something folding in on itself. The feeling lingered even when your shift finally ended and you planned to smother it at home.

However, outside, the rain came down in violent sheets, hammering the windows like fists. The storm had crept in slowly, quiet drizzle around hour twelve, upgraded to a full deluge by twenty. You’d caught a glimpse of it while restocking in triage. The sky looked bruised black and blue. Thunder growled low and constant.

Now, while you tried to outwait it, you saw Frank standing near the exit with his jacket in hand, keys spinning around one finger, watching the rainfall like he was trying to time it.

“You're really going out in that?” You asked, voice rough from disuse.

Frank turned slowly, his hair messier than usual, exhaustion shadowing his jaw. “Was gonna try. Why? You think you need a canoe?”

You huffed out a breath, almost a laugh. “Just need the city bus to show up and not hydroplane into traffic.”

“You're serious?” He raised a brow.

“Public transit loyalty card. VIP tier.” You held up your badge and tapped the back.

Frank didn’t laugh, but something flickered in his expression. Tired amusement. Then: “You’re not actually waiting for the bus in this shit, are you?”

“Might just crash in the on-call room.” You shrugged, hands pulling at your sore neck. You already imagined how the pain would worsen from the closet in the room.

“Classy.”

“It’s either that or drown crossing Main.”

Frank didn’t answer right away. The rain smacked louder against the glass. You could see the reflection of streetlights bending and breaking in the puddles. What was left of the night felt waterlogged, like the whole city was sinking into the hidden sunrise.

“Come on.” Frank caught his keys, no longer playing with them in contemplation. “I’ll drive.”

You frowned. “You don’t even know where I live.”

“Figure it out on the way.” Frank pulled at the door, rain competing for volume. “Unless you're really attached to that lumpy cot and crusty blanket.”

You hesitated, but the thought of peeling off your scrubs and collapsing into anything that wasn’t hospital property won—barely.

—

The drive was slow. Treacherous.

Frank didn’t talk much, just adjusted the heat, tapped the steering wheel. Water pooled in the gutters, flooded intersections. The radio kept chiming in with traffic alerts. Flash flood warnings shot across his dashboard screen like small, polite threats.

Frank’s wipers cut across the windshield in long, rhythmic arcs. Streetlights smudged through the downpour. Everything looked like it was dissolving in slow motion.

You sat rigid, arms crossed over your chest, not because you were cold, but because the silence between you carried the weight of earlier even when you thought it had passed.

When he turned down the bridge toward your part of town, the red-and-blue lights started flashing before you could say anything.

Detour. Road closed. Flooding past the viaduct.

“Seriously?” You sat back in your seat with a groan.

Frank just sighed, threw the car into reverse, and made a lazy U-turn.

“What now?” You asked.

He didn’t answer until you were headed towards the highway. “You crash at mine.”

You turned your head slowly. “What?”

“I’m not dropping you at a bus stop in a flood zone.” He didn’t glance at you.

“And what, you just collect stray nurses like wet cats?”

Frank smirked. “Just the ones who hate me.”

You looked out the window again. The storm hadn’t let up. There wasn’t another option. So you said nothing.

—

Frank’s apartment was unexpected.

It was small. Not cramped, but modest in a way that made you hesitate in the doorway. You’d assumed, maybe unfairly, that a trauma doctor with Langdon’s swagger would live somewhere sleek—high-rise, steel finishes, skyline view.

What was before you was simple, lived-in, and chronically unfinished. The kind of space that felt like someone had moved in, but hadn’t quite arrived.

The walls were still bare. A few cardboard boxes sat scattered, half-unpacked. One had the word BEDROOM scribbled on it in black Sharpie. Another, in faded ink, simply read DON’T OPEN.

A third sat partly torn open, its contents halfway spilled: mismatched mugs, a phone charger that looked like it had been through hell, a cracked photo frame you pretended not to see Frank kick under the couch.

You didn’t ask. Instead, you just toed off your shoes and stepped inside.

The couch squeaked beneath you as you sat. Not in the polite, old-furniture kind of way, but in the unmistakable squeal of plastic still clinging to its original shape. The kind people only left on when they were afraid to settle.

“Jesus.” You cursed, adjusting your weight and wincing at the sound. “What is this?”

Frank came out of the kitchen, holding two chipped mugs. “You’re lucky I have furniture. Most of my things are still in storage. This was my brother-in-law’s. He was gonna throw it out, but I figured… y’know. Good enough to sit on.”

You shifted again. The plastic shrieked. “That’s a generous definition of ‘good enough.’”

Frank grinned, tired. You took the mug he offered. It said “#1 Dad” in fading black letters. You didn’t comment. He didn’t either.

“I’d offer something stronger.” He was eager to fill any lull, holding onto conversation with you. “Only keep decaf and regrets around here these days.”

There were toys scattered in places they didn’t belong—ghosts of smaller hands that hadn’t visited in weeks. A plastic dinosaur on the windowsill. A pink glitter sneaker was half-tucked under the bookshelf. A toddler’s sippy cup wedged next to a water-damaged copy of The House of God and what looked like an untouched grief workbook.

Frank noticed you noticing.

He didn’t say anything. Just rubbed at the inside of his wrist where a bracelet or a watch might’ve once lived. He didn’t wear jewelry anymore. Not even the stuff his kids made. Not the macaroni bracelet. Not the braided cord with their initials. Not the ring from before.

Every time Frank looked down and saw those things, it was like a jab. They acted as a reminder that he let those around him down. That his kids had a dad who disappeared for a while, only to came back paler, carrying twelve steps in his pocket, and a shadow where self-esteem used to be.

He didn’t want to see the evidence of the old version of himself—before he was the kind of man who had to prove, every day, that he could be better. So, the jewelry stayed in a drawer along with the birthday cards he hadn’t opened.

And still, you were here. Sitting on his couch, holding one of his two good mugs, like this wasn’t the strangest place in the world to be after a double shift.

“So—” Frank said eventually, settling on the other end of the couch with a tired sigh. “You always this judgmental about interior design, or just when I’m trying to impress you?”

You raised the mug to your lips, amused. “If this is you trying to impress me, I think I owe Mateo twenty bucks.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “That’s tracks.”

The couch squeaked again when he leaned back.

You let the joke hold for a while, watching headlights swim through the blinds. There was a slow hum to everything: the fridge, the radiator, the pulse in your ears.

It’s not weird.” You confirmed quietly. You knew Frank, what weighed down his wit; you could still read him better than himself. “Having me here. It’s just a favor.”

Frank didn’t look at you right away, but you felt the pause behind his next breath. He nodded slowly. Thoughtful. The weight behind his usual smirk had softened lately, turned into something more cautious.

This was a man who used to fill a room with charm like secondhand smoke. But lately, he moved like he didn’t want to leave a mark.

“It’s just…” You started, then let it trail off. You set your mug down on the floor, where it wobbled once before settling. “Sometimes I need a break from my place, too. Been sleeping with the TV on just to drown out the walls.”

It was a strange kind of comfort, this mutual unraveling in a too-small space. You were both tired. Post-shift wired on surviving adrenaline. The kind of fatigue that makes things feel a little sideways.

“Thanks for not…” He scratched his jaw, eyes flicking toward the unopened box labeled DON’T OPEN. “...y’know. Asking.”

You tilted your head. “About what? The boxes? Or the fact that your couch came wrapped like a crime scene?”

That got a real laugh out of him. One of those low, worn ones that cracked around the edges.

“Bit of both.” He confessed. “It’s all still kind of… in progress.”

You glanced at the plastic-wrapped cushion under your thigh. “If this couch is the final product, I’m worried.”

“Don’t be,” Frank said dryly. He didn’t want to scare it off, whatever this was, whatever fragile bridge had pulled you back toward him tonight. “I’m planning a grand unveiling in 2037, right after I find the will to unpack the blender.”

You nudged his ankle with your foot, light. “Now that’s impressive.”

He smiled. It wasn’t a big thing. But it was the real one—the kind that didn’t feel like a mask.

Frank’s smile stuck around, small and lopsided. You could tell he was tired, the kind of tired where everything got a little looser at the seams and emotions sloshing around in the silence between words.

Side by side, your legs brushed faintly whenever either of you shifted. The kind of closeness that felt accidental on the surface but wasn’t, not really.

Frank lifted his mug in a half-hearted toast. “So, what’s the nurse-verified rating on my hospitality so far?”

You tilted your head, letting your eyes wander the apartment. Still mostly boxes. The flickering votive candle on the counter cast shadows over the sippy cup on the bookshelf and the sad, slumped dinosaur on the floor.

“Well…” You said slowly. “The couch sounds like a haunted pool float, and I’m pretty sure your radiator is planning a coup. So… solid seven out of ten.”

“Seven?” Frank repeated, looking genuinely wounded. “Kind of harsh. I lit a candle.”

You turned your head toward the tiny flame on the counter, flickering like it was afraid of commitment.

“That’s a tea light you found at the bottom of a drawer.” You replied. “And it smells like sadness.”

“It’s called Rain Linen, too,” Frank argued.

You sipped your coffee. “Exactly.”

He laughed—barely there, but real. “Tough crowd.”

“You’d get an eight if you found me a blanket that doesn’t come out of one of those boxes.”

Frank stood halfway, grabbing something draped over the armchair. He tossed it toward you—a sweatshirt. Soft. Worn. Still faintly smelling of him.

“Emergency blanket.” He said as he slumped back into the plastic-wrapped cushion. “Limited stock.”

You didn’t fight it. Just pulled it over your head like it belonged there. It smelled like him. Laundry detergent, stale coffee, and something else—maybe an old cologne he didn’t wear anymore. You wondered if it had been for the kids. Or for someone who didn’t live here anymore.

“…Okay….” You conceded. “Eight.”

Frank’s mouth ticked upward. “Progress.”

You tilted your head back, exhaling slowly. The ceiling had a faint water stain in the corner. The candle flickered again, casting a gold hue over the curve of Frank’s cheek.

“You know,” you began after a beat, eyes half-closed. “This still beats sleeping three feet from the janitor's closet.”

“To low standards and plastic couches.” Frank raised his mug again, mock solemn.

You clinked your mug against his with a small thunk of ceramic. “Cheers.”

Frank glanced at you. He felt something loosen in his chest. Something that had been wound tight for months. And for the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel like a walking regret.

—

The mattress was too warm, too comfortable in the wrong places, and still smelled like cardboard. It dipped in the middle, pulling you both toward the inevitable gravity of sharing something too small and too temporary.

Maybe it was the exhaustion, or the rain, or the way your guard had been ground down over weeks of double shifts and subtle stares—but you felt soft. Unarmored. And Frank noticed. Of course, he did, but he let you have it.

You weren’t touching Frank, but you could be. One shift of a knee, one breath too deep.

The room was dim, just the orange haze of the streetlight bleeding through the small bedroom window. The storm pressed against the windows, reminding you it still wanted in. The city hummed below, sirens trailing faintly through the neighborhood. It felt far away. Blurred. Like the hospital had been some kind of fever dream, and now this was the strange after-image left behind.

The couch hadn’t been an option. It still wore its plastic wrap like a shield, and Frank, in all his unbothered chaos, had only shrugged, “Too tired to pretend I have a real living room.”

So now you were here. In his room. Back to back. Sort of. On his mattress, the only thing unpacked.

The bedroom wasn’t tense, just tired. Mutual, bone-deep exhaustion—the kind only the ED could teach you. You could still taste the metallic tang of adrenaline if you thought hard enough. You could still feel the ghost of the pulse line flattening on a trauma patient, the cold sting of antiseptic on your skin.

Frank exhaled a low sigh beside you. “Goodnight, Nurse Sunshine.”

You smiled faintly as your eyes stayed on the ceiling. “There it is.”

A beat.

Then his voice, faintly curious: “There what is?”

“Your teasing.” You turned slightly to glance over your shoulder at him. “You’ve been weird all night. Frank Langdon with a filter is too nice—I thought you’d finally burned out.”

He made a soft sound—a half-scoff, half-humorless laugh. “What, were you hoping for something else? Is that it? Next time, I’ll insult your handwriting and throw a chair for balance.”

“Christ.” You cursed, gaze flicking toward the ceiling to hide your humor. “Forgot how soothing your bedside manner was.”

Frank shifted behind you, the mattress dipping further under the redistribution of weight. You turned to face him more fully, your arm folding under your cheek.

He was already watching you. Not with the usual glint. No smirk, no challenge. Just something unreadable. Curiosity, maybe. Or restraint. Tired, yes—but present. Focused.

Neither of you spoke.

The room pulsed with something heavier than words. The kind that sits just under your breastbone and hums. You could feel the heat of him, the nearness. Your limbs didn’t ache at the warmth, but your chest did.

You could see everything in this light—the faint scar on his chin, the deeper ones in his eyes. He looked lighter, too, in this space. Less Langdon: The Golden Boy and more man with a worn-down mattress, a mess of half-open boxes, and a T-Rex toy in the corner, no one had stepped on yet.

He didn’t reach for you. Didn’t lean in. But he didn’t look away either.

“I’m not the only one off tonight.”

“Yeah?” It was more of a confirmation than a question, but you still asked.

He gave the smallest nod, the kind you’d miss if you weren’t looking right at him.

“You’re not usually this…” He trailed off. The corner of his mouth tugged like he meant to make a joke of it, but couldn’t find the punchline.

“Don’t read into it. I’m just… tired.” Your voice was a breath more vulnerable than you wanted.

Then, lips quirking faintly: “You’ve been tired before. I’ve never seen you like this.”

You swallowed hard. Your throat felt dry. Frank studied you a beat longer, then let his head fall back on the pillow with a lazy sigh.

“I guess all it took was getting you in my bed.”

You huffed, less annoyed, more amused. The laugh escaped before you could catch it, surprising even yourself. But it lingered there, in the warmth between you, in the nearness that should’ve felt strange. It should’ve felt wrong.

“Just a long week.”

Frank nodded. “It’s been a long decade.”

“You too, huh?” You offered a slow shrug, letting your arm drape over your stomach like a flag of surrender. “Turns out watching people fall apart for a living isn’t super rejuvenating.”

Frank didn’t smile, but there was something in his face, recognition, maybe. Or guilt, worn soft by time.

The bed dipped again as he shifted, stretching his legs. His hand brushed yours, not enough to be deliberate, but enough to jolt something loose. You didn’t move it away.

“I almost called you last week.” Frank nodded once, small and tight, like the words had cost him more than he wanted to admit. “After that DOA in Trauma 2.”

“Why didn’t you?”

He was quiet long enough that you thought he wouldn’t answer.

Then, finally: “Didn’t want to make it—Didn’t want to… need something from you.”

That did something to your chest. Twisted it.

You could’ve made a joke. Dodged it. Asked about his IKEA allergy, but you didn’t. Instead, your fingers curled closer to his on the sheets, knuckles almost brushing.

You let everything settle, let it fold around you like a blanket that didn’t quite reach the feet.

Yet, you still whispered, “I’m here now.”

Frank didn’t say anything. But he didn’t move either. And in that moment, still and peaceful, the air between you did what the hospital never let it do—it breathed.

If you’d asked yourself at the beginning of the shift whether you’d end up here—in Frank Langdon’s bed, staring at the ceiling with your pulse in your ears—you would’ve assumed you'd collapsed into a coma and someone was feeding you fevered hallucinations out of spite.

You blinked slowly. Your eyes didn’t open again right away. The mattress was too warm. Your limbs too heavy. Everything floated.

The fluorescent-bright hospital was a universe away now. But for a second, your mind drifted there—half-asleep, half-aware—and you saw Frank again the way you had earlier that night.

Not with his usual sharpness. Not bored, or cracking some off-color remark to distract from the tension in the room. But listening. He’d knelt next to an elderly man in Trauma 3, held his hand when the monitors began to drop, and whispered something—something kind, but you couldn’t hear the words. It had stopped you cold. The grief in Frank’s face wasn’t performative. It wasn’t for anyone’s benefit. It was real.

You saw it. You felt it. Something in you shifted then, even if you didn’t want to name it. He hadn’t seen you watching and maybe that’s why it stuck.

Now, here, in his bed—not touching, but close—you wondered if that shift was still echoing somewhere close. You turned your face back toward the window. Let your eyes follow the glint of rain on glass.

And then—

“Am I too lucky to think this’ll carry into tomorrow?” Beside you, Frank’s breath was steady and slow.

Frank’s words were measured, like he wasn’t quite asking, but already knew the answer might disappoint him.

“I can be bribed with coffee.” You slurred just slightly from the edges of exhaustion.

A beat of a pause, then you heard the way he exhaled—half a chuckle, half a release of something else. Something heavier.

“You drive a hard bargain.”

“I’m a nurse.” Your words ran together in a whisper. “We run on spite and caffeine.”

Frank shifted slightly, and you felt the faint brush of his knee against yours under the blanket. It wasn’t intentional. Probably.

That the warmth blooming low in your chest had nothing to do with him, or the softness he showed when he didn’t think anyone was watching. That the way your voice had dropped, the way your guard had slipped, wasn’t because of the look he gave you now, or the subtle way he’d been retreating all night like he didn’t trust the shift between you.

You told yourself all of that, but you didn’t move away. And neither did he.

Outside, the storm calmed to a hiss. The sirens faded. Somewhere in the next room, the heater kicked on again with a clunk. Familiar, homely, mundane.

You just lie there. Still. Frank shifted slightly, breath transitioning into the rhythm of sleep. And maybe tomorrow, in the bright buzz of hospital fluorescents, it would be like nothing happened at all. But tonight, in the hush of the storm and the slow exhale of sleep, something had shifted.

And neither of you had run.

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