Chapter Text
Wednesday, August 24th
The patient was seizing.
Mel had her whole body leaned into the effort, fingers steady on the IV port as she pushed in another dose of diazepam.
Her brain worked like clockwork in these moments, the med dose, vitals, protect the airway.
Then, someone lost their grip.
The patient’s arm jerked upward like a spring, wild and uncontrolled, and before she could react, the fist connected squarely with her face. Her glasses flew, her head snapped back, and she landed hard on the tile.
A curse, hot and sharp, burned her tongue. She swallowed it. The new nurse (baby-faced, all wide eyes and useless hands) was already babbling apologies. Seizure 101. Hold the fucking limbs. Mel said nothing. She’d been that green once. The thought didn’t make her cheek hurt any less.
“Dr. King! Are you alright?!”
A voice closer than the rest of the noise called.
She blinked, vision a blur without her glasses, one eye already throbbing like it had a heartbeat of its own. She’d never had a black eye before. Wasn’t sure she wanted to cross that particular box off the residency bingo card. Maybe It'd give her some edge?
“Mhm.” The sound came out more like a grunt. “How’s the patient?”
“Seizing stopped,” Mateo reported. He was at her side now, steady, offering his hand. “Come on, let me help you up.”
She let him catch her forearm and hauled herself upright, the room tilting for a second too long. Everything was smeared at the edges, a watercolor gone wrong.
“Here.” Mateo pressed her glasses into her palm, his brown eyes full of quiet concern. “You need to get checked.”
“I’m fine.” She shoved the frames back onto her face, even if they pinched a little crookedly against the bridge of her nose. She pushed his hand away gently, turning her focus back to the patient on the bed.
Airway patent. Chest rising. Tremors easing into post-ictal stillness. Okay. Okay, he’s safe.
“You’ll keep him monitored, one-to-one,” she instructed the nurse, her voice firmer now, the clinical rhythm pulling her back into herself. “If there’s any change, oxygen sats, responsiveness, you call me immediately.”
She was already moving, already on to the next thing, even if her cheek throbbed with every step.
*
“Dr. King, Trauma One,” someone called down the hall.
She handed the suture needle to one of her interns, rattled off instructions with quick precision “close in layers, don’t rush the knots, I’ll check it in a few minutes” and stripped off her gloves.
Her brain was already half in trauma before she even got there. Which was why the sight of an empty bed stopped her cold.
Frowning, she turned. The door clicked shut behind her.
Dr. Langdon leaned against it, arms crossed, expression a cocktail of unamused and… well, unamused. That was pretty much his default with her these days.
Mel stiffened. Because the universe didn’t believe in giving her even one simple, non complicated shift.
“What’s this?” she asked, wary.
“Sit,” he said. No preamble. Just that.
“I’m sorry?”
“Protocol says you get evaluated after a head injury. Sit. Down.”
The sharpness in his tone made her flinch, and not from the bruise. God, it wasn’t even three p.m. yet. His patience usually didn’t snap until closer to shift change.
“I’m fine,” she said, holding her palms up for emphasis. “It was barely a hit. More like a light graze. Barely worth mentioning.”
“King.”
Her name in that voice pulled her onto the gurney like she was a scolded intern. She sat, clutching her glasses in her lap as if the bent metal might anchor her.
He stepped closer. Too close. Her vision tunneled to his face, frustratingly clear at this distance.
And, god, it was an objectively, unfairly good face.
A jawline you could cut yourself on, and dark hair that fell in a way that looked artfully messy. It was an architectural insult. He should be covered in weeping boils. He should be balding. At least cursed with a receding hairline. Something, anything, to match the rot inside.
Not… whatever this was.
Her chest did something traitorous. She ignored it.
Mel wasn't blind. Langdon was easy on the eyes, even she could admit that. Not that she appreciated him. It was just... a knowledge. Yes. She'd go with that. A general knowledge that he was gorgeous, even though he was a raging pain in her ass.
His fingers, cool and clinical, brushed under her jaw, tilting her chin up. The penlight flashed.
Her heart hammered against her ribs, a wild, traitorous drumbeat.
Ridiculous. Infuriating. He was horrible. His touch should feel abrasive, like being scoured. It didn't. It was deft, focused. A quiet, slow precision that made her skin prickle.
She cleared her throat.
"You could've sent someone else..." she said, her voice a little too low.
“I was the only one available,” he muttered, voice close enough she felt it. His focus was absolute, his brow furrowed. She could see the faint press of his tongue between his teeth. His breath, a faint warmth, ghosted across her lips with every exhale.
And of course he hated this, too. Prolonged contact with her. He was probably counting the seconds until he could bleach his hands.
His thumb skimmed the side of her zygomatic bone and she flinched.
“It’s bruised, and it'll probably get worse” he observed clinically, stepping back half an inch but not far enough. “You’ll take an ibuprofen for the swelling.”
She wanted to roll her eyes so far back her optical nerve would snap.
“will I?” she said, biting at the edge of sarcasm. She was so tired of him bossing her around like she was still green.
Robby never did this. Robby was twice the superior Langdon was. If Robby weren’t on vacation with Dr. Collins, maybe she wouldn’t be trapped under Frank’s thumb, day after day. And on her last month here, no least.
It had been easier when Langdon just ignored her. When he left rooms she entered, when he pretended she didn’t exist. Now, with Robby out, he had no choice but to deal with her. And she had no choice but to deal with… whatever this was.
She only had a few weeks left of residency. A few weeks until she could land that job at Saint Jude’s. Then build her own life, and never, ever have to puzzle over Frank Langdon again.
“Go to pharmacy,” he said briskly. “I already put the order in. Take twenty to rest.”
“I don’t need-”
“Yes.” He cut her off. “You do.”
And then he was gone, leaving the door closed behind him.
Mel just sat there, counting. Ten. Twenty. All the way to three hundred, each number a buffer between her and the sudden, irrational urge to curse him out until her throat burned.
Only when her breathing evened did she stand, glasses askew, jaw aching, resolve hardening.
She hated him.
She hated him so much she was mildly tachycardic, even well after the twenty minutes were up.
Definitely just hate.
***
Thursday, August 25th
Mel pushed through the ER doors for another shift. The pain around her eye wasn't as bad as it was the day before, but people did send her sympathy looks whenever they noticed the redness on her face.
She had wanted to explain to everyone what happened, but after the fourth time, she'd started to get creative with the answers.
"Ah, yes. I'm just really into muay-thai"
Or
"Oh, this? Crowd surge at the Taylor Swift merch table. Brutal"
Her personal favorite was:
“I joined a medieval reenactment group. Somebody forgot we were just practicing. i got hit with a wooden sword.”
It really went like that all morning, and she was mildly amused by people' expressions.
By lunchtime she was mentally noting vitals, lab orders, and patient follow-ups when a familiar voice cut across the nurse's station.
“King,” Frank Langdon’s voice said, clipped. Her chest clenched, a purely Pavlovian response to that tone.
She froze for a fraction too long, blinking at him. He was propped against the counter, arms crossed, his expression the same flat, unimpressed slate that made her knuckles itch. Her pleasant morning curdled in an instant.
“I need you—” A deliberate, slicing pause. His blue eyes pinned her to the spot, and for one insane, heart-stopping second, her brain short-circuited, discarding every possible ending to that sentence except the one that was physically impossible. “—to take on Trauma Two, now. Make sure your notes are sealed. I’ve seen what sloppy documentation does in this department.”
Oh. Right.
Her mouth opened to respond, but nothing came out.
Sloppy documentation?
Her documentation was pristine, borderline neurotic. Her hands twitched at her side, fingers curling, as if she could wring the words out of her knuckles.
“I… I double-checked the charts before my last patient, there weren't any mistakes” she managed.
Langdon’s eyebrow lifted ever so slightly, like a scalpel poised over skin. “Apparently not well enough. Make sure you don’t make me come back in here to correct it. Again.”
Her jaw tightened. Why am I the only one he speaks to like this?
She could hear him treating the others normally, with jokes, clipped orders, genuine mentorship, but with her? It was always this… undercurrent of irritation, like her mere existence was a test he resented having to supervise.
She shook her head, not arguing with the man. Mel usually preferred to avoid confrontation altogether. Specially with Langdon.
Words always seemed to get lost between the path from her brain to her lips and she'd stutter or just say the wrong thing.
But inside her own head she swore so much it would've made an Italian mob boss blush. And then, after cursing up to his third grandchildren, she went on with her day.
She got the chart of a middle-aged man with a gash across his forehead, blood already coagulating. Melissa’s hands moved swiftly, antiseptic, stitches, everything precise. She thought she was doing a great job.
A shift in the air made her glance up. Leaning against the wall like a specter, arms crossed, gaze fixed on her hands was Langdon. He wasn’t assisting. Wasn’t teaching. He was just… watching. A silent, judging monument to her own inadequacy.
Didn't have anything better to do tan micromanage her?
The answer was probably no. Micromanaging Mel was Frank Langdon's favorite activity.
“King,” he said finally, voice low, controlled, like he was addressing an errant intern, “the wound edges aren’t everted enough. Adjust your technique, or I’ll have to redo it myself.”
Mel froze mid-stitch, fingers trembling slightly. Her brain scrambled, processing. Edges? I know how to evert edges.
She took a deep breath. She wasn’t an intern. She was a senior resident, almost done. And yet here he was, hovering, judging, undermining with a casualness that made it worse than outright yelling.
“I… I think they’re fine. The tissue is viable,” she said, voice tighter than she liked.
“King,” he said again, voice a little sharper now (Mel was starting to mildly resent her last name), “don’t argue about technique in front of the patient. Adjust it. That’s an order.”
She flinched inwardly, wanting to snap, to tell him to mind his own patients, his own notes. But she didn’t. She stitched faster, tighter, all the while feeling that familiar knot of frustration tightening in her stomach.
The patient settled, and she cleaned up, glancing over at Langdon. He was already moving on to check on someone else, but the weight lingered.
The subtle power play, the way he used his rank to make her feel like she’d just made a rookie mistake. She narrowed her eyes as she shot mental blades on his back.
By mid-shift, the tension didn’t ease. Every time she tried to ask a question about protocol or double-check an order, he would brush it off with a clipped remark about “experience” or “you’ll learn eventually.” even though she only had two weeks left of residency.
He hadn't even been an attending that long! God, the ego in that big head!
His gaze followed her movements like he was grading her posture, her efficiency, her very worth.
At some point, Mel started counting things in her head, a habit she used to regulate the flood of frustration and sensory input: the tiles in the hallway, the number of steps to the supply closet, the second hand on the monitor in Trauma One. One, two, three… every tick a way to keep herself from blurting out exactly what she felt.
The worst part was the traitorous pull in her gut. The way she’d notice the exact moment his jaw tightened before he spoke, or the effortless, infuriating command in his posture. Her body responded to the very authority her mind rebelled against. It was a sick joke.
She was furious at him for being such an asshole, and even more furious at herself for finding the architecture of the asshole so compelling.
By the end of the shift, she was drained. Not just from patients or procedures, but from him, having to constantly navigate his moods, his silent judgments, his authority weaponized like a scalpel against her confidence.
She grabbed her bag, adjusted her scrubs, and gave one last look at him.
Langdon was already walking away, checking a chart, perfectly composed.
Mel let out a long, silent sigh. It was almost over. She'd be out of there in no time.
*
Tuesday, August 30th
Today felt different.
Alive, even. Not the usual blur of vital signs, procedures, and endless beeping. Not the grinding monotony of schedules and overhead pages. Today, she had something,something that made her chest hum in a way that wasn’t adrenaline or panic.
A date. A simple, nice guy that had wanted to go out with her.
Samira’s college friend. Easy on the eyes. Smart. And, more importantly, not part of the chaos that had swallowed her whole these past few years. Mel needed the break.
Ever since Sam had taken an attending position on night shift, her days in the ER had been… uneventful, to say the least. Most of her friends had finished residency and left. She was happy for them, really, but their absence made her feel painfully alone at times. It intensified now that Becca lived in a facility, and they only got to see each other on weekends.
Sliding past the nurse station, she spotted Dana and Princess chatting over coffee, and her grin spread like sunrise.
They’d been her only real lifeline these past few weeks, the only bearable part of the grind. She practically bounced over.
“Guys!” she said, voice bright enough to make the small pile of charts rattle. “Good morning.”
Dana’s eyebrows lifted. Princess’s eyes twinkled, already catching on to the storm of excitement practically vibrating off her.
“Someone’s in a good mood,” Princess noted.
“I am…” Mel tried to play coy, but her smile was too wide to hide.
“Spill, King. I know you want to,” Dana said, that easy grin tugging at her lips.
“I have… a date tonight.” The words tumbled out, chased by a laugh she couldn’t contain.
Princess clapped softly. “Oooh! Who’s the lucky soul?”
Mel rolled her eyes the way she always did when she wanted to look casual, but couldn’t quite mask the butterflies. “Samira’s friend. From college.”
Dana shook her head. “Girl, steer clear of doctors.”
“Mm-hmm,” Princess hummed in agreement.
“I unfortunately have to go home with one every night,” Mel groaned, hiding her face in her hands. The smile still wouldn’t leave her lips. “It’s been forever since I went on an actual date. Residency is my entire life—Becca, patients, more patients. Did I mention patients?”
Princess laughed. “And somehow you still look radiant. Some of us are still trying to figure out how your glow survives all this chaos.”
Mel shrugged, downplaying it, though her chest still buzzed with a warmth she hadn’t felt in months.
Then his voice. The one she couldn’t mistake. The one that could sour her mood in a heartbeat.
“King.”
She froze. Every muscle in her back went rigid. The familiar fist of tension clenched beneath her sternum, a visceral reaction she had no control over.
He was leaning against the edge of the nurse station, perfectly composed in his crisp scrubs. Watching. That same sharp, unreadable look, like he was calculating whether she was worth the energy of acknowledgment.
Mel blinked, forcing herself not to stiffen. Not today. He wasn’t going to ruin today.
Langdon’s gaze cut to her like a spotlight she hadn’t asked for. “I’ll give you some new interns,” he said, clipped, that veneer of authority coating every word. “Train them properly. No pity when they make mistakes. We can’t have a soft senior resident.”
Her stomach twisted at the sting, but she held on to the thought of her date, the promise of laughter, of someone choosing her. That steadied her. She pressed a palm against the counter, grounding herself.
“Yes, sir,” she answered, crisp, but with the faintest edge of amusement only she could hear.
He didn’t respond, just gave a short nod and moved off toward a monitor. The air lightened the moment he was gone.
Mel let out a slow breath, leaning back toward Dana and Princess like they were her safe harbor.
“He’s been really cranky since that divorce,” Princess muttered.
“Yeah,” Dana agreed.
Mel’s head snapped toward them. “Oh? I didn’t know he got divorced.” Her voice dipped low, betraying the strange leap her heart gave.
“Yeah. A few weeks ago. But I heard they were separated for months before that. Don’t take his behavior too seriously.”
Well. He’d been treating her like shit long before that, so he wasn’t getting a pass. Still. It was a data point. A reason, not an excuse. Not that she cared. She absolutely did not care.
She straightened, pushing it away.
“You guys, today is going to be good. Really good. I don’t care if Langdon’s lurking in the background; he can’t touch this mood.”
Princess grinned. “I like the confidence, Mel. Hold onto it.”
Mel laughed softly, tucking her hair behind her ear before moving down the hall, scanning the patient boards.
Even with Langdon’s presence brushing the edges of her periphery, even when she glimpsed him over charts or at a bedside.
Good for his wife for leaving him, she thought. The dick had it coming.
**
She stood, swaying just slightly, and threw back the rest of her drink like it was some kind of war cry. The ice clinked against her teeth, bitter vodka burning down her throat.
Fine. So she’d been stood up. Who cared?
Honestly. She’d only said yes because the idea of having a human body next to hers, something warm, distracting, maybe even fun, sounded like it would keep her from screaming into a pillow until dawn.
She thought maybe she’d get one night to forget.
But no.
She abandoned her lonely table and claimed a bar stool like it was a battlement. Her glasses went into her purse, and the world immediately softened into a merciful, indecipherable blur. Fuzzy was good. Fuzzy meant she didn’t have to be Dr. King, who noticed everything. Tonight, she was just Mel, the main character in her own pathetic one-act play.
The bartender slid her another vodka cranberry, and she gulped half in one go. Sweet. Bitter. Strong. She pressed the cool glass to her forehead for a beat, almost laughing at herself. Everyone always said she was so sensible, so put-together, so reliable. Such a good girl. So damn good at being the one who held it all together. They had no idea how much she wanted to unravel sometimes.
And here she was: unraveling. ish.
“Don’t you think you’ve had a little too much, King?”
The voice was a bucket of ice water down her spine. Her body locked, her grip on the glass turning white-knuckled. Every nerve ending fired at once, her skin prickling with a humiliating, hyper-aware dread. She knew that voice like she knew the sound of a flatline.
She turned slowly, and there he was, Frank Langdon. Arm propped casually against the bar, expression somewhere between irritated and amused, eyebrows raised like he was already judging her.
Of course. Of course. If the universe was cruel enough to stand her up, it was cruel enough to give her him.
“What…” Her throat caught, and she cleared it, trying to sound sober. “What are you doing here?”
He tilted his head, voice even. “Out with friends. Couldn’t help noticing you’re drinking pretty irresponsibly for someone who’s supposed to be at the hospital at 0700.”
Her lips twitched, then she snorted. “You have friends?”
His brows shot higher. She rolled her eyes. “I hardly think what I do outside of the hospital is any of your business, Dr. Langdon.”
She swallowed another mouthful of vodka, liquid armor. It burned so good she almost welcomed it.
“Just a concerned Samaritan,” he said, cool as ever.
She barked a laugh. “Funny. Because in the hospital, the role you play is as far from good Samaritan as humanly possible. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to enjoy my night alone.”
“You should go home,” he said simply.
She ignored him and signaled the bartender for another round. He sighed, that low exhale that carried more weight than words, and disappeared back into his group of friends.
She let her shoulders collapse, not realizing until then how tight she’d been wound.
She hated that she noticed where he sat, hated that she could pick his laugh out of the noise. Rich, careless, warm. God, she hated how good it sounded. He was having fun. Why couldn’t she, just once?
“Pretty girl like you shouldn’t be drinking alone.”
She startled, swiveling toward the voice. A man stood beside her, blonde, broad-shouldered, maybe late twenties. Handsome in that easy, slightly dangerous way.
“Good thing I’m not alone anymore then,” she shot back, lips curving in a smirk.
He grinned, sliding onto the stool beside hers. “Name’s Joseph. And you are?”
“Mel.” She didn’t add Dr. King. Not tonight.
“Well, Mel, seems like fate’s doing me a favor, leaving you here unclaimed.” His gaze swept her neckline openly. “Shame to waste a night this good sitting at a bar.”
She twirled her straw between her fingers. “Depends. What do you suggest instead?”
He leaned closer, his voice dropping. “Maybe we ditch this place. Promise you won’t regret it.”
Her laugh bubbled out sharp and humorless. “Forward, aren’t you?”
“Confident,” he corrected with a grin.
“King.”
It was him. Again. His voice cutting through the haze. He was suddenly behind her, his presence crowding the air, his hand already on her purse.
“We’re leaving.”
Her blood boiled instantly. She whipped around in her seat, face flushing. “Excuse me? No, we’re not. I’m perfectly fine where I am. Actually, Joseph and I” she turned sweetly to the blonde, brushing his arm with her fingers “are going somewhere. Where do you live, Joseph?”
“Not far, baby. We can go whenever you want.”
“She won't,” Langdon cut in, voice like steel. He snatched her purse from the bar and slung it over his shoulder. “Let’s go, King.”
Joseph straightened, narrowing his eyes. “Hey, man, back off. Who the hell are you anyway? We’re just having a good time.”
Langdon didn’t even glance at him. His gaze stayed locked on Mel, sharp enough to slice through the vodka fog. “Get up. Now.”
Her jaw clenched. “You don’t get to tell me what to do.”
Then Joseph’s hand landed on her thigh, a heavy, presumptuous weight. Her stomach plummeted.
Langdon’s voice didn’t rise. It dropped, becoming low, cold, and utterly lethal. “You put one more hand on her, and I’ll call the police. They’ll be real interested in how you target drunk women at bars.”
Joseph scoffed, stepping back, hands raised. “Jesus, relax. She came onto me.”
“Move,” Langdon snapped.
Joseph cursed under his breath and melted back into the crowd.
Before Mel could process, Langdon’s hand wrapped firmly around her arm. And then he was dragging her through the bar, while she tried not to fall on her face.
Her breath hitched. “What are you-”
They broke out of the bar’s doorway into the night air, his stride long and uncompromising, pulling her toward the curb where his car waited.
“Get in the car,” he ordered, opening the passenger door.
She yanked her arm back, breath ragged. “No.”
His jaw flexed, eyes blazing as he stepped closer, voice harder, low enough to shake her chest.
“Get in the car, Melissa.”
She doesn't think he ever used her first name before. Least of all the full name. Melissa. Everybody called her Mel. He refused, though. It was always King to him.
Seeing there was no fighting him, and he'd probably just shove her inside the car, she did as he so kindly requested.
Langdon slammed the car door. Her pulse still thundered from being hauled out of the bar like a wayward child, from him gripping her arm and dragging her across the parking lot. She was angry, furious, really, and beneath that, confused. He’d done this. He, of all people.
Langdon slid into the driver’s seat like he owned the place and spared her the briefest glance. “Buckle up.”
She crossed her arms tight over her chest and stared out the windshield, refusing.
A muscle ticked in his jaw. Then he sighed, muttered something under his breath, something sharp, short, profane, and leaned over.
The seatbelt slid across her lap with a firm click. His chest brushed hers, the heat of him so close she forgot to breathe. He smelled so good. For one dizzying second, she hated that she noticed.
Then he was gone, retreating back to his side, buckling himself in as though nothing had happened.
“You shouldn’t be driving anyway,” she blurted, words slurring just enough. “You were in that bar. Same as me.”
“I don’t drink,” he said flatly. Cutting.
She blinked, throat dry. Right. She knew that. Or she should have. Old Mel would’ve asked why. She would’ve gently pressed about the rehab, about whether staying away from addiction was hard in a place like the hospital.
Old Mel would’ve made it a conversation, the kind they used to have before everything between them went sour.
But Old Mel wasn’t here anymore.
So she pressed her lips together and stared ahead.
“You have no self-preservation instinct, do you?” His voice broke the silence as they slowed at a red light.
She had no idea if he even knew where she lived. The thought made her chest tighten. “Why do you even care?” she shot back, turning to him.
His jaw was set, his knuckles bone-white on the steering wheel. Sure enough, no ring. She was curious. She wanted to ask. But again, this wasn't Old Mel. New Mel didn't ask him questions.
“I’d care if anyone were stupid enough to go home with a stranger while drunk. Don’t count yourself special.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it, Dr. Langdon."
“Good,” he said, clipped as a gavel.
“Awesome,” she muttered.
They drove in silence for a few more minutes. Another stop. She wasn't sure if it was the streetlights getting blurrier or the alcohol she consumed was being absorbed really fast.
“So irresponsible,” he added under his breath as the light turned green.
Her blood boiled.
"Alright. You know what?" she said "You don’t get to do this.”
His eyes flicked to her for a second. “Do what?”
“This,” she snapped. “Judge me. You don’t know me. You have no right at all. In fact, stop the car. I’m perfectly capable of getting home on my own.”
He huffed, ignored her, drove on.
“I’ll open this door,” she warned, hand twitching toward the handle.
The car lurched to a sudden stop in the middle of the empty lane.
His eyes cut to hers, sharp and unrelenting. “What were you even doing there? What were you thinking?”
Her heart hammered so hard it almost hurt. “None of your business.”
“No,” he said quietly, firmly. “It isn't. Humor me. I’m really just trying to understand you.”
She had no idea why he was the one who seemed mad.
“I don’t need you to understand me, Langdon.” Her fingers closed around the handle, but the locks clicked down.
She stared at him, incredulous. “What is this? Are you kidnapping me?”
“You’re an adult,” he deadpanned.
They sat in the middle of the road, her chest rising and falling too fast, his voice like steel.
“Let me out.”
“Tell me.” Harsher now.
She swallowed, furious and ashamed all at once. “Fine. You’ll let me out after I tell you?”
“Sure.”
“I had a date,” she spat, the words ash in her mouth. “You happy? Now let me out.”
His mouth twisted. A sound escaped him—not a laugh, but a short, harsh exhalation of disbelief.
Her stomach dropped. “Oh, I’m sure this is hilarious to you, that anyone would even ask me out, since you don’t see me as a human being in the first place.”
She really didn't want to have said that, but filters weren't a thing when Mel drank vodka.
He shook his head, started driving again.
“You said you’d let me out,” she snapped.
He ignored her.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Her brain stuttered with humiliation.
“So what happened?” His voice cut through the silence after a stretch of road. “You were alone.”
She stared out the window, lips sealed.
“He stood you up?” he pressed.
Her teeth sank into the inside of her cheek.
“This is the best day of your life, isn't it,” she muttered, bitter, small.
He didn’t answer. Kept driving. In blessed silence, now.
God, she really wanted to know what happened to him.
What happened to that guy, the first day they met and the one from the first day he came back from rehab.
He was the sweetest guy. Mel really looked up to him. He was... he was so great. Mel had never wanted to talk to someone like she had with Langdon. The thought was almost alien to her now.
She didn't know what happened after that first day back. Why, on the second day, he was just... different. Distant. She wondered if she had done something to deserve it, at the time. She was hurt and wanted her friend back.
But that guy was gone. And in his place there was this... freak she didn't recognize. And so she went on with her life.
Mel was lost in her thoughts when he pulled up in front of her building.
Her head snapped toward him. “How did you know where I live?”
“I asked Samira.”
She could kill Samira. Absolutely murder her. First she set her up with a no-show. And then she's giving her mortal enemy her address? What was up?!
Mel fumbled the seatbelt off and nearly stumbled when the car stopped. He unlocked the door.
“You’re welcome,” he said.
“Go to hell,” she hissed, slamming the door behind her.
She didn’t make it far. Her heel caught the curb, her balance shot, and suddenly she was tumbling, knees buckling under her.
The curb was a hard place to be face planted.
Strong hands caught her under the arms after a few seconds. “Christ, King,” he muttered, hauling her upright. “You’re going to kill yourself.”
Oh, she was considering it, alright.
“I’m fine,” she slurred, leaning half into him, half away. Pull and push.
He walked her up the stairs of her front door building. She ignored the heat of his body agaisnt her.
“Keys,” he ordered.
“You’re not getting in.” her voice dragged.
“Keys, King. Now.”
He was even bossier tonight, his voice leaving no room for argument.
Her hands shook as she pawed through her purse. The world tilted sideways without her glasses, keys swimming somewhere in the black hole of receipts and pens and gum wrappers. He steadied her with one arm while she searched, muttering under his breath.
They got inside, she barely remembered even retreating the keys.
By the time the elevator doors closed, she was still half in his grip, his shoulder against hers, holding her up like it was nothing.
He smells good. She thought. Soap and something darker, warmer.
He snorted. “Thanks?”
Her stomach plummeted.
Did I—say that out loud? She thought again.
“Yes,” he said flatly.
God. Could this night be over, already?
Her door clicked open with a stubborn creak, and she nearly tripped over the threshold before catching herself on the knob.
He steadied her and then let go as if she was made out of lava.
He stood there, broad shoulders filling the doorway, one hand braced against the frame like he wasn’t sure if he was coming in.
“Will you be alright?” he asked finally, voice lower than usual, almost—hesitant.
Aw. He almost sounder like he cared.
She turned, half-lidded and sloppy, and rolled her eyes so hard she nearly lost her balance again. “Yes, Daddy” she muttered, pushing into the apartment.
Her heels clicked twice on the wood floor before she bent down to kick them off, wobbling dangerously. Without thinking, she tugged at her sweater, peeling it over her head in a clumsy, drunken flourish. Her blouse went right along with it, buttons giving way as she yanked.
“Jesus,” he said sharply. She looked up, hair a mess from the sweater, bra strap already slipping off her shoulder. His jaw was tight, eyes locked somewhere near the ceiling. “I’m going. You better not be late tomorrow, or I swear—”
“Oh, your poor kids,” she mumbled with a laugh, fumbling with the zipper of her skirt. “Bet they don’t listen either.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something under his breath that she couldn’t catch.
“I’m about to be naked,” she announced, matter-of-fact, like she was talking about the weather.
She struggled with the zipper, then looked up at him with a lazy grin. “If that’s not something you’re interested in seeing, I’d definitely leave.”
His throat bobbed, the muscle in his jaw ticking as he shut his eyes for a second like he was asking for divine intervention.
“Fucking menace,” he ground out, turning sharply. The door clicked shut with more force than necessary, the sound echoing through her little apartment.
She blinked at the door, then at the half-unzipped skirt still clinging stubbornly to her hips. “God,” she muttered, walking up to her bedroom. “This is going to suck tomorrow."
Somewhere in the hall, she thought she heard him curse again.