Chapter Text

And the doors are closing, and you were waving

And I like you, and I'll never let it show

And you won't wait, and maybe I won't mind

September 2026

On Tuesdays, Becca stays at the Center until ten o’clock for board game night. It’s been a part of her routine for about a year now, and in those early days, Mel found herself unbearably lonely. The first or second or third week in—he’s lost track by now—Frank had offhandedly mentioned coming over to keep her company when their schedules allowed. What began as beer and takeout with an old sitcom in the background transformed into something sacred. Inside Mel’s Google Drive, there was a spreadsheet of carefully curated movies—alternating between his and her picks, in fairness—with accompanying thematic recipes. Like that old show, remember? Dinner and a Movie?, he’d asked her. She hadn’t, but Mel immediately took to the idea. By the end of the night, they’d had a running list of fourteen films. 

That had been twenty-three films ago. 

On Tuesdays, Frank spends three hours at Mel’s side, loving but not touching her, as penance for a lifetime of fuck-ups. He steals glances as she watches the movies with rapt attention while pretending the two inches of space between them is a chasm he cannot cross. For all that she complains about his temperature, Mel radiates warmth: bundled up in a hoodie she steals from his closet upon arrival and drapes over the kitchen chair before leaving. Once, when she’d had to shower at his place, the scent of her body wash and shampoo clung to the cotton like it never had before or since. Frank wasn’t proud of what he’d done after she’d left. 

Tonight, his arm rests along the back of the couch, so close that he could drag his fingers along the exposed skin of her shoulder. Mel munches on the hot honey butter popcorn she’d made— ‘He Popped the Question’ Popcorn, its thematically appropriate title, which Mel takes very seriously—while 27 Dresses plays. 

Frank’s too busy committing each freckle on her cheek to memory—barely registering the two sister characters walking in the park—when Mel takes the remote, pressing pause. Setting the popcorn bowl aside, she shifts to bring her leg onto the couch cushion, angling towards him. 

When Mel has something on her mind, her face communicates a lot before she ever opens her mouth: lips thin, nose scrunches, brows raise and then pull tight. Frank hasn’t yet broken himself of desiring to reach out and stroke her arm to let her know he’s here and ready to listen. He has, however, managed to stop himself from doing it. 

“Did I tell you that my cousin asked me to be in her wedding next year?” she says.

“You didn’t mention it. Why? Is something wrong?” 

“No, nothing like that.” Mel pauses and then shakes her head. “It’ll be the fourth time I’ve been asked to be someone’s bridesmaid. Actually, if you count all the times Becca pretended to marry Justin Timberlake when we were kids, it’s probably closer to twenty-seven by now.” 

It’s painfully obvious where this conversation is headed. Mel’s not exactly had much luck in the dating department, and Frank can’t help but think some of that is his fault. 

No, he knows it is; her last boyfriend referred to himself as the third wheel often enough. After a very public break-up at Cassie’s birthday party, his parting words to Frank had been you can have her back when Frank followed him to the parking lot. His own she never left response earned him a split lip, a small price to pay for the satisfaction. 

Still, Frank tries to reroute her line of thought with a little humor, hoping she’ll take the bait but all too aware that she likely won’t. 

“Timberlake? Becs is out of his league.” 

No laugh. 

No anything. 

Frank braces for impact. 

“I’ll be thirty next week.” 

He knows. Frank finished planning the surprise party for her and Becca a month ago. Just a few friends, their favorite takeout, and the kids’ room converted into a sensory-friendly space. Last week, he’d found the perfect gift for Becca—top of the line noise canceling headphones for the upcoming Pens’ season—but he was still struggling with Mel’s. 

The problem is that it has to say enough without saying too much, which is probably fucking stupid. His feelings aren’t a secret. Sure, they both pretend that the night his divorce was finalized never happened, that it’d been some drunken mistake. 

But Frank can’t forget everything they’d said to each other as he moved inside her: he’s in love with her; she'd been waiting for him her whole life. 

Mel tucks her knees against her chest, curling up tight. The urge to take her hand is almost too much. 

“Do you know how long it's been since I’ve been on a date?” she asks. 

“A while?” he wagers, trying to keep himself from getting sick at the thought. 

“Eight months. That creep who wouldn’t stop calling me even though I said I wasn’t interested.” 

Yeah, he remembers. He’d camped out at Mel and Becca’s place, ready to catch a charge if the guy so much as stepped foot on the apartment complex grounds. On the fourth night, he and Mel built a blanket fort in the living room and laid side-by-side. Mel pressed her fingers between his under the tv’s low light. It’s the only time either of them dared mention the night they’d slept together. 

“Hey, we all have dry spells,” he says gently. “It’s not about you.” 

Mel picks at the fraying edges of the hoodie’s cuffs. “I’m ready to find someone, Frank. I love Becca so much, but I want our family to be bigger than just the two of us. I think I’m finally at a place where I’m willing to let someone shoulder some of this responsibility, which is scary and exciting.” 

The confession tugs at some vulnerable part of him. He desperately wants to be that someone. He wants her and Becca to be a part of his family, the five of them together. While he can’t pinpoint the exact moment, Frank’s known for a long time that it was always supposed to be this way. 

And more than his own certainty, Frank can tell that Mel wants him to be that person too. She’d make a shit poker player with the way her desires are written all over her face. The only thing that he’s uncertain about is whether she’s trying to hide those desires or not. 

But as much as he would love to give her everything, he can’t. Six months ago he relapsed, his second in two years. His sponsor reminded him how the rules for the first year of recovery were there for a reason. Men smarter and more disciplined than him had found themselves at the bottom of a bottle or with a needle in a vein because they’d thought the rules were meant for weaker people. Ego, kid, he’d said with a voice rough from forty years of cigarette use. And you got plenty of it.

This time around is different. He’d learned the hard way that he wasn’t the exception; he was the fucking rule. It’d cost him two months of supervised visits with his kids before Abby could trust him again and the fragile thing he’d been rebuilding with Robby went to hell too—Robby so disappointed as he shoved a piss cup into Frank’s hands. 

He’d been walking a tightrope with Mel since the night of his divorce. Sometimes he lost his footing, barely regaining his balance. For her sake, he should push her away, but he can’t because he’s a selfish prick. Mel’s his best friend, the only one who gets him. They need each other. 

But she deserves someone incredible, and that’s not him. At least not right now. Frank refuses to ask her to wait around for him, especially when she’s ready for something serious. 

“You’ll find him, Mel. And when you do, he better know just how goddamn lucky he is.” 

She nods, wiping away a stray tear. For the sake of his sobriety, Frank tells himself they’re hopeful tears. When she’s married to a man who worships her with a nice house and pudgy babies—the whole white picket dream—maybe she’ll even thank him for this. 

***

December 2026

Third time lucky. 

Frank reminds himself, repeating it over and over. His mind’s a chaotic place where nothing seems to stay around for long except the worst of his vices, but sometime between the twelfth and twentieth repetition it usually sticks like a curling post-it note hanging on for its life. Good enough for now. 

His total sobriety will be worth it even if a couple beers would make the ED’s holiday party a hell of a lot more bearable. He doesn’t exactly mind listening to Dana’s daughter’s college stories or Princess’ messy, if bougie, dating exploits. Robby’s judgmental glances roll right off his back at this point, and the Friday night crowd at Steel City Brews isn’t even all that bad when he slips away for a refill of his Coke. But, mix them altogether after a series of miserable shifts and suddenly he wants to crawl out of his skin. 

Just as he’s about to step away from the group gathered around Jesse to hear about his plans to meet his boyfriend’s family over Christmas, Frank feels a tap on his shoulder. He turns around to see Becca, decked out in an Elf sweater—emblazoned with You Sit on a Throne of Lies with the Buddy hat atop the text—and sparkly, peppermint candy earrings. 

“Hey!” he says, holding up his hand for a fist bump, Becca’s preferred greeting right now. 

She fist bumps him back. “Hi, Frank! Mel said this would be a good party, but there are no hot wings.” 

Frank can tell from the annoyed wiggle of her nose that this is both a tragic oversight on the part of whoever planned this party—they’d better hope Becca doesn’t get their name; she will send an email with unsolicited feedback—and a problem she wants him to remedy.

Something slides into place in his brain, drowning out everything else. He can fix this. Be useful. Other than his children, there are very few people he likes taking care of more than Mel and Becca. Suddenly, Frank feels like he has a purpose. 

“You’re right. How about we find the server and order some on my tab?” 

“I would like that,” Becca says with a nod. 

As they wind their way through the clusters of ED staff to the front of house, Frank wonders what made Becca wander off in the first place. She’s also easily overwhelmed and doesn’t stray too far from Mel for the first thirty minutes of any event unless she’s bothered or bored. 

“Where’s your sister?” 

“Mel is introducing everyone to her new boyfriend.” 

Someone might as well have thrown cold water on him, a complete shock to his system. So much so that he stops for a second in the doorway. He should be happy for her; this is what he wanted, after all. 

Still, Frank feels like he’s being dethroned from his position as number one man in her life. He hates how riled up he gets, it’s so fucked up and selfish. The first time it’d happened, three months after he’d returned from his leave of absence, Yoyo told him he’d made such an ass of himself that he might as well have pissed on Mel to mark her. If it’d only happened once, Frank might've been able to blame the booze he’d still been drinking back then. But four times? Four times definitely counts as a pattern of dickish behavior. 

“Oh yeah?” he asks, catching up to Becca. “What’s he like?” 

“He doesn’t buy me hot wings,” Becca replies, perturbed. 

The fact that this guy doesn’t meet Becca’s needs has him puffing up like some fucking bird. Clearly, he’s the superior male specimen and provider. It’s pathetic. He’s so fucking glad Yo and Cassie aren’t here to witness this. 

After placing their order and snagging a booth near the window—she likes the lights decorating the shops across the street—Frank takes refuge in Becca’s presence. She catches him up on what’s going on at the Center: there’s  Christmas cookie decorating early next week and music on Christmas Eve. Apparently, drama went down over Secret Santa, and Becca spends five minutes explaining the intricate connections between everyone involved, complete with a napkin diagram. Frank’s more invested than he has any right to be. 

When the wings come, Becca’s halfway through a video of Malkin at doggy daycare, having already exhausted photos of Tanner’s latest Lego creations. Technically, he’s fulfilled his duties to Becca, but Frank’s enjoying her company far too much to excuse himself. Becca doesn’t mind either; she’d tell him if she wanted him to leave. The only real risk to sticking around is running into Mel and her plus one, which is bound to happen sooner or later anyway. 

Later, as it turns out. 

Becca and Frank are two Shirley Temples deep—the food having long since been demolished—when Mel finds them an hour or so later, the boyfriend tagging along behind her. He’s tall, red-headed, and wears glasses. Good looking in maybe a nerdy kind of way, Frank thinks. On the surface, there’s nothing especially threatening about him. However, as soon as he sees the way Mel looks at the guy like he hung the moon, Frank bristles. Their matching ugly Christmas sweaters send him over the edge. 

When Frank stands to greet Mel with a hug, a hey, sweetheart slips past his lips. It’s not exactly intentional—in fact, it's a habit—but if grilled, Frank would say he isn’t sorry for it. His better angels seem to be nowhere in sight at the moment. 

“I have someone I want you to meet,” Mel says, tugging the guy forward by the hand. “This is Louis, my boyfriend.” 

Frank extends his hand. “Frank Langdon.” 

“Louis Barnes, like Mel said.” He shakes Frank’s hand. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet the best friend.” 

“I’m her best friend,” Becca chimes in, turning suddenly irritable. She stands up, abandoning her half-sipped Shirley Temple. “I have to pee.” 

As she walks past, Becca stares daggers into Louis. Mel shivers in discomfort, and Louis grimaces, painfully aware that was a misstep with Becca. If he were a better man, Frank might give Louis a book’s worth of instruction on navigating the delicate dynamic between the King sisters. He’s spent nearly two years observing them, making notes in his mental margins with every interaction until he grasped Mel and Becca. At the end of the day though, it all boiled down to one thing: you’d always been on the outside looking in. The moment you thought their worlds spun around anyone else but each other was the beginning of the end. Frank doesn’t mind; he loves them both. But he knows for some guys it might just be too much. 

(He kind of hopes Louis is one of them.) 

Frank shoves his hands in his pockets. “So how did you two meet?” 

“It was at PTMC actually,” Louis says.

“Yeah? You come in for something?” 

“Oh, no. Actually, I’m in healthcare IT and cybersecurity.” He chuckles. “So funny story—” 

—Mel swallows hard and shakes her head, but Louis misses it entirely—

“—your ER was using Google Sheets for patient tracking. I can’t begin to tell you the number of HIPAA protections that violated. I came in as a favor to the director to install the new tracking software.”

“Ah, so you’re the guy I have to thank for my patients-seen-per-hour rate slowing by twenty percent?” 

Even though he says it like a joke, Mel scowls and thins her lips at him. He should’ve known she’d clock that one; he’s been bitching about the new software for almost two months now.

“Guilty,” Louis admits with a laugh, throwing his hands up like he’s been caught out. 

“Oh, um, Louis likes professional sports,” Mel explains, giving Frank a look that clearly means he’s supposed to ask Louis about this, something Mel thinks they have in common. 

“Who’s your team?” 

Next to Louis, Mel beams. Her smile could knock him on his ass on the best of days. He’s so caught up in it that he barely hears Louis’ answer. 

“Riverhounds?” Frank repeats. 

He’d played soccer in high school and still catches the Premier League games every now and then. While Frank isn’t under any illusion that he’s going to be good friends with this guy, he could sit on Mel’s couch and catch a match with him, at least in theory, to make her happy. 

“God no, I don’t know the first thing about soccer,” Louis replies. “I said Thunderbirds.” 

“Can’t say that I’ve heard of them.” 

“Well you’re missing out then! They’re Pittsburgh’s Ultimate frisbee team.”  

Alright, this guy has to be fucking with him. Ultimate frisbee? Frank didn’t even know there was a professional organization for fucking frisbee, nevermind a professional team in Pittsburgh. He glances in Mel’s direction to see if this is some kind of strange joke, but she seems so earnest. 

Maybe catching his uncertainty, she adds, “Louis is going to take me to a game next season.” 

“If you’re unfamiliar, I can tell you about it,” Louis offers. “Let me get you a beer.” 

Frank really, really wants to take him up on that. The rest of his second Shirley Temple is not going to cut it, that’s for damn sure. Just as he starts to feel the give in his resolve—alcohol isn’t what landed you in rehab; what’s one drink?—Frank shuts it down. That’s not the man he wants to be—not for himself, not for the kids, not for Mel and Becca. 

(He’s not sure that last one is even allowed to cross his mind now, but it will anyway.) 

“No, thanks.” 

“Come on, you’re Mel’s best friend. It’s on me,” Louis presses. 

What the fuck is with this guy? Frank wonders if he always struggles to take no for an answer, if he needs some sort of explanation before he’ll let up. He didn’t really care for the guy before for selfish reasons, but this has him legitimately angry now. The only thing that has him suppressing that anger is the clear distress on Mel’s face. 

“Louis—” 

“Nah, man,” he interrupts, forcing a smile. “I’m good.” 

***

May 2027

When he has thirteen months of sobriety under his belt, Frank gives himself permission to find a steady fuckbuddy. After a year of app hook-ups when he’d needed to let off some steam, the familiarity is a relief—he’s been a serial monogamist ever since he’d felt his first pair of tits. 

Natalie checks a lot of his boxes: whip smart, gorgeous in that girl-next-door way, and completely immune to his charms. Her career in sports journalism and semi-recent divorce to a complete pill mean they don’t lack for conversation. That is, when they aren’t making better use of their mouths. Most importantly, he doesn’t have to explain anything to her. Her son has been on the periphery of Tanner’s friend group for four years now, which means she’s heard everything there is to know about him from Abby. Nat insists half the shit was just Abby being a bitch and the rest didn’t matter since she has no intention of getting emotionally involved with him. The only relevant information was that he has a nice dick and isn’t afraid to eat a woman out. So far, they’re getting along great. 

It’s a comedy of errors that has her next to him in his car tonight. A few weeks back the whole thing got rolling. With Mel working over to cover for Samira, Frank volunteered to go with Becca to the Science Center’s Culinary Chemistry night event. They weren’t five minutes from Mel and Becca’s apartment when his phone rang from the dash mount, Natalie’s photo popping up. As she’d debriefed him on the situation—burst pipe emergency at the boys’ karate studio; did he want to pick-up Tanner from hers later or arrange something with Abby?—Becca kept giving him the look. 

“Was that your girlfriend?” she’d asked when the call disconnected. 

“Just a friend, Becs.” 

“A sex friend?” 

He really shouldn’t have been surprised, but sometimes Becca still managed to catch him off guard. He’d paused too long, telling Becca everything she’d needed to know. His fumbled no had been drowned out over her enthusiastic I’m glad you have a sex friend! And before he’d known it, Mel called to ask him to go on a double date with her and Louis. 

Louis, who was still around. Still making Mel happy with his sappy love poems, impromptu photoshoots with his stupid film camera, and bouquets of flowers just because. Louis, who sleeps next to his girl twice a week and once left a hickey on her collarbone that couldn’t entirely be hidden by her scrub top. 

(The hickey had haunted him. He’d left his own on Mel’s body. Remembered all the little sighs and moans Mel had made as he sucked them into her skin. That she’d let Louis have her the same way she’d let him cut him deeply and festered with every overheard story or text. Not that he had any right to be mad.) 

Frank had put her off for a month, but Mel had been relentless. She’d finally got him to agree after cornering him in the breakroom, pleading with those brown eyes. So he’d asked Nat to come along. She’d been kind enough not to hang up on him when he’d begged her to go—you think I’m saying no to a free dinner, Langdon? In this economy?—agreeing under the condition that he fuck her brains out afterwards. 

“Just to clarify,” Natalie begins as he turns into the restaurant’s parking lot. “Is this the same Mel who Abby thought you were having an affair with?” 

“Yes, but I wasn’t having an affair,” he explains, scanning for an open space. 

“Did you want to?” 

Frank gives her a withering look. “Nat, c’mon.” 

She shrugs, unbothered. “I just want to know how I’m supposed to play this. If you’re into her, I could pretend to be your girlfriend. Make her jealous.” 

“This is a double date. She’s been seeing this guy for something like six months.” 

“You hate him.” 

“No one is ever going to be good enough for Mel,” Frank says, finally finding a spot after circling the building three times and putting the car in park. “That includes me.” 

Natalie confuses Mel. Not immediately, of course. Introductions go fine, better than they had with Louis at least. But before long, Frank catches the little tilt to Mel’s head and the hyperfixation on Nat’s hands, first when Nat straightens his collar—maternal, as far as Frank is concerned—and then when she eats an appetizer off his plate, a habit born of one too many weeks spent in sports bars watching the game together. His heart flickers to life at the thought that maybe Mel is feeling territorial, that this shitty behavior might go both ways. Ever a man of science, Frank decides to test that theory. 

When he puts his arm across the back of Nat’s chair and strokes her bare arm with his fingers, Mel noticeably straightens in her seat. 

When he repeats to the server that Nat has a shellfish allergy, to please double check with the chef, and orders her another glass of wine, Mel frowns, her brow knitting. 

When he brushes Nat’s blonde hair behind her shoulder and helps her with her pashmina when she gets chilled, Mel glances sideways. 

Not his imagination then. 

God, it felt so fucking good to have her attention again after months of barely seeing her. 

And it’s not just Frank who notices. Louis starts fiddling with the thin space between his watch links every time Mel takes a deeper breath than normal, usually whenever Frank shifts to touch Nat or vice versa. Knowing that he’s getting under Louis’ skin amuses him. Frank crosses his legs and relaxes into his seat, his eyes trained on Louis’ fidgeting fingers. 

While they wait for the main course, Louis steers the conversation to things that he and Mel have done recently—all so romantic that they made Mel cry, of course: the sunset dinner river cruise, visiting Phipps for the spring flower and symphony show, checking out the Van Gogh immersive art exhibit when it was in town. 

“So what do you two do for fun?” Louis asks, his smirk sharp.  

Nat hums. “Fuck, mostly.” 

Mel coughs as if something just caught in her throat. As he rubs Mel’s back, Louis looks like the cat who just got the cream. Frank wants to punch him. 

“Not much of a romantic, Frank?” 

“I didn’t say that,” Nat adds, placing her hand on Frank’s thigh, her fingers brushing against the inseam of his pants—intimate, not inappropriate. “We’re in that honeymoon phase. Can’t get enough of this guy. You know how that is, right?” 

The bottom of Mel’s wine glass dings against her plate as she sets it down. 

“I meant to send you some pictures the other day,” Mel tells Frank, her hands in her lap and smile tight. “I was trying to show Kim the sculpture Becca did for the Center’s art show in 2025, and I came across photos from when we took the kids to the Pens game. D-do you remember?” 

“You kidding me?” Like he would ever forget a second with Mel and the kids. “It was the first time Carleigh swore at a ref. One of my proudest moments as a father.” 

“Kozari or McCauley?” Natalie asks.  

Frank laughs. “Kozari.” 

“And that older woman sitting behind us,” Mel interjects quickly before quieting. “That comment she made.”

Yeah, he vaguely recalls her. She was there with her son and grandson, and her coat fell against Mel, startling her. Once he knew Mel was alright, he hadn’t been able to focus on anything other than the faceoff down on the ice, which they’d fucking lost and gave up a breakaway goal. By the time he’d tuned back into the conversation, the older woman was telling Mel they had a beautiful family, that their little girl looked just like her. 

(Carleigh actually looks like him, but he wishes he had a nickel for every time someone thought she was Mel’s daughter when they both wore their double french braids and the same earrings.) 

That night Frank had let himself dream a little on the way home, both kids passed out in the back of the car and Mel at his side, helping him navigate the clusterfuck of downtown traffic. Maybe that’s all it’ll ever be with Louis around, some fucking asshole’s pathetic pipe dream.

“She thought we were married,” Frank clarifies, looking at Nat but not really speaking to her. He thinks for a minute and then adds, “That would put Tanner’s birth in my first year of residency and your third year of med school? I would’ve been worried sick about you.” 

“I would have been fine, Frank,” she says, blushing. “Plenty of women get advanced degrees during pregnancy.” 

“‘Plenty of women’ aren’t my wife, so…” he shrugs. 

Lips parting, Mel’s eyes search him. He can easily imagine her bringing her hand to her sternum to self-soothe, but it stays fisted on her lap. 

Louis clears his throat and takes her hand, pressing her fingers open to uncurl them. “Did Mel mention we went to a Pirates game last weekend? We were only a few seats away from being on the kiss cam.” 

Raising her hand, he brings her fingers to his lips. Frank can’t help but notice that Mel’s hand is limp. While she may be looking at Louis, she’s not giving him her attention in the way that he thinks she is. Frank knows what Mel looks like when she’s focused—during a delicate procedure; when she’s trying to perfectly match her, Becca’s, and Carleigh’s braids; as she’s planning her next move in Battleship on board game night. This is a far cry from that.  

“We were thinking about taking all three kids next month,” Natalie explains. “I snagged some tickets through work.” 

Mel’s expression turns weary. 

The tension eases over dinner and dull conversation about the food, the rainy weather, and the ongoing construction on Veteran’s Bridge. At some point, Louis checks his phone and excuses himself for some work emergency. But Frank’s mind is elsewhere, taking slow sips of his drink and trying to talk himself into believing that Mel is happy with this guy. She had been in December, so what changed? Or are they just catching them on an off night? God knows he had enough of those with Abby even before things took a turn. 

“Does he do that often?” Nat asks. 

Mel tilts her head. “Excuse me?”

“Louis. Is he a workaholic?” she clarifies. “I guess that’s a disingenuous question. I know the type. I was married to one for fifteen years. You didn’t ask, but I’m going to say it anyway: they don’t slow down even though they promise they will. Oldest lie in the book right after ‘I won’t come in your mouth.’” 

Frank chokes on his water, and Mel’s cheeks redden. 

“We’re both guilty of it. My schedule isn’t any better, but you know that.” Mel gestures towards Frank to make her case. “It doesn’t leave a lot of time for dating or… or family.” 

“I don’t know about that,” Nat says, placing her hand on top of his and squeezing. “This one is getting better about it. I keep telling him the kids are at an age where they’ll really notice he’s not around if he keeps taking those extra shifts. Try to get his head on straight before he has rebellious teens on his hands.” 

“The parental guilt is very sexy,” Frank replies dryly. 

“Mm, anyway I’m going to excuse myself to the ladies’. Back in a few.” 

Once Frank treasured his time alone with Mel. Hell, if someone had asked him if he wanted to hang out with her, just the two of them, an hour ago, he would have said yes without hesitation. Now, though, things feel different. He feels different. Unsteady. Like he doesn’t know how to talk to her. Like he doesn’t know where he stands. 

Because everything he heard and saw before tonight suggested that Mel finally had someone whom she loved. He didn’t like it, but he spent six months learning how to live with it, even if it was through avoidance. He isn’t so big an asshole that he couldn’t admit she deserved to have someone put her on a pedestal even if that guy wasn’t him. But now? Frank’s starting to question how true that is deep down—if she’s happy, if Louis treats her as good as she implies he does, if Louis knows her as well as he should. Not that it matters for him—for them—anyway.  

“Natalie seems nice,” Mel says, breaking the silence. 

“She is. We’re having fun.” 

“She’s good for you…” 

Based on her tone, Frank can’t tell if that’s a statement or a question. It’s also unclear if Mel is any more certain. But in both cases, the answer is the same. 

“Yeah, she keeps me honest, which I need in my life right now. It’s probably the healthiest… thing… situationship?… I’ve ever had. I don’t know what that says about me.” Frank laughs bitterly. “Actually, I do.” 

“So you’re not…?” Mel asks hesitantly, unable to look him in the eye. 

“It’s complicated.” 

It really isn’t. The fact that they both know where the emotional lines are drawn is what makes it so fucking functional, Frank suspects.

Mel lifts her gaze briefly. “Is there a reason why?” 

You, he wants to say. He doesn’t though because some fundamental truths still hold even in the face of all that he feels for Mel King. He learned the hard way that those guidelines for the first year of sobriety still hold true after the milestone. There’s no dramatic shift between 365 days sober and 366 that makes you any more capable of handling big life changes. Frank doesn’t feel any wiser or more qualified at 416. If anything, the only thing clearer this time around is that he’s far less unshakable than he thought the first or second time. 

Two weeks ago, he’d nearly slipped up after he’d lost three kids to a house fire. The mother’s anguished cries played in loop for hours after Kiara escorted her from the ED. In those fragile moments, Frank calculated the dosage in his mind—how much did he need to turn down the volume and steady his hands? how much would land him in his own hospital bed?—and wracked his brain for relatively safe, non-hospital sources. He hadn’t used—pulled himself out of it with the help of his sponsor and three days of multiple NA meetings—but the temptation hit him harder than it had in months, so much so that it scared him.

He’s still not the man he wants to be for Mel. Her life has been so chaotic. First her dad’s death and then her mom’s. Moving. Caring for Becca. He can’t offer her the stability she deserves, and it’s a testament to his growth that he can see that. It’d be so easy to be honest because the answer would allow him to give in to his desires. But three years of grappling with addiction has taught him that the right way is usually the hard way.

“Commitment phobic, I guess,” he lies. “My 40 before 40 list doesn’t include a second divorce. I’d like to get it right next time.” 

Her shoulders drop. She stares down at her napkin, rubbing the corner between her fingers. 

“I think people should be with someone who makes them want to be better,” Mel explains. “If she does, then maybe your apprehension is a sign that you don’t want to mess things up. You can recognize how important your relationship is.” 

“She does, and I don’t want to,” Frank admits as he looks directly at her, but he’s not talking about Nat. “I’ve known that for a while now. And what about you, Mel?” 

“Me?” 

“Your boyfriend. Does he make you better?” 

Mel hesitates and then smiles weakly and nods. For the sake of his sanity, Frank pretends to believe her.

After dessert, they say their goodbyes in front of the restaurant. The hug he exchanges with Mel lingers a second too long, the press of her palm solid against his back. He can’t help but swipe his thumb beneath her neckline at her nape, the movement hidden by her fishtail braid. They draw back slowly, Mel turning her face so that a puff of breath brushes across his neck. It feels more intimate than anything he’s done this past year. 

If either Louis or Nat notices, they’re polite enough not to say. 

As soon as they get home—bedtime goodnights with the respective kids sorted out on the drive —Frank falls back onto the couch. He exchanges a brief look with Nat, her eyes sharp and dancing, before she slips into the bedroom. On any other night, the mystery in her gaze would make his heart work in double time. His dick would stiffen at the swish of her rounded hips, and his thoughts would flood with sense memories of their time together—the tackiness of her sweat-slicked skin, the smell of stale perfume on her tits, the loud moans she refuses to swallow so he gulps them down for her. 

Tonight though… tonight he’s not sure he can do this. The only thing that has him twitching is the ghost of Mel’s small hand against his shoulder, burning him as if marking him. (He’s hers. God, he’s always been hers.) And yeah, maybe Nat would be understanding if he just fessed up to it: that he can’t get Mel out of his head. But he still has to live with himself. Even if this thing between them is just sex, that doesn’t give him the right to be a jackass. 

After a minute or two, Frank stands, prepared to go into the bedroom and call this a night, apologize profusely because sex was part of the agreement. Except Natalie is already stepping back into the living room. 

His brain short circuits, blood pounding loud in his ears before rushing south. 

She has braided her honey-blonde hair over her shoulder and put on her glasses. (Blue light blockers for work, not prescription, thank god.) Her boyshort underwear peaks beneath his shirt from the hospital’s baseball rec league, LANGDON emblazoned across the back. 

Frank swallows. “What the hell are you doing?” 

Her tits hypnotically sway beneath his shirt. So much that he barely registers when she pushes him back on the couch, climbing onto his lap. 

“I’m giving you what you want,” she says, shrugging. 

“Nat, honey, c’mon. This…” 

Is what? 

Besides so incredibly fucked up. 

He presses the heels of his palms into his eyes, pained, but she draws them away and settles them on her thighs. 

“You’ve been very cool about my specific needs.” 

Frank snorts. “Fucking you up the ass isn’t what I’d call a hardship.” 

“Tell that to my ex,” she says, pulling a face that makes the mood lighten considerably. “And I wasn’t talking about that.” 

He knows. 

Frank had done ten days worth of research after she’d broached the subject just to be sure he understood it from all angles. All things considered, it’d been a big ask, but sex was kind of the point of what they were doing together in the first place. Both had desires that had gone unfulfilled with their exes, and once they’d realized that, that list had been a natural starting point for them. 

That night the sex had not really been his scene. Intense and ugly. Her tears hadn’t gotten him off, nor had her begging. In all honesty, they both knew it probably wouldn’t. He’d stopped once, her nonverbal check-ins not enough to settle his nerves, until she’d told him—mascara running, snotty nosed and hair wrecked—he was doing so good for her. If he could just give her a little more he’d see the payoff. And Frank had. After she’d dropped, he’d spent all night putting her back together; the carework, the trust, the intimacy getting him hard again. He’d rubbed himself off against her thigh, holding her in his arms. Then in the early morning, again, when she’d praised him over and over until he’d felt like he might go under. 

“That’s different,” he sighs. 

“Langdon,” Nat says, shifting closer. “I know you’re going to agree because you already have one hand on my ass, so why don’t we cut to the chase?” 

“I like you,” he admits, toying with her braid. “Not like that, but… you know, as a person. A friend. I don’t want to ruin a good thing by bringing my bullshit into this.” 

“I’m telling you to. It’s okay. Let me do this for you.” 

Frank imagines all the ways this might go sideways. This isn’t new; he’s fantasized about Mel before, with and without a partner present. If anything, it’s the more ethical way to go about it. Still, it takes him a moment to give himself permission, to relax into the fantasy as Nat helps him out of his pants. 

A few moments later, his eyes half-closed, Frank watches the subtle shift of that honeyed braid with every bob of her head. As he cradles her neck, he fingers the arm of her glasses tucked behind her ear and reads LANGDON over and over again until he can feel it in his pulse. See Mel behind his eyes. 

Before he can come in her mouth, Mel pulls off of him and guides him into the bedroom, tugging him along behind her. There, she settles onto the bed on her knees. Her back faces him and her braid taunts. Frank steps up behind her, reaching to carefully unloop the hair tie as if it held spun gold. 

Blonde hair spills. 

(A little too long.) 

He shuts his eyes and presses against her spine, inhaling the scent dabbed on her neck.

(A little too bold.) 

Fingers slip down her belly, catching on the bump of a cesarean scar—startling him, but no, no, he can work with this—and into her underwear. 

“Mel,” he groans, feeling the wetness between her folds. 

Her nails reach back and around to scratch at his scalp in a way that has him leaning to grind against her ass. 

“Tell me, Frank,” she says, (a little too high.) “Say it.” 

“God, baby, I love you.” 

Chapter Text

Rewriting old excuses

Delete the kisses at the end

When I see you, the whole world

Reduces to just that room

October 2027

He’s minding his own business, securing his badge to his scrubs and grabbing two cans of Red Bull for the fridge, when Dana leans up against the lockers, eyebrows raised. Her expression takes him back to summers in his teens—his most troubled years, thirties notwithstanding—when his mom would somehow find out every awful thing he did or said by the time he walked in the door. Frank’s immediately guilt-striken; he would love to know for what.

“You could have said something, you know,” Dana tells him, voice low. “I would have brought in a cake. That girl deserves to be celebrated.” 

“What are you talking about?” 

Dana rolls her eyes. “Yeah, okay. Loyal to a fault. Don’t know why I expected otherwise. She’s in the breakroom, kid.”

He finds out a couple minutes later that the “she” in question–presumably Mel–is in the breakroom like Dana said, along with a third of the ED staff hovering around her. Frank tries to catch sight of her, but only manages to see the back of her head in the crowd.

Frank licks his lips, hesitating for a moment. “What did I miss?” 

Lauren, one of the new interns—bubbly to the point of annoyance all the fucking time—chirps, “Dr. King got engaged!” 

Victoria elbows her sharply. 

His whole body goes numb. Vaguely, Frank registers that people are staring at him—Perlah glances at Princess and mouths something; Princess shakes her head subtly—but it’s all fuzzy at the periphery of his vision. It might last a minute. Maybe an hour. He inhales and first, a jagged pain returns. Then the churning of his stomach. It hasn’t been like this since rehab. Is he withdrawling? Is this some detox hallucination? God, he fucking hopes so because the alternative—

“Oh shit,” Santos curses beneath her breath. 

It’s enough to get the staff moving, finishing up whatever they’d come into the breakroom to do before the news broke. They filter out with quiet congratulations and, for those close to Mel, a hug. Eventually, it’s just the two of them left. Frank still can’t feel his face.

“I didn’t know how to tell you,” Mel explains, wringing her hands. 

He moves in a daze to put his Red Bulls in the fridge. Hallucination, Frank tells himself. Dad’s test results on Monday. I fucked up. The cold air suggests that might not be the case. The trembling touch of Mel’s fingers on his inner arm makes him more certain.

I fucked up. 

He did. He’s sure of it now as he meets her tear-soaked eyes. He never learned his lesson, not the first time or the second. Maybe if he’d been less stubborn and egotistical, he could have realized that radical change was the only way to turn his life around. And so he fucked up–he did–but it hadn’t been Monday. It’d been years ago. Three, in fact, almost to the day. That first relapse. Maybe if he’d known back then that he was going to fall in love with this woman, that he needed to be ready for her, he wouldn’t have bought those pills after he’d found the divorce papers.

Always the last to know, Frankie.

But he hadn’t known, so he bought them. He set himself on the path leading here—the moment when the woman he loves, who he would love until the day he died, said yes to some other guy. He only has himself to blame.

Searching, Frank finds the repugnant part of himself that he’d relied on every time he needed to lie when he was still using—to Abby, his kids, his parents, to Robby. He weighs the piece inside his heart, finding it solidly intact. He allows it to surface, to twist his lips into a smile so genuine, even Santos might buy it. 

Before heading out, Frank dips down and kisses her cheek. 

“I’m happy for you.” 

***

November 2027

It’s 6:40 a.m. when he clocks out on Thanksgiving morning. Abbot cut him loose early, giving him a chance to get some decent sleep before hauling the kids to dinner at his parents. While walking to his car, Frank catches up on a night’s worth of messages: Abby scheduling a pick-up time for that night, her and the kids heading to her family’s place in Norfolk for the weekend; Cassie bitching about the PGY2 in ortho, whose fuckup yesterday made it through the entire hospital by the second hour of Frank’s shift; and Natalie giving him a play-by-play of the game last night, topped off with a post-shower selfie. 

When he briefly looks up from typing out a message to Abby—making sure some sleep deprived asshole isn’t going to run him over as he crosses the street—Frank sees Mel heading his way. The sight of her surprises him. Since the engagement, they’ve been giving each other space, avoiding working on the same shift together when the circumstances allow. 

(And when circumstances don’t, somehow it’s worse. Even with this awful thing between them, they were still so in sync. As if the universe was taunting him, saying she’s right there, she’s been at your side this whole time. Maybe even right from the start.)

Mel should be in Boulder for the holiday. The only reason Frank knows that is because he overheard Santos say something during a post-shift, breakfast gathering two weeks ago. Clearly something changed since she’s here, still in her scrubs. 

“Mel, hey,” Frank says, stopping at the door to the parking garage stairs. “I didn’t expect to see you around today.” 

She readjusts the straps of her backpack, fidgeting. “Oh?”

“Santos mentioned you and Becca were heading to Colorado to spend Thanksgiving with Louis’ family.” 

He hates that he even has to say the guy’s name. Judging from the way Mel curls in on herself, it sounds as bad to her as it tastes on his tongue. The silence hangs between them. For a moment, Mel opens her mouth just to quickly shut it. Once, Frank thought they could tell each other anything, but maybe that’s  long passed. He finds it ironic how, on their first shift,  they communicated better as complete strangers than now.

“No,” Mel says, softly. 

“No?” 

“We changed plans.” 

“Is everything okay?” 

Frank ducks down to catch her eyes, eyes that are eager to avoid him. Tell me, sweetheart threatens to slip between his lips, his hands reflexively reach out for her. Comforting Mel—coaxing hesitant confessions out from her–is second nature to him, like it’s instinctually written into his DNA. 

(He remembers when he drew out the first I need you from her. Frank shushed and rocked her and pressed his cheek to her forehead, holding her tight. There’s been hundreds of I need yous since then, each making its lasting mark. But, none so much as the one he swallowed between their kiss-swollen lips as he stroked his fingers between her open thighs.)

“Fine,” she answers, gaze downcast. “We’ll go next year. This year just wasn’t right.” 

"Do you at least have plans?” 

“Ah no, not tonight. Becca and I are heating up a frozen lasagna after work. Next weekend’s Friendsgiving.” 

He immediately notices the absence of Louis’ name. Which either meant something came up with work or he ditched them for Thanksgiving with his family. Both scenarios piss Frank off. Not that it has any right to, especially when he hadn’t been the most considerate husband to Abby.

“Mel…” he sighs. 

“Don’t pity me, Frank.” She shakes her head. “I have to go.”

As Mel walks past him, Frank reaches out to stop her. She flinches away from him, the tiny movement soul-crushing. Obviously, Mel hasn’t always welcomed his touch, which had been a learning curve for someone as tactile as he was. Typically though, she follows up her avoidance with something so that he knows it’s not a him problem, just her headspace. That doesn’t happen now, so Frank raises his hands in surrender. 

“I’m sorry. I’ll let you go,” Frank explains. “Just… There’s plenty of food at my parents’ place. I know you’re working, but maybe I could take Becca? The kids would love to see her.”

The hard line of her mouth softens suddenly, her brows raising—hopeful and tender, his Mel. But something happens, causing her to close her eyes, drawing in a lengthy breath. Jesus. All he fucking does now is upset her. He used to know all the right things to say and do.

“That wouldn’t be a good idea. You know Becca doesn’t do well with disruptions to her schedule. Don’t worry about us.” 

“I do, sweetheart.” 

The words pierce him—a phrase he’ll never utter before her and a gathering of their friends. Worse, one that she’s planning to say to someone else in about a year from now if department gossip is to be believed. But all the same, he does say it. He would in a different world. The one where he’d got his act together sooner. 

Even if he can’t be that man for her now, that doesn’t mean he doesn’t care. He worries. He’s not going to stop, no matter how much distance each of them put between themselves for survival. Frank only wishes that it hadn’t come to this. They shouldn't be here at all. 

Mel pivots on her heel, heading towards the crosswalk, before she glances back. He watches her stop, indecisively biting her lip before taking two steps towards him and looking up into his eyes. 

“Thank you. For inviting Becca and… for the rest of it.” 

Even though she’d assured him they would be fine, Frank can’t get the image of Mel and Becca alone on Thanksgiving eating a shitty Stouffer’s out of his head. He reminds himself that he shouldn’t overstep, that he’s already on thin ice with Mel after their morning encounter. Yes, they’d parted on a relatively good note, but it could sour just as quickly. 

Frank goes to bed resigned, but by the second hour of no sleep, tossing and turning, he begins to talk himself into doing something. Nothing over the top, just leftovers. In fact, Mel doesn’t even need to be involved. 

While he’s waiting for the kids in Abby’s driveway, Frank texts Becca to see if she wants him to bring food by later.

Becca King [4:09 p.m.]

Will it be good???

Frank [4:09 p.m.]

my mom has never made a moist turkey in her life

the side dishes will be baller tho 

Becca King [4:10 p.m.]

But your mom made it? With love?

Frank [4:10 p.m.]

extra love

Becca King [4:10 p.m.]

I miss Mom’s dinners. 

I think she would be okay if I ate your mom’s turkey even if it sucks. 

Will there be dessert?

Frank [4:11 p.m.]

grandma’s making five different kinds of pie

Becca King [4:11 p.m.]

FIVE!!!

I want them all. 

Unless there is blackberry, which is a garbage flavor.

Frank smiles to himself and then sets up the kids’ chosen Spotify playlist as they come charging towards the car.

Around 9 p.m., he knocks on the King sisters’ apartment door, hands laden with enough tupperware leftover containers to feed an army. Becca answers almost immediately, as if she’d been standing there since he texted her his ETA after dropping off the kids. 

“Did you bring the pie?” she asks. 

“You think I’d show my face around here without it?” Frank lets his ring finger drop down and then raises it, signaling that it’s in that bag. “All five. No blackberry. Promise.” 

“I’m very happy!” 

Becca takes the bag in question from his finger and then gives him a quick hug. The gesture startles him. Becca’s not much of a hugger; he can count the number of times she’s given him one on one hand. So it’s special, so much so that there’s a lump suddenly in his throat at the feel of both arms around his back. They don’t stay there for longer than a second before she’s giddily heading into the kitchen. As she disappears, Frank catches sight of Mel in the living room, witness to it all.

Guilt pricks at his conscience. He’s not exactly sorry for crossing a line—how can he be when Becca hugged him—but he’s all too aware that he should be. Maybe Mel had tried to draw a boundary between them this morning. (Or last month. Or a year ago—he doesn’t fucking know; sometimes he misses things.) Whatever mess he’s made of this, he at least has the decency to look sheepish about it. Not that he thinks Mel notices, not with the way she stares at him, stunned. 

“Honey, I’m home?” he tries feebly. 

“I said we were fine,” Mel says softly. 

“Come on, Mel. Eating dry bird on Thanksgiving is tradition.”

Mel approaches him, taking two bags from his hands, silently earning him an invitation inside her apartmentShe lingers close to his side after locking the door behind them and as she  leads him into the kitchen, her subtle warmth tells Frank she might just forgive him. 

(He doesn’t deserve it.) 

“You’re really preparing us for this bad turkey, huh?” she says lightly. 

“The sides are—” 

“—baller. I heard.” 

Mel sets the bags on the counter, the small space suddenly taken up. Frank places his own on the island and then turns, the edge cutting into his back. But it’s okay. Good even. The discomfort and narrow strip of space between them is a reminder that there’s no peace to be found around here, not anymore. 

“I know I’m a dick for overstepping,” he admits, suddenly serious. 

Taking two steps forward towards him, Mel lifts her hand as if she might touch his chest and Frank holds his breath. Her fingers curl towards her palm, and she settles her knuckles against her sternum. When her gaze drops to her shoes, he fights the urge to tell her she shouldn’t have stopped. 

“Frank?” she asks, the vulnerable lilt to her tone triggering something visceral and possessive.  

“Yeah, baby?”

“I’m tired.” 

Mel exhales and closes her eyes, unbothered by the endearment. Frank doesn’t know if she means she’s exhausted from the shift or something else—bigger and consuming. Moving closer, he places his hands on her arms. Mel hums at the touch. 

“I’m sorry. We just got in fifteen minutes ago.” 

“Hey, do what you need to do,” Frank says gently. “I’ll start the food.” 

Taking a steadying breath, Mel hesitantly wraps her arms around his waist. Her forehead settles against him. Frank hugs her, allowing her to feel the weight of him. Giving her something to feel—solid and tangible—so she doesn’t get lost in her head. Her shoulders shake in his embrace. A moment later, he catches her whispered I’m so tired, and this time he understands. 

“Mel!” Becca says, breaking the spell. “Frank brought us pie! We can wear our Snoopy-with-the-pie-slice sweatshirts now!” 

Mel draws back, but it’s with little urgency. “That’s right. We can.” 

“You saved the day, Frank! Mel, go put on the shirt.” 

“I have to shower first,” Mel explains, the steadiness in her tone forced. 

“Hurry up,” Becca urges. “I’ll be right back.” 

As Becca takes off down the hall, Mel lingers. Her eyes search him, and it’s all Frank can do to resist kissing each line of worry on her face. 

“Go on,” he says gently, stroking her cheek with his thumb. “I’ve got this.” 

“I know,” she whispers, pained. 

Though it takes her a few seconds, she finally extracts herself and heads to her room. Frank starts unpacking the bags. As soon as his mom heard his two friends didn’t have anywhere to go on Thanksgiving—his two friends who are orphans—she’d gone over-the-top on the leftovers. She’d invited them to Christmas too, but Frank’s not touching that one with a ten foot pole. 

Behind him, he hears Becca wander into the living room and turn on the TV. If Frank remembers correctly, Thanksgiving involves a double feature of A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving and Garfield’s Thanksgiving topped off by You’ve Got Mail. 

“Frank?” 

He looks over his shoulder and across the little kitchen island. “Yeah?” 

“Please make my plate. I’ll eat on the couch.” 

“Sure thing.” 

Taking two plates from the cabinet, Frank scans the containers for the obvious things Becca likes: turkey, mashed potatoes, noodles. The balsamic brussel sprouts are safe, he decides. And if he so much as thinks twice on his aunt’s squash dish, Becca will never speak to him again; sage makes her gag. 

“Becs, where are we on sweet potatoes?” 

“It’s complicated.” 

“Leave them off the plate?” 

“Yes, please!” she chirps. 

After finishing off Becca’s plate and setting it aside, Frank starts loading food onto Mel’s. He’d learned her likes and dislikes long ago. Well enough, even, that she trusts him to check menus for her before trying new restaurants. 

Frank lingers over the last container, frowning. 

“Mel, do you want your stuffing in a separate bowl so it doesn’t get soggy?” he calls out. 

Thinking she might not have heard him from her bedroom, Frank turns to go and ask only to find her standing just inside the hall. He isn’t sure how long she’s been standing there. However long it’s been, it was long enough to upset her, her mouth tugging into a frown. She bites down on her bottom lip in an attempt to hide it from him, but it’s no use. He knows her too well. Before he can say anything, Mel retreats into the bath.  

Part of him says to let her go. To give her the space she needs to sort through her emotions and find steady ground again. But the other part has him easily convinced that that would be a terrible idea. There is no steady ground for her to find, not when she hasn’t been supported in a year. Mel’s doing everything herself again with the added pressure of a fresh engagement, a complicated holiday season, and needing to apply to an attending position once her fellowship is up. 

(Frank doesn’t know where she’ll end up, especially now. He doesn’t even want to fucking consider it.) 

“Becca,” he says, the decision a foregone conclusion really. “I need three minutes to check on your sister and then I’ll warm up your food.” 

“You can have five because Mel’s always crying lately. I’ll set a timer.” Becca holds up her phone. “She needs you to make her feel better. Louis sucks.” 

Yeah, he’s starting to see that. Well, not exactly. Frank never liked the guy in the first place, but he accepted that that was because Louis’ presence pushed him out of Mel’s life. He hadn’t realized before that Louis is actually shitty, his bias aside. Mel and Becca fucking deserve better. And while he can’t fix everything, he doesn’t have to accept his place on the sidelines. Not tonight, at least. 

Sighing, Frank heads to the bathroom, quietly knocking. With nothing to drown out the noise—no ventilation fan, no running water—he can hear Mel’s muffled cries. When he calls out, she doesn’t respond. Before he can overthink it, he lets himself inside. 

Mel sits on the lid of the toilet, a wad of toilet paper fisted in her hand. Shutting the door behind him, Frank eases onto the side of the tub, slowly so he doesn’t overwhelm her. The bathroom is tiny, affording them little personal space, his knee knocking against hers. 

“You okay?” he asks. 

Mel turns her face and dabs her nose. 

“Mel, if I did something–” 

“No,” she croaks. “Nothing bad.” 

Her shaking hand reaches for him, and Frank takes it. It’s small, tucked into his large palm. He knows it as well as his own. Even after all this time, he hasn’t forgotten the softness of her skin, save for the little rough patch on the edge of her index finger where her pens and stylus rest as she writes. It’s all he can do not to press kisses on the tips of each finger.

Finally, Mel looks back at him, eyes red-rimmed and lips puffy. 

“I thought Becca would be going with us to Boulder. When I explained her needs, h-he…” Mel thins her mouth, fighting back another wave of tears. “He said maybe it would be better next year… when we have more t-time to plan.” 

It’s fucked. The asshole knew he was going to propose to her—Frank’s had the goddamn play-by-play from half the ED by now—and it’s not as if Thanksgiving came out of nowhere. Of course Mel would want to spend the holiday with Becca. If this guy loved her, Mel and Becca wouldn’t be in this situation—unknowns minimized and access needs accounted for. 

He laces their fingers together. 

“Louis isn’t wrong,” she continues. “She gets overwhelmed by new environments and people. I just wanted…” 

She wanted a holiday with her entire family. Anyone who knows anything about Mel is all too aware of how important family is, particularly since she has so little of it. 

He’d do anything he could to take this heartbreak from her. 

“And then you come in,” Mel continues, exhausted. “Becca likes you so much. She trusts you. Everything is so easy and peaceful. When you’re here, I can just shut off my brain and know that you’ll take care of both of us.” 

She grips his hand suddenly. 

“I’m sorry. That’s so selfish of me. I don’t expect you to—”

He leans forward, and, with his palm on her nape, brings their foreheads together. “Shh, baby. I’m here.” 

Not her fiancé, but him. And there would have been a time in his life when he fixated on how Louis fails to measure up—hell, maybe it’ll still needle at him at some point—but right now, he’s more concerned with Mel. Mel, whose first instinct is neither self-preservation nor self-care. Mel, who would set herself on fire to keep her loved ones warm. It’s painfully apparent that no one has looked out for her the way she needs. 

The way he can. 

No, the way he will. 

“Come on,’ Frank says, standing and pulling her up with him. 

“Hmm?” 

When he draws her close, Mel looks at ease. He places his hand on the small of her back, the gentle nudge forward prompting her to tilt her head back to look at him. Her eyes widen slightly, searching. They flutter as he presses a kiss to her forehead. 

“Let’s turn off that beautiful brain of yours.” 

Mel sighs, relieved. “Okay.” 

Frank lifts the hem of her scrub top, pulling first the shirt and then her undershirt over her head. She’s not been bare like this since the night of his divorce, and he’d forgotten how the freckles on her chest made him want to drop to his knees. Her bra doesn’t help, plain and worn—practical, functional, honest. 

Checking her face for any hesitation or shame, Frank finds none. If anything, the way her breasts rise with every deepening breath suggests something else entirely. It gives him the confidence to reach around her back, unhooking her bra with one hand. 

Mel allows him to lift the straps from her shoulders and slide them down her arms, discarding it as soon as he’s able. The apartment isn’t particularly cold, but her nipples harden, small and dusty pink. 

(He remembers the feel of them on this tongue. Between his teeth. He remembers how Mel tightened her legs around his thigh as he sucked her into a frenzy.) 

Frank places his hands on the sides of her ribcage, the bottom of his palms and cuffs of his flannel shirt brushing against the curve of her breasts. 

“You’re doing great,” he soothes. “Almost there.” 

Stepping away for a second, he turns on the shower, temperature somewhere between the sixth and seventh circles of hell, exactly where Mel likes it. It’ll take a minute for the hot water to kick in. She desperately needs a new building, and for a minute there last year, Frank thought maybe he could convince her to move into his complex when the lease was up. Given the way she’s spiraled into exhaustion, he regrets not applying a little pressure; it wouldn’t have happened on his watch. 

When he shifts back, Mel is still half-dressed and waiting.

“Good girl.” 

“I’m trying.” 

“You’re perfect, sweetheart.” He touches her hips. “You just need a little help, that’s all.” 

His thumbs slide into her waistband. Frank kneels and pulls her pants with him. Her leg moves as he lifts her knee from behind, helping her step out of the clothing. Next come her socks, easily discarded. 

Mel looks down at him. Their eyes locked, Frank reaches for the band of her underwear. When she gives the most subtle nod, he slides them down. A smudge of wetness stains the gusset, unleashing a wave of want that’s difficult for him to control. 

Frank places a kiss beneath her bellybutton, allowing his lips to linger. Once isn’t a crime. Once can be dismissed as a mistake, a lapse in judgment from someone who has historically been known to lack it entirely at times. But when Mel cards her fingers through his hair, his resolve weakens further. Another one then, lower and so gentle that it might be accidental. Mel presses his forehead against her belly. 

The last time he’d been on his knees for her he hadn’t taken his time, fueled by alcohol and excitement. This is entirely different, heavy and sobering. They’ll need a different excuse this time around. Emotional vulnerability, maybe. Some justification for what he’s about to do. 

Sinking lower, he trails his nose along her skin until he meets the blonde hair on her pubic mound. At the apex of her lower lips, he kisses her, feather light. Even if she doesn’t want to cross any lines—ones they haven’t already crossed, he supposed—Frank needs her to understand that she’s wanted. He’s ready to worship her, to give her everything she deserves. 

“Frank?” she says, nudging him up. 

He doesn’t hesitate, not when she doesn’t want him down there anymore. Initially, his heart picks up pace at the thought he had messed up, and then it quickens further when Mel wraps her arms around his neck and pulls him into an open-mouthed kiss, slow and languid. He answers her, drawing her in close as he licks between her lips and groans. A few seconds pass before Mel pulls back. 

“Help me into the shower? I’ll slip.” 

Mel stands there, helpless, until he guides her over and directs her to step in, encouraging her to be careful. And he wants to join her, maybe more than he’s wanted anything in a long time. Not even for the sexual elements. No, Frank wants to step up behind her and carefully unbraid her hair. Direct her under the shower head to soak it. Lather up her shampoo and massage her scalp until she moans and leans back into him, the bathroom filled with the scents of lemon and bergamot. 

His dick stirs in his jeans. No, it has to come from her.  

“You good?” he asks, breathless. 

Her eyes drag down his body. Frank wonders if she’s remembering their night together too. And for a moment, there’s something about the way she’s looking at him that makes him wonder whether she might reach out for him, unbuckle his belt and strip him in a flurry of movement. 

But, she’s still. 

(Maybe she thinks better of it.) 

“I will be,” Mel answers. 

“Yeah, okay.” He swallows. “If you need me, just say the word.” 

The distance between the shower and door can’t be more than eight steps, but Frank only makes it three before she calls for him, her hair half-wet from the shower spray. 

“Sweetheart?” 

Mel takes him by the shirt, pulling him forward and into another kiss, short but heated. 

“To make sure you’d come back,” Mel says, voice small and vulnerable as she explains why she’d called out. 

“I’m always coming back, baby.” 

Mel pushes him away lightly, shooing him out the door. And Frank goes, mostly because he knows something irresponsible will happen if he doesn’t. 

As he walks back into the living area, Becca turns to look at him. She wears the same smile as her sister does when Mel’s deep into a necessary procedure that isn’t exactly by the books—keeping her mouth tensed and biting down on her cheeks and lips. And fuck, he’d forgotten about his promise to come right back and make her food. As he glances over to the clock and sees that his five minute allowance turned into ten, Frank feels like absolute shit. 

“Becs, what happened to your timer?” 

“I forgot to set it.” She shrugs. “Oopsie.” 

She absolutely did not. What’s worse, Becca has a fantastic poker face; it’s clear she wants him to know that she knows he and Mel had… something—a moment?—in there. Frank’s grateful she’s playing it cool.

“I’m ready for dinner now,” she announces, settling back into the couch. “And I should get to have extra pie. For reasons.” 

Frank laughs as he heads toward the microwave. He has no intention of pie policing tonight. 

Despite understanding that sticking around is probably (definitely?) tempting fate, Frank does it anyway. He’s not sure if it’s addict or asshole behavior that’s fueling it, but maybe the why matters less right now. He makes himself useful, cleaning up the kitchen as Mel sits on the opposite side of the island, eating dinner. Watching her stirs something in his hind brain; he provided. They’ll eat and rest and be safe and happy, these people who mean so much to him. Who deserve far more than the hand they’ve been dealt so far. Maybe he lost the right to feel that way, but he feels it all the same. 

(Frank tries to ignore the undercurrent of tension between him and Mel. The current grew stronger as he’d caught her staring down at her plate, eyes heavy, and told her, gently but firmly, to eat. She’d taken her first bite, and his nod of approval seemed to shift something within her, allowing her to relax. In the fifteen minutes since then, Mel’s sought out his praise and he’s given it—their nonverbal exchange leading them somewhere dangerous and unknown.) 

After the kitchen is clean and the leftovers put away—both Mel and Becca curled up together on the couch for the night—Frank can’t justify staying. Not without getting very honest with himself about what he wants and what he’s going to do about it. 

Realistically, he does not have the right to waltz in and blow up her life just because her boyfriend—fiancé, whatever—made the wrong call. He’d made his own last year. But no… no, that’s not exactly true either. The decision not to pursue Mel after she’d made it all too apparent that she’d wanted him to wasn’t the wrong decision, but it is one that—in his weaker moments—he regrets. So it’s hard to justify staying and making things incredibly complicated when he’d lost Mel dead to rights. He’s going home to his dog and empty bed. 

“But you can’t,” Becca states simply when he announces he’s leaving. “After You’ve Got Mail, we put up the tree.” 

“We’re going to wait until… until Sunday, remember?” Mel says softly, and Frank doesn’t miss the way she skirts around Louis’ name. 

Becca scowls. “That’s not tradition.” 

“But sometimes tradition has to change,” Mel tries. 

Becca clearly has feelings about that, and Frank can see the fallout brewing from miles away. This is not Mel being cared for; this is Mel having to take on responsibility when she desperately needs a break.

“How about I stay a little longer to help you put up Christmas lights around the ceiling?” 

“You can put lights around the ceiling?” Becca asks skeptically. 

“Yeah, of course. Do you think that’ll feel enough like tradition until you get the tree up on Sunday?” 

“I would still like to put up the tree tonight, but I’m okay with the lights instead if I have to be.” 

It’s not perfect, but it’s something. When they exchange a look, Mel seems relieved. Frank joins them on the couch, settling in between them to watch the last two-thirds of the movie. Somehow he ends up on cocoa duty, and an off-hand comment about liking the nail polish color on Becca’s toes devolves into him repainting them—”With stripes! Like a candy cane!”—which Frank tries to do with the same precision he uses in the trauma room. 

(He gets four out of five stars on Becca’s mental Yelp! review. When asked why only four, Becca tells him it’s to keep him humble.) 

Just as he’s bottling the polish, Becca announces that it’s Mel’s turn. Same deal–candy canes so they match, but green so they don’t match too much. Frank expects Mel to protest, but she doesn’t. Maybe she doesn’t want to push her luck with Becca. Or maybe she wants a little pampering.

He carefully shifts a blanket onto his lap under the guise of propping up her feet for better access. (He anticipates needing the cover). The process is slow, even more methodical than with Becca. When he’s finished, Mel wiggles her toes but doesn’t draw back. Frank takes it for an invitation to massage her feet. She’s been on them all day; it’s only right.

As promised, when the credits roll, Frank helps Becca pull the tote of Christmas decor from their hall closet. He strings the lights while Becca keeps them from getting tangled and dutifully tears off pieces of packing tape, a temporary solution until he can get the hooks for them from the store. He’ll leave them in Mel’s locker if he has to. 

Lounging on the couch, Mel watches it all. Frank doesn’t look at her often; he’ll overthink the fondness in her expression, the happy tears in her eyes. (Happy, because she’s smiling and laughing sleepily at his and Becca’s antics.) He decides to be grateful she’s relaxing. That she hadn’t fought him about letting him do all the work and trusting him to guide Becca through the process on the ladder when she insisted she get a turn. More than that, trusting him to catch her if she slipped and fell. 

Even though they don’t have enough lights to do the whole room, Becca is giddy over what they managed. She spends several minutes sitting next to Mel, directing her to watch as the shifting colors tint the room blue to red to green to yellow. Once the immediate novelty wears off, Becca yawns and announces that she’s going to bed for the night. 

“Will you make french toast in the morning?” she asks. 

“Nah, I’ll be long gone by then.” 

“I wish you would stay over like you used to.” 

“Becca…” Mel interjects. 

“Mel is different when you’re here. I like it better,” Becca says. “I have to go to bed now. Goodnight, Frank! You can make french toast some other time.”  

Unsure of how to end the night, Frank gathers up the mugs and takes them into the kitchen. As he rinses, he considers what to say to Mel—what did Becca mean or why can’t it at least be someone who doesn’t pull this shit or, worst of all, leave the bastard, Mel. Not that any of the answers would matter because nothing’s changed with him. 

He can’t do something drastic over a spat between her and Louis. In those overheard conversations, Samira and Victoria make it seem like Louis has grand romantic gestures down pat. That Mel’s happy. 

(But how can she be happy if she’s letting him strip her? Kiss her? Take care of her?) 

Because people do fucked up things when they’re vulnerable, that’s how. And he ought to know better than to take advantage. Fantasize about his (former?) best friend. He can’t trust himself to keep his head on straight with her. He has to—

Her fingers brush against his exposed forearms, drawing him from his racing thoughts.

“I’m ready for bed,” she says. 

“Mel…” 

“Tuck me in?” 

Frank shuts his eyes tightly and exhales. That’s a fucking awful idea. But as she pulls him, he allows her to lead him down the hall. In her bedroom doorway, they stop, a decoration hanging from the frame. Mistletoe. So that’s where Becca went when he was replacing that burnt out bulb. 

Wonderful. 

Mel turns, gaze travelling from the mistletoe to his face. In the low lighting of the hallway nightlight, she looks soft and sweet. He finds it hard to resist her when she steps forward, but his hands find her hips, guiding her back into the bedroom to the bed. 

“One sec,” he tells her. 

At the edge of her bed, she waits as he pulls back the blankets. Then he heads to the dresser to rummage through a couple drawers for her pajamas. Frank nearly pulls out a faded Lady Gaga concert t-shirt that he knows she likes to sleep in when he spots it buried at the bottom of a stack of clothes: a well-loved Pens shirt he’d let her borrow. Apparently, she’d never returned it. 

It’s so fucked up to do this when she’s wearing some other guy’s engagement ring on her finger, but Frank’s done a lot of fucked up shit in his life. It’s not the worst thing he could do here. Hell, it’s basically harm reduction. 

He takes the shirt back to Mel. 

“Can you put this on for me, sweetheart? You’ll get too hot if you sleep in your sweatshirt.” 

As she lifts her arms, Frank forgets to breathe. Something clicks—that hazy look in her eyes—and his mind briefly flashes to nights with Nat when she’s teetering on the edge of dropping. It’s not exactly the same—he’d never leave Mel if it were—but the relaxed, pliant mannerisms are similar enough. He can’t shake the feeling that she wants him to take control here too. 

For the second time tonight, Frank strips her of her shirt, leaving her bare. 

“You’re beautiful,” he says, because he can’t help himself. 

“Frank…” 

Mel intends to rise up on her toes to kiss him, but he holds her in place. Her hips feel so good under his touch. 

“It’s bedtime.” 

Unfolding his Pens shirt, Frank slips it over her head. She cooperates long enough to get her arms through. As he pulls down her sweats, Mel apparently decides she’s stripping out of her underwear too. His heart picks up in double-time, racing with the fear of where this might be headed. 

“Be good for me.” 

“I can be,” she says, breathless. 

“You need to sleep. You’re exhausted, and no one’s looking out for you.” 

Mel doesn’t challenge that statement. He doesn’t like the way the confirmation settles over him. The way it makes his skin buzz, the sensation pushing him into action. If Mel’s not getting what she needs—what she fucking deserves—from Louis, why shouldn’t he sort it out himself? 

(He had that mental list going, but it’s starting to bleed like ink on wet paper.) 

Mel’s lips part. “But I—” 

The sharp sound of skin hitting skin reverberates through the room. His palm stings, so Frank knows her ass must too. He rubs circles into the suddenly warm flesh. 

“Be good, baby,” he repeats. “Trust that I know what you need.” 

She fucking whimpers. “You always have. No one else.” 

Even if it’s a lie, he loves her for that. 

Swatting her lightly this time, he nudges her towards the bed. And even though she could easily just sit down in the place he’d prepared for her, Mel gets on her hands and knees instead, crawling up the bed and exposing herself to him. She doesn’t move to lie down, opting to hold her position and arching her back further. 

“Frank…” 

Groaning, he rubs his hands over his face. His dick hangs heavy in his jeans, and she’s right there. Waiting. Asking. If this is some kind of cosmic test, he’s about to fail it spectacularly. 

“Lie down for me.” 

Mel obeys, but there’s uncertainty behind her eyes. She isn’t sure he’s going to give her what she wants; Frank’s never felt a more urgent need to reassure her of anything. 

“Do you have condoms?” he asks. 

“Yes, but I…” Her legs part further. “I don’t want to use them.” 

Turning, he takes a steadying breath. They can’t. Shouldn’t. Jesus fucking Christ, they have other partners. And while he and Nat are safe, he can’t say the same for Mel and her fucking fiancé. What’s more, he doesn’t even want to speak his name and ruin whatever’s about to—but absolutely should-fucking-not—happen. 

Okay. 

Okay. 

“Baby, we need—” 

“No, I’ve never with him. You’re the only one.” 

FUCK. She’s never had sex with him bare? As innocent as that could be, it could also be pretty damning, especially since Mel didn’t hesitate to guide him inside her the night of his divorce. Frank hadn’t realized it’d been a first for her like that. 

“You’re still on the pill?” he asks. “You took it today?” 

Mel shakes her head. “No, at bedtime.” 

“Alright, let’s just…” 

He scans her bedside table where he sees the blister pack next to her lamp. Popping out the pill, Frank hands it over to her, but Mel doesn’t take it from him. Instead, she opens her mouth and sticks out her tongue enough for him to place it for her. He shivers, hypnotized by the sight. 

“Good,” Frank says, sitting on the bed beside her. “Now swallow, sweetheart.” 

Her tongue works inside her mouth, but the gulp she takes looks fake. He touches the side of her face, tilting her head towards him. 

“Did you swallow for me?” 

Mel nods. 

“Open your mouth, baby.” 

She does, the pill gone.

“Lift your tongue.” 

Hesitating first, Mel finally obeys, and sure enough, the pill is still in her mouth. His dick twitches; his balls ache. She’s going to be the death of him. They cannot—

“What did I say?” he asks, sternly. 

“Swallow.” 

“And what did you do, baby?” 

“Kept it in my mouth,” she mumbles, the pill still held under her tongue.

He tries to keep his eyes locked on her face, but it’s difficult when her hand drifts to her tits, her fingers circling her nipple. It peaks through the thin cotton of his shirt. 

Frank holds his hand out. “Spit.” 

Their eyes locked, Mel spits the pill out into his palm, the tiny tab beginning to dissolve around the edges. He places it on the corner of the napkin, folded on her nightstand as a make-shift coaster. 

“Why do you have to be bad, sweetheart?” he asks, kissing her brow. “I can’t give you what you want if you don’t take your pill.” 

Mel bites her lip and then takes his hand into hers, guiding it to her lower belly and settling it there—a very fucked up invitation for him to dream about what-ifs. And he can’t stop himself from imagining their baby growing beneath her skin. Her belly and breasts swelling because of him. Their baby moving against his hand, kicking out when it hears his voice. A family. Not five but six. 

“Please,” she begs, her hand moving from where it rests against his to his cock. And then softly, hesitantly, “Daddy.” 

Okay, yeah, that’s…

Fuck it. 

Frank pulls his shirt over his head in one fluid motion and crawls between her legs. In a flurry of movement, he gets his jeans and underwear down, his ankles still fucking tangled up in them. It’ll have to work though because he can’t bear to spend another second apart from her. 

Caging her in, he kisses her once, twice, and then licks into her mouth, the bitter taste of the pill still light on her tongue. Mel squirms beneath him, trying to leverage enough space that she can get him where she wants him, but Frank pins her down. 

He nips at her jaw before bringing his mouth to her ear. “Do you want to make Daddy a daddy?” 

There’s honest-to-god tears in her eyes as she turns her head to capture his mouth again, desperate and hungry. Alright, there’s no way that they come back from this kink, not when it drives her this crazy. 

“I’ll be good. I promise.” She takes his face into her hands. “I’ll take care of myself.” 

Christ, that’s so fucking manipulative. What’s worse, he’s falling for it. She would, is the thing. Even though he wouldn’t have to worry, not then, he would anyway because she’d be carrying his child and… 

And she’d be his again. Claimed, irrevocably. The evidence inside her—making her grow and ache and crave—and then at her perfect breast, nursing. Cooing. Crawling. Walking. Talking. Always. 

(He doesn’t want that. Not like this, but if this is the only way he can have her, can he live with it?) 

“I’ll take my prenatals,” she says as he shifts to kiss down her neck. “Tomorrow. The very best for our baby.” 

(The only thing she needs to get tomorrow at the pharmacy is Plan B, he decides. To save them from themselves.) 

“And sleep,” he adds, nipping at her collarbone. “Eight hours, sweetheart.” 

“Three meals.” She fists his hair as he sucks her nipple into his mouth. “No more skipping.” 

Impossible things in their current circumstances. She’d never manage it even if she wanted to, and there’s no way for him to keep her honest, to pick up the slack, without a reckoning. This can only ever be play. 

Tears prickle at his eyes, but he continues down her body. Coward. She can’t see him like this; it’ll break her heart. 

Because he can’t help himself, Frank lingers low on her belly, kissing her heated skin. Mel grabs his hair tighter and whines yes, Daddy, please, her hips tilting up. Her fluids smear along his collarbone, already so fucking wet. It’s easy to get lost in the heady feeling of it all, to imagine them doing this for real, trying to make their family bigger by one tiny, perfect human—a little of him, a lot of her. Of making love over and over until it takes, his baby in her arms, exactly where it belongs. 

His tongue traces lower, piercing the seam of her, his chin immediately drenched. He presses against her clit with the flat of his tongue, trying to recall in the fog of that drunken memory exactly how she likes it. Her legs tremble when the tip of it flicks out, when he draws her into his mouth and sucks lightly. Experimentally. 

“Oh!” she keens. “Ah, puh-please. Like that.” 

Around his head, her legs tighten as he sucks further. Frank doesn’t let up, and as he gets her closer, Mel starts riding his face in earnest from beneath him. It’s fucking hot. He could come from that and the friction of her sheets, maybe. Should, quite honestly—a perfect excuse. But there’s no way in hell he’s leaving her apartment without sinking into her. 

“Thank you, thank you,” she pants. “Daddy, I’m so—oh my god.” 

Frank licks her out as she bucks against his mouth, her body shaking through her orgasm. It lasts longer than he expects. When the tension eases, he pulls away, but Mel grabs his hair and pushes him back against her, grinding against his mouth. 

His baby wants another one, and a minute later, he delivers, her overstimulated nerves easily giving way. 

And he gets it because a stiff wind might do him in right now. But, it’s not enough to stop him from kissing her, tongue slipping into her open mouth so that she can taste herself all over him. He’s working on borrowed time, after all, and he’s going to miss being able to kiss her whenever he wants. 

As they sigh into the kiss, their hips shift until he can feel her wet against his dick. An inelegant, blind thrust forward has him catching on the edge of her entrance as if the universe itself needs this to happen. The heat of her too much to resist, Frank pushes into her in one long, slow movement. 

When he bottoms out, Frank stills to get a grip on himself. Mel doesn’t do him any favors, wiggling and moaning and thrusting against him in stilled motions. He smacks her thigh to get her to calm, but it has the opposite effect, Mel arching off the bed and clenching tightly around him. He chokes, doing everything he can to keep himself from coming already. The pulse of pre-come that leaks from him is impossible to stop. 

Mel throws her arms around him when he finally can move, drawing him close. There’s a lot of things he ought to apologize to her for, and he’s going to have to add how quick this is going to be to it. Not that she seems to mind; the noises slipping out between her lips suggest she’s in some very happy place. 

So he tries to hold out for her. He does. It’s not like he wants it to end any sooner than she does, but it will. 

“Baby,” he groans, shutting his eyes tightly as she swivels her hips. “Baby, I need—” 

“Anything, Daddy. I’m yours.” 

His nostrils flare. “I—” 

“Give me a baby,” she begs. “I need you. I need you. Frank, please. We can be a family.” 

His name does it. Seals the fucking deal, forcing him to make a split second decision. 

And he’s coming—thick, white splotches landing all over her belly and pubic mound. Not where she wanted it. Not where it’ll take. 

(He can’t speak for whatever else might have leaked out inside her, but the odds are on their—his?—side, at least.) 

As the rest of the world starts to filter back in over the blood pounding in his ears, he dares to look at her. He wishes he hadn’t because Mel’s eyes are wide in shock, and the tears are already running. Frank isn’t sure if Mel even knows it yet. 

She’s devastated. 

“I’m sorry,” he sighs, barely able to meet her eyes. 

Her lips twist into the saddest frown he’s ever seen. “Was I not good enough?” 

“You are.” 

Mel scoffs wetly. 

“I can’t,” he says, pressing his fingers against his eyelids. “Not with you like this. Baby, c’mo—”

“Don’t call me that.” She tosses her pillow at him, choking back a sob. “Go away. Get out!” 

Frank does, as fast as he can. He wipes his snotty nose on his flannel sleeve after locking her door. For twenty minutes, he cries into his hands in the parking lot of her building. Grieves everything they might have been, what they might have made. It’s only when he has nothing left in him that he deems it safe enough to drive home. 

***

December 2027

On a Wednesday night in December, Frank makes a misstep that, in hindsight, could have been easily avoided had he just listened to Abby and Nat. When they’d remind him at the kids’ karate tournament that he doesn’t really care for bowling—that it’s, in fact, not exactly good for his back—he blew them off. (He really shouldn’t do that; not when they’re both in agreement on something.) It’s Yo’s birthday, he’d explained, and she’d string him up by his balls if he missed. They were skeptical. And yeah, maybe Abby had a point about Yoyo not touching his balls even if someone paid her a cool mill. But he’d remained resolved. He wasn’t missing the party. 

When he and Natalie show up, Frank notices Santos is there-–she and Yo must be on again or close enough—which means her little group of friends are too, including Mel and Louis, who apparently has deigned to grace everyone with his presence for once. He hasn’t spoken to Mel since Thanksgiving, which is probably for the best. Nothing he can say is going to make their friendship better at this point. In fact, he’s not certain it’s even salvageable after what happened, and maybe that’s what they both need.

He and Natalie end up playing with Cassie, Mateo, and Vincent, one of the more tolerable people from surg. Even if Cassie’s wiping the floor with their asses, it’s not a bad time. Not until he’s waved over by Victoria on his way back from the bathroom. He’s stupid enough to go.

“What’s up?”

“Mel has a problem, and you’re basically the only one who has any experience.” 

“Good to know I’m a last resort. Go on.” 

“How did you and Abby deal with bridal party conflict?” Samira asks from where she sits on one side of Mel. 

Mel pouts. “It’s not a conflict!” 

Louis strolls up behind her from wherever he’d fucked off to and tugs her braid. Frank bristles at the seemingly playful gesture, aware that Mel’s scalp is sensitive. And then he admonishes himself for the knee-jerk reaction—not your fucking place, Langdon.  

“My sister hasn’t warmed up to Mel yet,” Louis clarifies, his hands rubbing circles into her shoulders. “It complicates the girls’ activities.”  

Santos sips her beer. “She’s going to harsh our vibe.” 

“So put her on the groom’s side. That’s what we did with my sister,” Frank suggests.

Simple. Easy. His work is done here until—  

Mel’s mouth drops open. “But your sister is so nice!” 

Her reaction catches him off guard. Whatever emotions ran high the night they slept together have all but dissipated from her voice, like there’s nothing wrong between them. Even though everything is, Frank owes it to her to pretend otherwise. 

He shrugs. “She and Abby are oil and water.” 

“If Alyssa joins Louis’ party, that leaves the sides uneven,” Samira points out. 

And this is very much no longer his problem. He needs to get out of there because he’s suddenly unable to look away from the way Mel’s fingers lightly trace Louis’ knuckles, his hand on her shoulder. Rarely has Mel shown affection for Louis in public; Frank doesn’t know what to make of it. 

He should have walked then and there. Should have fucking pulled his attention away from Mel’s touch and to literally anything else. Why does his brain have to be fucking reliable the one time he needs it to be unable to focus? Because just then, Louis gives him this pointed look from the corner of his eye, and Frank knows he’s not going to like what comes next. 

“Not if Franks joins,” Louis says casually. “It solves all of our issues.” 

Santos snorts loudly, drowning out Mel’s aborted protests. 

Louis continues, “It does though. Frank can walk Alyssa down the aisle. We won’t have to worry about my grandma having a heart attack if she’s paired with your cousin Olivia.” 

Everyone’s eyes are suddenly on Frank, except, of course, for Mel’s. 

“Uh huh, sure,” he dismisses immediately. “Look, I have to get back to Nat, so if we’re done here?”  

Frank spends the better part of the remaining time using Natalie as a human shield against whatever’s happening in the other lane. He focuses on her—her needs, making her laugh with a bad pun or well executed joke so that her eyes light up, playing with her hands to ground himself. Maybe he can drown these surfacing feelings for Mel in the affection he feels for her. 

Nat, bless her, tolerates it—perhaps even enjoys the sport of it a little—until she finally shoos him off, claiming he’s smothering her with a light kick to the sole of his shoe. So as they hit their third-to-the-final round of this game, Frank heads out for a smoke. Natalie takes over his turn, and honestly, he ought to thank her for covering for him or else he’d definitely be in fifth place if left to his own devices. 

The nicotine offers a welcome rush, easing some of the stress creeping into his muscles tonight. By the time he’s smoked halfway through the cigarette, Frank almost feels human again. That is until he realizes he’s no longer alone. 

“Hi,” Mel greets, staring out into the parking lot, her hands fidgeting. 

He doesn’t know what to say, only sighs, deciding to keep his mouth shut for once in his damn life. Frank doesn’t know what he was expecting, but it’s not Mel joining him on the seat of the picnic table off to the side of the alley. 

“Frank, there’s something I need to say.” 

His stomach drops. Mel had made it abundantly clear that she didn’t want to see him again, that night and her subsequent radio silence were evidence enough. Her list of reasons why she needs to talk to him have to be pretty short, and Frank fears the obvious thing at the very top. 

“Are you pregnant?” he asks, voice low so he won’t be overheard. 

“What?” Her brow furrows. “No! Oh jeez, I didn’t mean for it to come out like that. I’m so sorry.” And she adds quietly, “I’m on my period right now.”  

He won’t examine his disappointment at her answer. Not until much, much later. 

Frank chuckles darkly. “I don’t think you owe me an apology. Not after…” 

Her hands tense and ease against her thighs, her body stiff. Frank counts the length of her inhale and exhale. Somehow the calm drifts over him too. 

“I want to thank you for what you did. I-I was upset at first, but it was the responsible decision. I should have been able to make it.” 

“I thought you were ready to let someone else shoulder the responsibility?” 

Mel nods. “But that’s not you.” 

“No,” he sighs, running his hand through his hair. “It’s not.” 

And he ought to be okay with that. He is, but everything still seems so fucking complicated. How the hell does he move on from this—her… them? Not that there ever was a them beyond whatever friendship they cobbled together during those first few months back at the pitt. It’d always felt like something more—something full of possibility when the timing was right—and maybe that’s why he’s mourning the loss of Mel like he’s mourning the loss of his wife. Divorce papers in the form of an engagement ring he never saw coming. One last ill-advised hook-up for the road. He’d done it with Abby, so of course he’d done it with Mel too, especially since what he feels for her is still more all-consuming than anything he felt for his ex-wife. 

“I have a favor to ask.” 

Frank snorts. “I’m not joining your bridal party, Mel.” 

“No, that was a terrible idea,” she agrees, shuddering. “I don’t know what he was thinking.” 

“Oh, I do,” he says, taking a drag. “Asshole.” 

“The girls and I are going to the bridal salon to look at dresses next week,” Mel continues, ignoring his barb. “I know it’s weird…” 

Yeah, it is given the context. He should stop her right there except that she’s folding in on herself, which is always a punch to the gut.

“It’s all very overwhelming. I know I’m going to want to make everyone happy, and I’m not good at advocating for myself. They mean well, and they’re sensitive to the fact that my mom isn’t going to be there to support me, but I’m still afraid that I’ll get overstimulated and have a breakdown.” 

Frank closes his eyes. It’s clear where this is headed, and it’s not as if he can tell her no, not when she brought up her mom. 

“I don’t want to need you for this,” Mel says, voice breaking. “But you really are the only person who just understands what I need to keep it together.” 

Fuck. 

“You can say no.” 

He sighs. “I’m not going to say no, Mel.” 

When she touches his arm, Frank’s thankful to have the sleeve of his jacket as a barrier between their skin. 

“This will be the last thing, Frank. I promise.” 

“No, it won’t.” His fingers slip across the top of hers. “And I wouldn’t want it to be.” 

On the way to the bridal salon Monday morning, Frank realizes it’s all but a certainty that he was someone particularly hellish in a past life—murderer, mob boss, middle manager, Flyers fan—to deserve this: carpooling with Santos in rush hour traffic. 

Earlier, her running commentary on his music choices nearly got them into an accident. He finally ceded control of the playlist to her, after. Better to listen to some shitty alternative band than ruin Mel’s day by getting killed.

They’re stuck midway through the Fort Pitt Tunnel, yellow lighting casting everything in a sickly glow, when Santos turns her head towards him. Tapping idly on the steering wheel, Frank pretends not to see her, but no dice. Not when she opens her big mouth. 

“I can’t believe you’re letting her go through with this.” 

Frank does a double-take. “What the fuck.” 

“Just saying.” Santos shrugs. “She’d break it off if you asked her to.” 

“She loves him,” he says, licking his lips. “I’m not going to ruin her happiness.” 

“You’re such a fucking dumbass, you know that? If you were around at all, you’d see that she’s not really happy. She almost ditched him in June.” 

Well that’s news to him. But before he overanalyzes what it might mean like some middle school girl, Frank reminds himself that they were keeping their distance then. Still are, this insane trip to the bridal salon place notwithstanding. 

Going from nearly breaking up with Louis in June to engaged in October is… something. Maybe if there were a reason for the urgency. He and Abby had theirs, but it can’t be that. Not when she’s never… Not with Louis. Not if she’s had her period. 

(Is that still true? Is he still the only one?) 

But no, nothing good comes from going down that line of thinking.  

“Why say yes to him then?” 

Santos rolls her eyes. “Because he love-bombs the hell out of her when he’s actually around? Look, I love Mel, but sometimes she wants to see the good in everyone. It makes her vulnerable to assholes.” 

“Thanks,” Frank says dryly. 

“Get over yourself. I wasn’t talking about you. We may have our differences, ER Ken, but I know you’d rather jump off a cliff than hurt her like that.” 

What a fucking joke. Santos can’t fathom all the ways he’s hurt Mel. Not saying goodbye to her their first shift together. Kissing her for the first time when he’d barely been out of rehab, two months after Pittfest. Having sloppy sex with her bare, resulting in a late period but blissfully negative test. Sabotaging every relationship she had, whether intentionally or because he hadn’t been smart enough to realize it would mean he needed to step back. Not committing to sobriety. Rejecting her in September of last year. The double date. Thanksgiving. And those are just the major offenses, a thousand little cuts bleeding between each. 

“You don’t know me at all.” 

“Bet,” she says, leaning over the console. “You’re letting her marry this douche because you think you’re not good enough for her. Newsflash: she’s basically dating the guy you were before you put in the work—absent workaholic partner who doesn’t understand her needs and makes grand gestures to compensate?” 

“Fuck you!” 

“You’re just angry because I’m right. And get this, you’re dating the ice queen version of Melanoma. Career-driven woman saddled with primary care responsibilities for her dependent? No support network. Mommy bounced. Firefighter daddy burnt to a fucking crisp when she was fifteen. Her photo in the newspaper coverage was serving JFK Jr., I’ll give her that.” 

“What the fuck?! Did you stalk her or something?” 

“Duh,” Santos says. “You can’t just bring a new woman around and not expect Mel to want every dirty detail.” 

Jesus, there’s creeping on someone’s insta and then there’s whatever the fuck this is. It’s hard to imagine Mel asking for that degree of detail over his situationship, especially at the first sign of the shitshow that’s been Nat’s life. He feels violated for her. 

“You don’t know when to quit,” he spits, turning to look out the car window as they stop in traffic again, his pulse jackrabbiting. 

“Blame Crash. By the way, if you ever go missing, you want her on your case. I have no clue where she got access to half this intel.” 

“Unbelievable.” 

Santos scoffs. “Yeah, while you’re over there being butthurt over some discreet online snooping and feeling sorry for yourself, Mel’s actually going to marry a nerdy fuckboy who isn’t worthy of her. And the clock is ticking. They’re moving the wedding date up.” 

In the final few minutes of the drive, Santos’ words consume him. It’s bad enough that he stops her from getting out of the car and joining the others where they wait for them in the salon. 

“Why don’t you say something?” he asks. 

“I tried. She thinks I’m not giving him a fair shake, that I hated him from the start or whatever. And she’s not wrong, but it’s only because I’ve known guys just like him since high school.” 

“Then why support her?” 

Santos tosses him some are-you-shitting-me look. “The same reason you are. I don’t want to alienate her when I sure as fuck know she’s going to need me at some point.” 

Is that really why he’s here? Is he that altruistic? Not fucking likely, but his personal reasons allude even him. 

“I’ll be there in a minute. I need a smoke.” 

Santos hops out of his car. “You’re so disgusting.” 

A minute turns into ten by the time he steels himself for what’s about to transpire. Walking into the shop, whites, beiges, glitter and lace accost him. As Mel, Becca, and Samira chat to the consultant on an overstuffed couch, Santos and Victoria browse the dresses lining the walls. Frank doesn’t know what exactly he’s supposed to be doing here. Thankfully, he’s saved by Becca, who immediately seeks him out when she sees that he’s arrived.

“Mel still doesn’t know what kind of dress she wants,” Becca explains. “We’re all going to pick one for her to try!” 

“Yeah? What are you thinking?” 

“Hmm, I’m hoping they have something with feathers. When we were little, Mom and Dad took us to the ballet, and the ballerina was so pretty. I want Mel to look like a swan too,” she says. “What about you?” 

“Nah, Becs, I’m not–” 

“The hell you aren’t,” Santos chimes in from the nearby rack of dresses.

“It’s okay.” Becca pats his arm. “You’ve watched a lot of Project Runway with us. I believe in you.” 

When Becca leaves, Frank notes that even Mel and Samira have started browsing. With an annoyed but resigned huff, he does too. Not that he knows what the hell he’s supposed to be looking for. As he mindlessly begins to check out the dresses, Mel joins him. Her nose wrinkles when she sniffs the cigarette smell lingering on his sweater.

“Thank you for coming. It means a lot to me that you’re here.” 

She’s jittery, as if she’s had one too many cups of coffee. Frank immediately softens, quieting his voice. 

“I have your back,” he says. 

“I know it was a big ask. I don’t think I realized how big until I got here. Frank…”

Mel reaches out, curling her fingers around his wrist. They linger, and the touch is so different than Becca’s just moments ago. Of Nat’s last night as she pinned him to the bed. The urge to take her small hand into his to capture the sensation nearly overwhelms him. As he moves, Mel steps back unaware, the consultant calling for her to look at the dress in her hand. 

(It’s all wrong.)  

From that point on, Frank keeps to himself. Because he’s expected to produce something, he imagines what Mel would look good in. 

Anything. 

Nothing. 

Readily apparent that approach isn’t going to go anywhere productive, he decides to figure out what she will feel good in. It’s a considerably harder puzzle to suss out. However, he does eventually, just not before Mel has been escorted back to try on her first dress. 

Holding up the dress for the girls to inspect, they meet him with a set of unimpressed looks. 

Becca scowls. “Booo!”

“Come on, it’s not that bad.” 

“Debatable,” Victoria mutters, rolling her eyes. 

Twenty minutes later when Mel walks out in the dress though, everyone shuts the hell up. Frank should be smug about it. Instead, his heart almost stops beating at the sight of her. This is exactly how she’s meant to look on her wedding day, radiant dressed in fitted white silk with a long train behind her. Simple and comfortable, no scratchy lace or beading that would feel odd against her palms or heavy fabric cinched at her waist for her to carry all night. Just perfect. 

Like her. 

Mel steps up onto the pedestal in front of the trifold mirrors. She barely gets a look at herself before she’s covering her mouth, tears gathering in her eyes. He’s on the verge of crying himself. They all fucking are. 

Becca gasps, “Oh wow!” 

Prompted by the reaction, the consultant goes for a veil to complete the look. Frank thinks he might be sick when he takes her in. Radiant doesn’t even come close. Maybe ethereal? God, he can’t even think straight.

“Is this the dress, Mel?” the consultant asks, certain. 

Mel shakes her head. “No, I… not this one. I’m so sorry.” 

She gets off the platform quickly, retreating back to the dressing room area. The consultant looks a little confused. Samira gets up and excuses herself to follow Mel, apologizing and asking for a moment for just them.

For Frank, all that seems to happen in a haze though. He’s overwhelmed by how stunning she looks; how he wants her more than he’s wanted anyone in his life. How he wants to watch her walk down the aisle in that dress to him, not fucking Louis. How he might be a fuck up, but at least he loves her, that has to count for something. It’s not fake. Not when it matters. 

He did fuck up, yeah, but he’s willing to put in the work for as long as it takes to be a better man for her. He’s always going to be a work-in-progress. Addiction is a life-long disease. He failed to see that back then, waiting for a day when he finished becoming whoever the hell he’s meant to be with her. A day that was never going to happen in the first place. 

It’s a realization that occurs to him too little, too late.