Archive of Our Own

Not many people know this about Mel, but she’s a massive fan of Megan Thee Stallion. She’s been Mel’s top artist on Spotify for the past six years, ever since Mel and her old therapist had come up with “Savage” as her hype song for whenever she began to feel anxious back in 2020. Mel listened to Megan Thee Stallion in the shower, on her commute, on her runs, as she cooked, even as she read. If she had her AirPods in, it was most likely Megan – either that, or white noise. Mel had her entire discography memorized. Her music was what got Mel through med school during the pandemic. 

So when Trinity, red-faced and tipsy from a couple of drinks at the karaoke bar she’d dragged the other residents and attendings to for Dennis’s birthday, tells Mel over the deafening atmosphere of loud music and the overlapping voices of the crowd that she’s put her name down on the list to sing Megan Thee Stallion’s “Big Ole’ Freak,” Mel’s both deeply panicked and utterly confused.

It’s all she can do to let out a weird, choked, questioning noise. She’s grateful the others at the table – Dennis, Samira, and Victoria – act like nothing happened, save for a raised eyebrow and masked cough.

Trinity leans in from where she sits in front of Mel at their dimly lit tables, a slightly evil grin making its way onto her face. “Don’t act surprised, I know you love that song,” she says, smirking.

“What?” Mel squeaks.

“I’ve heard you humming it to yourself when you do your charting. More than once,” she adds. 

Mel knows she’s probably not lying. 

“And,” Trinity continues, “the other day, you happened to leave your phone unlocked in the bathroom open to your Spotify. I saw your Megan Thee Stallion Favorites playlist.”

Mel doesn’t have the mental capacity to worry about the fact that Trinity went through her phone without her permission. The prospect of having to get up on stage and perform that particular song has taken over her brain.

She also doesn’t have the mental capacity to deal with the way her coworkers are staring at her in barely masked shock.

Mel gets how her love for Megan might seem out of character to her coworkers – from their point of view, she's an awkward, introverted white girl who never curses and has no interest in sex. 

Her coworkers don’t know that as soon as someone got to know her a little, her quiet facade would fly out the window, and she wouldn’t be able to shut up.

They don’t know that on many occasions throughout the day, in her clumsiness, Mel would let a near-silent “shit” slip out from between her lips after stubbing a toe or jamming a finger. 

They definitely don’t know about her small but mighty collection of vibrators that sit organized in the bottom drawer of her bedside table. 

She wishes they knew – not about the sex toys, god, no. But other things about who she was. It was hard for her to connect with people other than her sister; she knows it's not her fault, that nothing's wrong with her. Her brain just works a little differently than most people’s. However, knowing this about herself doesn’t change the fact that she desperately wants her peers to really know who she is.

“Um,” Mel starts, finding her voice, feeling slightly trapped. “I’d rather not, if that’s okay.”

“No,” Trinity groans, latching onto Mel’s hand. Trinity’s are warm, and the sensation startles her. “Please, you have to. For Huckleberry’s birthday. It would be the perfect present,” she says, wiggling her eyebrows. 

Mel doesn’t want to even try to process what Trinity means by that.

Dennis interrupts from his seat next to Trinity. “Don’t listen to her, Mel, you don’t have to do anything,” he says, giving his roommate a look over his pint of beer.

“I know you want to,” Trinity says, voice lilting, looking at Mel meaningfully. 

Samira and Victoria stay quiet, eyes flitting between the other three at the table, audience to the rising tension.

The loudest part of Mel’s psyche, the petrified, anxious part, is telling her, You shouldn't. There are so many people. But beneath it, a quiet voice tells her, I do want to. It could be fun.

She does know the song word for word. And wasn’t her therapist always telling her to tell that loud, annoying voice to shut up? Because she could do whatever she wanted to do.

After a few seconds of tense silence, Mel forces herself to speak, gripping her crossed forearms. “Okay. I’ll do it.” 

“Oh my god, fuck yes,” Trinity yells over the noise, an excited grin on her face. She bounces in her seat, saying, “I wasn’t sure that was gonna work.” 

Mel doesn’t know what to say. “Well,” is what she comes up with. 

“Mel, you’re an icon,” Trinity states definitively, which makes Mel feel warm inside, the way praise always does. “This, I can’t wait to see,” Trinity says, smiling, as she gets up and walks away towards some of the nightshift crew who stand by the bar. Mel thinks that maybe it won’t be so bad.

As the conversation drifts, so does Mel’s attention. Her eyes wander around the bar as she sips at the dregs of her virgin mojito, idly spinning the black straw between her thumb and forefinger. 

Some senior residents and attendings are lingering by the bar top. She finds Frank standing shoulder to shoulder with Dr. Garcia, a grin on his face, his shoulders shaking at something his friend had said.

She wonders what they’re talking about, what's making him laugh so hard. His smile has a sharp edge to it, the way it always does. And, like it always does, it captivates Mel. Frank tilts his head towards Dr. Garcia to reply, and Mel notices the way his hair shifts to fall in front of his eyebrows, the movement of his jawline as he speaks, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down, the way his bicep flexes as he leans on the bartop. 

She finds herself thinking that she wouldn’t be opposed to Frank finding what was in her bedside drawer. She wonders how he’d react – what he’d do; if he’d blush, change the subject, and pretend he never saw them, or instead, look back up at her, eyes dark and hungry… Mel squirms in her seat, furrowing her eyebrows.

She knows it’s incredibly unprofessional to be thinking about her coworker like this. But what is she supposed to do? It’s not her fault the man is so attractive, that he is the spitting image of her type in a man; tall and competent, with a bit of a mean streak. 

And it’s not just that she finds him attractive, though she undeniably does. Over the past year, he’d become her closest friend at the medical center. He didn’t care about the things that often made it hard for her to get close to people: her rambling, stuttering, and general awkwardness, her sluggish ability to catch onto jokes, her know-it-all mannerisms, how she easily gets overstimulated. She never feels like a burden around him. She gets the sense he enjoys being around her, constantly seeking out her company at work, taking it upon himself to learn her quirks, respect her boundaries, and accommodate her needs without her even having to ask. It’s obvious he cares about her. Mel knows, because after almost ten years of looking after herself and her sister alone, the difference of having another person that cares, something she’s craved every day since their mom died, is unmistakably.

She sees the way he prioritizes his family, the work he puts in to rehabilitate his relationships with his coworkers, the dedication to his medical practice. The constant pain he’s in, and despite it, how hard he works to do better. 

She can’t be bothered to punish herself for falling for him.

His eyes find her own as he’s mid-sentence, and she feels her breath catch in her throat. Her thoughts are probably written all over her face; she’s never been good at controlling her expressions. 

If she’s being completely honest, she doesn’t really care; part of her even hopes he notices. 

If he does, she can’t tell. He doesn’t stop talking. But, his eyes don’t leave her face, and his smile becomes ever so slightly softer. Had those crinkles been around his eyes before? 

Her heart rate jumps the way it inevitably does whenever he looks at her. Lifting a hand up, he gives her a small wave, which she returns, smiling. His eyes drop down to her empty glass. He looks back up at her with a questioning expression on his face and mouths, want another one? 

And there he goes again, anticipating what she wants. Half of her melts while the other burns with frustration. She nods gratefully before watching him turn towards the bartender and flag them down to order her drink. 

The thing is, Mel’s not blind. She sees the way he looks at her – how whenever she finds him in the Pitt, his eyes are already on her. How he’s such a big fan of physical contact – a hand at her shoulder, a squeeze of her arm, a pull of her hand, a tug of her braid – and only with her. It’s a testament to how much she likes him that she never feels the urge to recoil from his hands, the way she normally does with physical touch; in fact, she finds herself leaning into them, finding comfort. 

And then there was that one time he’d accidentally walked in on her changing in the locker room. She’d been trying to get her shirt over her head, from where it’d gotten stuck on her braid. She’d looked up to see Frank standing stock still in the doorway, eyes locked on her midriff where it was exposed – she’d only been wearing a sports bra. She remembers how hot she’d felt under his gaze, when he’d met her eyes with an intensity she’d never seen on his face before. 

But then the moment passed, and he looked away, anywhere but her body. His intense expression had been replaced by a flustered blush, and all he’d said was “we need you in OR three” before practically running out of the room.

All evidence points towards reciprocation; the only question is why he hasn’t said anything yet. The most probable answer Mel’s come up with is that he might think it would be untoward to hit on his subordinate. And Mel understands. But it's not like he’s her attending; the degrees of separation are minimal – he’s no longer her supervisor, and they’re both residents, for god’s sake. It’s two years of residency keeping them apart. That’s nothing. They’d only need to fill out a few HR forms; Mel knows this because she’d looked into it months ago, emailing their Human Resources department under the guise of hypothetical interest. 

All it meant was that Mel was the one who had to make the first move. The problem is, she just hasn’t quite figured out how, having no experience in the subtle art of flirting. Not that she has no romantic experience; she’s gone on a handful of dates, had her fair share of kisses, but everything had been initiated by the other person. None of those endeavors got far, and she hadn’t cared if they did. Up till now, she hasn’t had a reason or desire to begin a romantic relationship with anyone. “Now” being the operating word. Now, she’s desperate to. 

She could just come out with it and abandon any attempt at subtlety. Frank always did seem to appreciate her bluntness. But if she was wrong, it could end in disaster. 

She doesn’t think she’s wrong.

As Mel’s second drink arrives at the table, Samira’s hushed voice pulls Mel out of her ruminations. 

“Oh my god,” she whisper-shouts, pointing her chin at the dance floor where a crowd watches and sings along while a drunk white woman makes an abomination out of ABBA’s “Dancing Queen” up on stage, although with stellar choreography. “Look.”

Victoria scoffs. “You think you could do better?” she questions skeptically.

Samira shakes her head. “No, not her. Look, there in the back. By the right wall.” Victoria, Dennis, and Mel follow her gaze.

Mel adjusts her glasses, squinting through the dim lighting and moving bodies to find Dr. Garcia and Trinity in the back. Their sides are welded together. Trinity’s head is on Garcia’s shoulder. Garcia’s hand is on Trinity’s ass. 

Victoria’s mind is clearly blown; her mouth has fallen open, and her eyes look like they’re attempting to escape their sockets. Mel, on the other hand, can’t say she’s shocked.

What does surprise her is the groan that comes out of Dennis as Garcia tilts his friend’s head up for a kiss. He has his face in his hands, and it looks as though he’s attempting to scrape his eyes out of his skull with his palms.

Samira gives him a reprimanding look. “Shut up, they're cute.”

“If you were the one hearing them have sex every other night, you’d understand,” Dennis says, voice muffled. 

Mel lets out a startled laugh.

“Okay, fair,” Samira concedes.

Victoria, looking uncomfortable, cuts in. “Trinity and Dr. Garcia are dating?”

“No,” says Dennis, tiredly.

Samira turns from the pair to look at Dennis. “Really? Because it looks like it.”

Mel agrees. “They look sweet, together,” she says. 

Dennis glances at the women in the corner before turning to face the table, his eyes slightly unhinged, bugging out of their sockets. “I wish they’d make it official,” he gripes, voice hushed. “Trinity keeps telling me it's not serious, but that's obviously not true.”

The group turns to look at Trinity and Garcia, who have somehow moved even closer to one another than they had been before.

“Fair enough,” Samira concedes. “I hope they get their shit together soon.” 

“Me too,” says Dennis. “I’m tired of having to hear her complain about her lack of a relationship, on top of everything else,” he says, meaningfully.

Mel smiles, amused. She’s happy for Trinity; at least one of them was having great sex.

Victoria’s mouth is no longer open, but she still looks slightly uncomfortable. Her eyes dart between each person before she says, “Isn’t it kind of, I don’t know, weird?”

Just as soon as she says it, her eyes widen, and she backtracks, shaking her head vigorously. “Not, like, in a homophobic way. I love gay people,” she states emphatically as Dennis chokes. “I’m an ally,” she says, looking hurriedly around the table. Samira looks like she’s going to burst out laughing. “I just meant,” Victoria continues, stumbling over her words, “In a workplace way. And Dr. Garcia is technically Trinity's superior, right? They could get in trouble.”

“Not necessarily,” Mel says. Dennis, Samira, and Victoria turn to look at her, and she blinks a couple of times, surprised to hear herself speak, before continuing. “It’s quite common for people to date within the workplace. All they’d need to do is disclose their relationship to HR.” Her colleagues have turned to look at her with confusion on their faces. Though her own starts to feel warm, she continues. “Besides, it’s not like Garcia’s an attending. That would make it an issue.”

Samira and Dennis suddenly look just as uncomfortable as Mel feels – Samira has a small frown on her face as Dennis looks down at his hands on the table. After a moment of silence, a light bulb goes off in Mel’s brain, and suddenly, the way Dennis gets flustered without fail whenever Dr. Robby praises him makes sense, and Mel has to fight to hold back the hysterical laughter that wants to burst out her mouth. She wonders if Samira had been thinking of someone, too.

“How do you know so much about this?” asks Victoria, completely unaware of the subtextual tension at the table. 

Mel can't help herself from glancing at Langdon before responding. “Oh, uh, I got curious a few months ago, so I talked to our HR department.”

Samira’s gaze follows where Mel’s line of sight had just been, and a grin makes its way onto her face. “Curious, huh?” 

Mel feels like a deer caught in headlights. “I thought it would be good to refamiliarize myself with our workplace policies and procedures,” she tries.

“Sure,” Samira says, giving her a knowing look.

*    *    *

Frank hadn’t been planning on coming. When Yolanda had cornered him at the nurses’ station while catching up on charting and leaned her elbows on the counter, quirked her eyebrow, and asked him if he was going to be there, he’d quirked his eyebrow back at her and said loudly, “Not sure your girlfriend wants me there.” He had to work hard to keep a straight face as the nurses’ station went quiet, making it clear that Princess and Perlah, who he knew were sitting behind him, were eavesdropping.

Yolanda had rolled her eyes and said in a lowered tone, “Again, Frank, not my girlfriend. We’re just–”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Keeping it casual,” he said, grinning, adding quotation marks around the words. She’d given him a warning look. “I’m serious, though,” he’d continued, sobering up. “I think I should stay out of her way.” 

She’d sighed. “Frank. Just stay out of her way at the bar.”

“What if I don’t feel like going?” He’d countered. 

“Don’t make me be the only adult there,” she’d pleaded. And yeah, Frank could see how being surrounded by only junior residents would suck. 

“What’s in it for me?”

She pretends to think, tapping her cheek. “Hm. You’ll have the privilege of knowing you’re a better friend than I am, maybe?”

“Aw, Yoyo, I didn’t know we were friends,” he’d said, teasingly.

“Don’t get it twisted, jackass,” she’d said over her shoulder as she walked away. 

In truth, Yolanda had been one of the best friends Frank had during the lowest moments of his life. They hadn’t talked about it much; how when he first got back to the Pitt and everyone had looked at him like they wouldn’t touch him with a 10-foot pole, when they scrubbed in together for the first time in nine months, she’d taken one look at him, and proceeded to insult his hair like she always used to (How much time did you spend on your hair this morning, Dr. Langdon? Two hours?) with a smirk on her face, startling a laugh out of him, making him feel more human than he had the entire day. Or how she’d started inviting herself over to his apartment every so often a month after his divorce and let him cry like a baby in front of her about his wife and his kids and the way he’d utterly fucked up his life. She’d been there for him without judgment; she’d become one of the only stable pillars in his life. She’d been the only one to make him feel like a normal person at the hospital, other than McKay, but that was different. He’d say other than Mel as well, but that was a whole other conversation.

The fact that at that point Frank still hadn’t planned on going was a testament to how much better of a friend Yolanda was to him than he’d ever be to her.

His plans hadn’t changed until Mel had run up to him sometime at the end of their shift, exclaiming his name in that animated way of hers. She’d laid a hand on his bicep and said to him, “I meant to ask, are you coming to Dennis’s birthday tonight?” She’d been looking up at him so hopefully that he’d felt like a man possessed when he heard himself answer, “Uh, yeah. I’ll be there.”

Her eyes had lit up. “Awesome! I’ll see you there, then,” she’d replied, smiling, as she walked back to her patient. 

He’s not surprised he reacted the way he did; over the past year, he’s learned that he’d probably do anything if he thought it’d make her happy. He is a bit pissed at himself, though. What did he think he was doing, falling for someone like Mel King? She was a junior resident – at one point, she’d been his junior resident, for Christ's sake. He felt like a creep just thinking about it.

He wouldn’t blame anyone else for loving her. She was kind, caring, surprisingly hilarious, infinitely empathetic in a way Frank could never be, incredibly intelligent, disarmingly sweet, and occasionally cocky and confident about her work in a way he found unavoidably sexy. 

But Frank – he’d done enough already, in the past thirty five years of his life. He wouldn’t drag Mel into his mess. However, it wouldn’t hurt anyone if, when presented with the opportunity, he did what he could to make her smile. 

Which is why he finds himself in the dingy karaoke bar standing next to Yolanda, watching her face as she stares with soft pride at Trinity, who's up on stage, singing Tracy Chapman’s “Give Me One Reason.” Her voice is low, full, and warm, and she’s clearly reveling in the moment up on stage as people in the audience whistle and shout out appreciatively. She sounds really, really good, and it’s becoming more and more clear that she’s not even singing at her full capacity.

“I didn’t know she sang.”

“Mhm,” Yolanda responds, glancing at Frank before turning back to Trinity, the corners of her eyes crinkling. They watch her in silence as the song starts to build, and Trinity starts adding her own riffs.

Yolanda leans in close without taking her eyes off the stage. “Don’t tell her I told you this, but. Apparently she was a theater kid in high school.” 

“Bullshit.” Frank has a hard time believing that tough skinned, abrasive kid would participate in, let alone tolerate, the earnest (and he’s sorry, but corny) art of musical theater. 

Yet, Yolanda is nodding her head. “It's true. I got her to show me a video of her in her high school's production of Into the Woods. She was the witch.” Frank has no idea what she's talking about, but he doesn’t want her to stop, because he can’t help but feel happy for her. So he says, “That’s sick, Yoyo.”

After a pause, Yolanda continues. “She sings all the time. It’s like she doesn’t even know she's doing it. Sometimes, when she's in the shower, she sings fucking Hamilton. It's so goddamn annoying.” The sharpness of her words are dulled by the literal hearts in her eyes. 

He sighs before nudging her shoulder, bracing himself for what he’s about to say. She turns to him, a questioning look in her eyes.

“When are you gonna admit that you’re serious about her?”

She closes her eyes and groans. “Frank–”

“No, I’m serious. It's not funny anymore.” He turns to fully face her, so that he can look into her eyes for what he says next. “It’s clear you love her. She loves you. You practically live at each other’s places. What the hell are you waiting for?”

She frowns, glancing away before meeting his eyes again. “You know what? That’s not fair.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks, bewildered.

“What are you waiting for?” she asks bluntly, poking his chest. 

Frank comes up short. “Huh?”

“With Dr. King.”

And Frank doesn’t know what to say to that. When he takes a long sip from his Coke instead of answering, Yolanda scoffs. “Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

Frank doesn’t feel like lying to her. “I didn’t realize you knew.”

“Of course I know.”

“That obvious, huh?”

“You’re not that subtle, Langdon,” she says. Frank slides a hand down his face. “Neither is she,” she adds, pointedly. Langdon hates the feeling of hope that creeps into his chest at her words. He forces himself to shove it back down.

“It’s different, though,” he says, tired. 

“It’s really not,” she argues. 

Frank laughs. “I didn’t realize you were a divorced recovering drug addict,” he tries to say jokingly, but his words fall flat.

This time, it’s Yolanda who forces him to face her. Her eyes are fierce and warm and full of feelings Frank thinks he isn’t worthy of when she says, “You know those things don’t make you any less deserving of love.”

If he thinks about her words too much, he might start crying. So instead, he wraps an arm around her shoulders, and she rests her head on his own. They stand there, side by side, listening as Dr. Santos sings her heart out to the end of the song.

Baby, just give me one reason

Oh, give me just one reason why

Baby, just give me one reason

Oh, give me just one reason why I should stay

Said I told you that I loved you

And there ain’t no more to say

The applause is deafening. Santos looks self-satisfied as she gives the crowd a mini bow and waves at a table in the back where the other junior residents must be. 

“Don’t think this means I’m getting off your case about her,” Frank whispers in Yolanda’s ear as Santos hops off the stage and starts making her way towards them.

Yolanda laughs. “I know,” she whispers back. “How about this – when you finally ask Mel out, I’ll tell Trinity I want to be her girlfriend.” Frank sighs.

When Santos reaches them, she has eyes only for Yolanda. “How was I?” she asks, breathless.

Yolanda keeps a straight face as she pulls Trinity in, wrapping her arms around her waist. “Oh, I don’t know. You were okay.”

“Fuck you,” Trinity says, hitting her lightly in the shoulder before putting her arms around Yolanda’s neck and kissing her softly. It’s so intimate, Frank has to look away for a second.

When Santos pulls away, she finally addresses him.

“You’re here,” she says, her face only slightly less closed off than it always was when he was around.

“I am.” Frank looks at Yolanda pointedly as she clearly works to stifle a laugh.

“Right,” Santos says, leaning forward onto the balls of her toes, clearly still on the adrenaline high of her performance. “I’m going to get another drink. Want anything?” she asks, looking at Yolanda.

She shakes her head. “I’m driving you home tonight, remember?” she says, giving her a look.

Santos’s eyes brighten. “Oh, I remember,” she says, playfully, and Frank wishes he weren’t here for this conversation. “I’ll see you later?”

Yolanda nods, kissing Trinity one last time before she lets her go. Santos starts to walk away before she stops and turns back around, facing Frank with an expression that can only be described as downright devious. “I meant to say,” she starts, with a glint in her eyes. “Mel’s up in a few. Thought you’d like to know,” she says over her shoulder before finally leaving.

Frank is horrified, and Yolanda doesn’t attempt to hide the simply gleeful look on her face. He looks at her, narrowing his eyes.

“I didn’t say anything,” she swears, cackling.

*    *    *

After Trinity finishes her ridiculously impressive rendition of that one Tracy Chapman song, Mel feels the nerves start to bubble up inside her chest. Dennis, Samira, and Victoria are cheering the loudest out of the entire bar for Trinity as she takes her bows, and the overlapping sounds are just too overwhelming for Mel. On top of that, it’ll be her turn in a few minutes. She feels lightheaded. Heart pounding, Mel quietly excuses herself from the table, heading to the bathroom to escape the noise. 

Locking herself into the first stall her gaze lands on, she sits down on the toilet and closes her eyes. She starts with box breathing – four beats in, four beats hold, four beats out, four beats hold, four beats in…

When she finally becomes aware that she’s been inhaling the nauseating scent of sweat, piss, and shit, she knows she’s feeling a bit better. Pressing her fingers rhythmically into her knees, she reminds herself why she agreed to do this. One, because she loves Megan Thee Stallion. Two, because it will be good exposure therapy. Three, because Trinity genuinely seems excited to watch her do it. Four, because it has the potential to be a lot of fun. 

I’m that bitch, Mel tells herself. Been that bitch, still that bitch, she continues, reciting the intro to her hype song. Will forever be that bitch, she thinks decisively, before standing up, flushing the toilet, and exiting the stall. 

At the row of sinks, Samira stands leaning towards the mirror, carefully reapplying her lip liner, a tube of lip gloss in her hand. She meets Mel’s eyes in the glass, raising her eyebrows in greeting as Mel walks up to wash her hands.

“Ready for your song?” Samira asks, glancing at Mel with her lips quirked up before looking back at herself to survey her work.

Mel focuses on lathering her hands with the citrusy soap the bar keeps in stock as she answers. “I’m not sure,” she says, truthfully, before running her hands under the warm water.

Satisfied with her liner, Samira starts working on her lip gloss. “You really don’t have to do it,” she says, barely moving her mouth as she speaks. “It’s not too late to tell the host you don’t want to anymore.”

Mel shakes her head, turning the tap off and grabbing a paper towel from the dispenser in front of her. “No, I want to. I’m just a bit nervous,” she says, looking up at Samira as she dries them.

“If you say so,” Samira replies gamely, hopping up on the counter as she waits for Mel.

“Want some?” she asks, holding up her lip gloss in one hand as Mel tosses her used towel in the trash. Mel walks closer to examine it; it’s an opaque, warm mauve that looks subtle on Samira’s own lips. Mel normally sticks with chapstick, and generally speaking, she gets squeamish at the thought of sharing make up. But today, when she’s been making an effort to try new things, she thinks, why not. 

“Sure,” she says, taking the tube from Samira’s hand. 

Carefully, she pulls the applicator out and swipes the fuzzy tip across her top, then bottom lip. The mauve is much bolder on her, and the effect is striking. She decides she likes it.

“Cute,” Samira grins. “It looks good on you.”

“Thanks,” Mel says, smiling as she hands it back to her. Samira stares at her for a moment, an inscrutable expression on her face, making no attempt to leave the counter. 

“So,” she starts, leaning forward. “Are you seeing anyone?”

The shift in conversation disorients Mel when she’d just started to feel like she had a handle on the make up situation. She feels slightly off balance as she answers. “Uh, no. Not at the moment.”

Samira nods, like she understands. 

“Is there someone you’d like to be seeing?” she asks next, quirking an eyebrow.

She knows, Mel thinks, her stomach clenching apprehensively. “Why do you ask?” she tries. 

“Come on, Mel,” Samira says, smiling. “I know you didn’t research HR policies just because you felt like it.” She then pauses, considering. “I mean, I guess you could have. Did you really?” Samira looks honestly curious. 

Mel holds her breath for a second before releasing it, thinking, it wouldn’t be so bad if she knew. Maybe she’ll understand. Looking up at Samira, she shakes her head. “No, I didn’t,” Mel admits. Her therapist would be proud of her.

Samira’s eyes widen. “I knew it!” She exclaims, slapping her hands on her thighs. Mel glances around, making sure the bathroom’s still empty. Just because she’s okay with Samira knowing, doesn’t mean everyone else can. “It’s Dr. Langdon, right?” Samira asks knowingly, voice hushed.

Mel nods, feeling her face get warm. “I know it’s weird that we work together,” she says, the words tumbling out of her. “I can’t help it.”

Samira sighs. “No, don’t worry, I get it,” she says wryly, her eyes unfocusing a bit as she looks away. 

Ah, Mel thinks, her shoulders loosening. So she was right; Samira had caught feelings for someone at the Pitt. Mel wonders who it could be.

Mel hops up onto the counter, joining Samira where she sits. They stay silent for a while, contemplating their shared predicament. Mel’s thoughts are moving so fast, she doesn’t have the time to mull over her words before they spill out of her mouth, and she finds herself voicing a sentiment she never thought she’d ever tell a coworker. “I want to have sex with him,” she says, plaintively.

There’s a beat before Samira huffs out a surprised laugh. 

Mel feels her face flush, flooding with immediate mortification. There goes her attempt at a normal conversation with a person her age. “That was too much information,” she mutters, shaking her head.

“No, you just surprised me,” Samira replies, smiling. “Nothing wrong with it, though. I’d be a hypocrite if I said otherwise.”

Mel’s embarrassment ebbs as curiosity about who Samira’s been referring to increases. Who could it be? In Mel’s opinion, there weren’t that many attractive doctors at their place of work, other than Frank, of course. It could be one of the nurses, she thinks. She can’t imagine that it would be Whitaker; there’s no way he’s Samira’s type. And Mel was fairly sure he wasn’t attracted to the female gender. It could be a woman, Mel realizes, intrigued by the possibility. That would make more sense. Before she knows it, Mel’s asking Samira outright. “Sorry, you don’t have to say, but who–”
“It’s Dr. Abbot,” Samira sighs, saving Mel the trouble of finishing her sentence.

Mel’s both scandalized and utterly unsurprised. “Dr. Abbot,” she repeats, slowly, digesting the new information. 

“I know it's a bad idea,” Samira says. 

Mel contemplates. “He is attractive,” she says. “If you’re into older men.”

Samira hums musingly. “I guess I am,” she says, looking at Mel and grinning despite herself.

Mel can’t help but grin back.

Samira shifts her body, turning to face Mel on the counter. “So,” she starts. “What I don’t get is why you and Langdon aren’t together already.”

Mel’s apprehension toward discussing her feelings starts to creep back, putting pressure on her lungs. 

“What do you mean?” Mel asks, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose.

Samira gives her a look. “You can’t be serious.” 

Mel continues to watch her, confused. 

“That man is half in love with you,” Samira says emphatically. “Everyone knows it.” 

Mel flushes. Knowing that her coworkers have been watching her and Frank with their romantic life in mind has her feeling uneasy, but she’s also relieved to hear what she’s been thinking silently for the past year voiced by someone else.

Samira glances around the bathroom, before continuing, her voice a bit lower. “I’m not supposed to tell you this, but,” she pauses, taking a breath before continuing. “Princess has a betting pool going around for when you two get together. Half of us thought you already were.”

“What?!” Mel yelps. 

Samira nods. “Let's just say you’d be doing me a favor if you started dating within the next month.”

Mel’s quiet for a moment, processing her words. It’s all starting to feel more real, now that she knows it’s not just her, making up a fantasy in her head. But she has to remember, she still isn’t sure what exactly is going on in Frank’s head. Mel, and apparently the rest of their Pitt, can have their theories; they still don’t explain why Frank hasn’t said anything, despite the many opportunities he’s had. 

When Mel tells Samira as such, Samira replies, “You haven’t said anything either, though, have you?”

And Mel guesses that’s true. “No, I haven’t,” she says quietly.

“Have you thought about asking him out?” Samira asks, after a short pause.

“Yes,” Mel says emphatically. “Of course I have. I think about it all the time, I just,” she says, struggling to find the words, “I don’t know how.”

“Just tell him how you feel,”  Samira says, as though it’s simple. Could it be really that easy? “Talk to him,” Samira urges. “And don’t forget to tell me how it goes,” she adds, looking at Mel slyly. 

Mel looks down and nods to the ground, a smile involuntarily pulling at the sides of her mouth.

Girl talk and gossiping about boys is something Mel hasn’t really had the opportunity to do before; she finds herself wanting to keep going, to talk more, to ask Samira about her own love life— hoping that maybe, they could eventually be friends.

Before Mel gets the chance to say anything, though, Trinity barges into the bathroom, pronouncing, “There you are,” with a sigh of relief. “Mel, you’re up,” she says, gesturing to the door with her thumb over her shoulder. “You ready?”

Mel closes her eyes, and takes a deep breath. She searches for that brave little voice in her head, and when she finally hears it, it’s saying, you got this.

Opening her eyes, Mel leaps off of the counter, game face on. “Yep,” she says, determined. “Let's go.”

*    *    *

Frank’s jaw has been hanging so low for the past thirty seconds that his mouth is starting to feel parched. He barely notices when Yolanda starts nudging at his shoulder and saying his name, because his full attention, importantly, is devoted elsewhere. Namely, where Mel stands at the back of the bar commanding the stage, spouting the most erotic lyrics Frank thinks he’s ever heard in his life. 

The words flowing out of her mouth are downright filthy, and yet somehow they come out easily. There’s a TV off to the side projecting the lyrics, but she doesn’t glance at it once. If Frank had told his past self that one day, he’d know what Mel would sound like saying things like “suck it then look in his eyes” at top volume, he knows he would have laughed in his own face, and told himself he had been hallucinating. And yet, the images Mel’s words produce in Frank’s mind are so unspeakable, Frank feels as though he has to go to confession and repent, despite the fact that he grew up atheist. Any preconceived notion Frank may have had of Mel’s innocence has vanished and been replaced with whatever the hell this is. The sultry, slow beat thrums in his body and the crowd screams and wolf-wistles after a particularly raunchy bar. Frank is utterly entranced.

“Frank,” Yolanda yells, fully shoving him this time. Frank thinks he can feel her shaking with laughter, but he’s not paying enough attention to know for sure.

“Huh?” he says, eyes still glued on Mel, where she’s now saying something about how she’ll get on her toes and ride up to the tip.

“It’s okay to blink,” she says. “Take a breather. Also, close your goddamn mouth.”

Okay, so she’s making fun of him. He doesn’t really care. 

Mel is surprisingly good at rapping. Frank never would have guessed, but it makes sense when he thinks about it – she’s always been a rapid talker. It’s just like how she quickly and decisively rattles off possible diagnoses or treatment plans to patients, or surgical instructions to her med students down in the Pitt; except now, the medical jargon is replaced by vivid descriptions of various sex positions. 

Another minute passes; Frank’s mouth gets drier and drier. And then, all of a sudden, Mel’s eyes are on him with a laser focus as she recites the last verse. He can’t look away.

You been fiending for me lately

Going brazy, brazy

I got what you need I'ma give it to you baby

Going brazy, brazy

Fiending for me lately

I got what you need

I'ma give you what you craving

“Fuck me,” Frank groans, involuntarily. 

“She certainly wants to,” Yolanda states.

“Shut up,” Frank says. But inside, he wonders. Why else would Mel be looking at him like that? Eyes dark, with no hint of humor. She’s clearly feeling herself, too. Her limbs are loose in her loose-fitting band T-shirt and jeans; she’s taken the mic out of the stand to be able to stalk around the stage, like a predator hunting down its prey (it’s Frank, Frank’s her prey). A ghost of a smirk lingers at the corners of her lips; Frank thinks that it's maybe the hottest thing he's ever seen. 

He squeezes his eyes shut and pinches the bridge of his nose, berating himself; thoughts like these shouldn’t be entertained. But tonight, it’s harder than it normally is to just move on, when it feels like she’s just told him she knows just how much he wants her, and exactly what she’s going to do about it.

The bar hoots and hollers when the beat wraps up, and Mel gives a small wave to the crowd, a bright smile on her face. 

“Yolanda,” Frank says, anguished.

“Uh huh,” she answers.

“What am I going to do?”

“I think it’s pretty clear,” she says, deadpan.

“No,” Frank says immediately, shaking his head. “Yoyo, I can’t do that.”

“If you say so.”

Frank watches Mel head to the side of the stage to carefully step down the stairs, and walk towards where the other younger residents seem to be hyping her up. Santos is the loudest of the bunch; she hugs Mel, holding onto her shoulders and yelling something into her ear. Mel at first seems stiff, but slowly relaxes into her grip. Off to the side, Samira watches her from the side, looking proud. Dennis still looks shocked, and Victoria looks like she might fall over from how drunk she is. And Mel—well, she looks really happy.

“It would be wrong,” Frank says, almost to himself. 

“Right.”

“Fuck,” Frank says, again.

“I swear to god, if you don’t stop beating yourself up about this, I’ll kill you,” Yolanda finally says, exasperated. “You’re not doing anything wrong.”

Frank wholeheartedly disagrees, but he shuts up despite it. His heart jumps into his throat when Mel turns, her eyes instantly finding him. He schools his face into a relaxed smile as she starts hurriedly walking his way.

“Frank! I was looking for you,” she says once she comes to a stop in front of them, face flushed. Her lips are parted, and he immediately notices that she’s wearing something dark and glossy on them. It’s distracting. There’s a sheen of sweat on her brow, she's huffing slightly as she catches her breath. She looks exhausted, but content and satisfied at the same time. Sue Frank if he wonders if this is what she’d look like in a different context. “Did you see me up there?” 

He exhales a laugh. “Yeah, I did. That was, uh, impressive,” is what he ends up saying, for lack of better words.

“Thanks.” Mel looks up at him with those earnest, olive colored eyes of hers, and Frank feels winded. 

“Okay, I’m out of here,” Yolanda loudly interrupts. “Nice to see you, Dr. King,” she says, not unkindly, before giving Frank a mocking look and walking away.

Frank tries to regain his composure, and turns back to Mel. “How’s your night been so far?”

“Good, actually!” she says, face lighting up. “I don’t normally go out and I thought I was going to leave early. But I’ve been having a lot of fun.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

They stay silent for a moment, simply watching each other, and inexplicably, Frank feels his heart rate start to slow. There’s something so simple, warm, and grounding about being in Mel’s presence, and for the millionth time since he’s met her, because he’s a greedy, selfish man, he wishes there was a way he could be around her forever. 

She takes a step closer to him, face getting serious. “I wanted to talk to you about something.”

Frank shoves his thoughts to the side, concern taking over. “Of course, what is it?”

“Would you come to my apartment? It’s not far, and I’d rather talk there.”

Frank nods immediately. “Sure. It’s a bit loud in here, isn’t it?”

She nods, her eyes warm.

*    *    *

Mel’s apartment is a mere ten minute drive from the karaoke bar. They drive separately, Frank following Mel’s grey Prius. When they walk in, she tells him offhandedly that Becca is at the facility for the weekend.

He nods—it makes sense; that’s probably why she let herself go out tonight.

“Do you want some water?” She asks, toeing off her shoes.

Frank nods. “If you’re getting some for yourself, sure.” 

He wanders over to Mel’s living space area as she busies herself in the kitchen. Looking around, he catalogs the contents of the room. There's a bookshelf stuffed full with textbooks (bottom shelf), literary classics (middle shelves), and from what he can tell, high fantasies (top shelf); a TV console littered with knicknacks, 3D puzzles, and what he thinks must be stim toys; a wide couch sits in front of an open coffee table filled with new and old inherited board games alike, and on top of it, a stack of journals sits off to the side. 

 One wall catches his eye, where countless framed pictures hang side by side. Some of them are clearly early childhood memories of Mel and Becca; in an older, wood frame, sits a picture of the two girls lying side by side in green grass propped up on their elbows, mouths wide in uninhibited grins, showing off their matching missing teeth. In other pictures they’re sometimes accompanied by two adults who Frank assumes are their parents. In ones where they’re a bit older, they’re sometimes accompanied by their mom. In pictures where Mel looks most like how she does in the present day, it’s just the two of them. 

Frank focuses one frame that features a cap and gown clad Mel with her sister and mom after what must be her high school graduation. Mel looks just like her mother. They have the same brown green grey eyes, the same full brows, the same rounded edges and delicate features. He’s overcome with the reality Mel’s faced, and just how strong she’s been, carrying on in her parent’s wake.

Frank is struck out of his reverie when Mel joins him at the wall and places a cold glass in his hand. He glances at her as he asks, “That’s your mom, right?”

Expression slightly guarded as she nods, once. Frank turns back to the picture, aware that she’s watching him.

Frank is at a loss for what to say. The silence stretches, in a way that, on his end, feels only slightly uncomfortable before he finally says, “She’s beautiful.” It doesn’t feel like enough.

But Mel exhales when he does, her shoulders visibly loosening. “Yeah,” she says. “Can we sit down?” She asks, gesturing toward the couch. 

Frank follows her and sits down at one other end, watching as she tucks one of her feet underneath her legs. 

He takes a sip from the glass he holds to calm his nerves, letting the cool liquid slide down his throat before setting it down on a handmade painted coaster on the coffee table and shifting to fully face her, waiting for her to begin. She fidgets with her hands for a few moments as he watches. Frank wonders if he should say something; he decides against it, letting Mel take her time. 

Suddenly, she inhales sharply, meeting Frank’s eyes, her eyebrows furrowed and mouth turned down. Frank’s stomach jumps in anticipation. Finally, the words fall out of her mouth. “Why aren’t we dating?”

Frank would have choked on his water if he’d still been drinking it, but he’s not, so he chokes on his own spit instead. 

Mel, unconcerned with the dying noises he’s just made, continues talking over him. “We spend all our time together at the hospital, you’re always looking out for me, and you’re always touching me, and I guess that doesn’t have to mean anything. But I want it to mean something, because I really like you, and apparently, half of the Pitt thinks we’re already dating. There’s this betting pool going around – anyways, that’s beside the point. My question is, is there a reason why you haven't asked me out yet?”

All of her words come out in a rush, and Frank has to take a second to catch up with her speed. Because, there’d been a fucking betting pool? If he’s being honest, part of him had thought, even known, that she’d want to talk about this. Because it’s true – he hasn’t hidden his feelings as well as he should have. He’d be lying if he hadn’t also noticed the way Mel sometimes looked at him, but he’d always done his best to convince himself it didn’t mean anything, and that even if it did, it wasn’t something to be considered. Now, though, when Mel’s looking at him from the side, hopeful and nervous and expectant at the same time, it’s impossible to ignore. It kills Frank that he has to let her down.

“Mel, you don’t want to be with me,” Frank says, forcing the words out of his mouth down towards his hands.

“I just told you I do,” Frank hears her say, her voice confused, and he has to squeeze his eyes shut. It’s painful, because how does she not understand? It must be some sort of karmic penance he owes that he’s the one who has to explain it to her.

“My life is a mess. It has been for the past year. I can’t drag you into that,” he says finally, looking back up at her. He can’t bring himself to list all the ways in which he’s failed the people around him. He hopes his allusion will be enough to remind her. “I can’t,” he repeats, for himself just as much as he says it for her. He can’t be the one to destroy her spirit. 

Frank watches her face continue to stew in confusion, until abruptly, eyes widen and the line between her brows disappears as she seems to come to a realization. “Oh,” she says, softly, eyes directed somewhere near the coffee table. “You think—Oh.” There’s a small smile on her face. For the life of him, Frank doesn’t know why she might be amused. “So that’s why,” she continues, talking to herself, before looking back up at Frank and telling him adamantly, “You’re wrong.” 

Frank feels his eyebrows jump as Mel shifts, lifting her other foot up onto the couch so that she sits crosslegged, turning to face Frank completely as she gears up for whatever she’s about to say. He feels the idiotic hope start to rise in his chest as it so often does, and he prepares to shove it down. 

“Frank,” she starts, “You’re two years older than me. However much life I have ahead of me, so do you.” Frank wants to protest, but doesn’t get far before Mel’s hand presses firmly into his thigh, hushing him. Though they’re at each other’s level on the couch, Frank feels as though he has to look up to meet her eyes. “Let me finish,” she says sternly, admonishing him, before taking his hand and squeezing it gently on her own. “What if I want to be a part of your mess? I know what I’m getting into.”

He shakes his head, releasing her hand, because how could she want to, if she knew what she was getting into? Both can’t be true at once. 

“I don’t think you do,” he says, an unpleasant, mean half-smile tugging at his lips. It puts a frown on Mel’s face and a line between her eyebrows, and Frank feels guilty. He tries to morph his expression into something less cruel as he prepares to remind her why involving herself with him would be such a terrible idea, because clearly, and unfortunately for Frank, she’s forgotten. 

“I’m divorced,” he starts, gaze not leaving her eyes, almost challenging her. “I have two kids that I’m struggling to coparent. I’m a pariah at our workplace, and there’s a good reason for it,” he says, gritting his teeth, his voice rasing to a a frustrated yell when he bursts, “I’m a fucking drug addict. Remember that, Mel?” He cocks his head, desperate and guilty and miserable. “I lied, and I failed everyone.”

“Frank,” Mel whispers. Her eyes, those expressive rings of green and brown that he’s come to adore, are so sad, and Frank is disappointed, because it means it’s working. He forces himself to keep going.

“You’ve said I didn’t fail you,” he says, voice getting softer. “But that’s a testament to your virtue, because the fact is, I did. I failed you as a mentor, as a physician. I stole meds from my own patients. I am not a good person. Think about that, and tell me you still want to be with me.” He exhales, breathing heavily, watching Mel’s face as she slowly digests his words. 

There’s quite a long moment where they don’t speak. Frank’s gearing up to say, It’s okay, you don’t have to say anything, and leave quietly. He’s glad that at least it’s gotten over with. Whatever would come, he would resign himself to, and would be for the best.

But then, Mel finally speaks, looking up at him. “I do,” she says, quietly.

“You do, what?” Frank asks, sidetracked.

“I still want to be with you,” she says firmly, her voice ringing in Frank’s ears. 

He must be hearing wrong, because none of it makes sense. He doesn’t understand, yet Mel’s eyes are clear, her face is resolute, set with anticipation.

Frank exhales, bewildered. An incredulous “How?” is all that comes out.  

Mel clears her throat, tucking non-existent flyaway hairs behind her ear before continuing. “Everyone comes with baggage,” she states. “My parents are gone and I’m the sole caretaker of my sister, which takes up a lot of my time. That doesn’t matter to you, does it?”

Frank squeezes his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose, trying to get his thoughts in order. “That's completely different,” he says.

“Sure, it’s different,” she concedes, with a tilt of her head, “But what I’m trying to say is you need to realize it’s not your fault you have an addiction. That’s not something you can control, just like how I can’t control the reality that my parents died early.” 

She pauses to reclaim his hand in her own, mooring him to her presence, and Frank is put under. 

“Your past isn’t something that scares me,” she says softly. “It’s actually how you’ve carried yourself and kept going despite it, that makes me– care about you as much as I do,” she says, stumbling a little over her words.

Mel’s intention washes over him, touching him at his core. It’s scary; realizing that what she’s telling him mirrors many of the things he’s thought about her makes his brain feel like it’s going to burst.

“You stole medications from your patients,” she says, repeating Frank’s own words back at him. “I won’t try to make excuses for you. But you’ve done so much more than that; you’ve worked so hard at recovery. You’ve committed yourself to making it up to every single person you may have hurt, no matter how little.” Her voice gets steadier and more resolute as she goes on. “You’ve taught me so much about what it is to be a good doctor, in caring for your patients, constantly learning and adapting, in your relentless passion for the work.” 

She pauses, eyes roaming Frank’s face before continuing.

“You’re not a monster, Frank. You're human. Sometimes really bad things happen, and we do bad things because of it. I’ve always thought that it’s how we keep going that matters. And I’ve always found the way you have, very admirable.”

Frank looks down. He tries to focus on the sensation of her hand squeezing his, feeling his chest getting tight. It’s impossible for Frank to ignore the way she truly sees and cares about him with abandon. It’s been true for how long they've known each other, but it’s the first time she’s stated it so explicitly. His throat gets scratchy and his eyes start to prickle, and he realizes that he just might start shedding tears. He doesn’t know what to say, so he just looks down at their hands where they still lie between their bodies, overlapped together. 

“So, I don’t get it. Unless I’m wrong, and you actually don’t want to be with me,” she says, trailing off, looking put out at the thought.

“No,” Frank says, the words leaving him immediately. “That's not—Jesus,” he exhales, shaking his head, because it couldn’t be further from the truth, and the uncertain look it puts on Mel’s face is simply unacceptable. He tangles their fingers together, and brushes his thumb over hers. “Obviously, I want to be with you.”

“Really?” She looks so earnestly delighted, Frank begins to wonder why he has to deny her. 

“Mel, of course I do.”

“So take me on a date, then,” she says, as if it were simple.

“I can’t,” he repeats. His words feel like an impulse, a compulsion he’s learned to never deny. But Mel’s words make him wonder; what good has the impulse served him?

“Yes, you can. Should I tell you why again? I’ll keep reminding you, if you want me to,” Mel says seriously, scooting closer to Frank and bringing their hands to her lap, and Frank is so gone for her, there’s nothing he can do about it. And perhaps, he doesn’t have to do anything about it.

“Maybe you should,” he says.

She doesn’t hesitate. “One: you are a good person, despite you not believing it. Two: you make me feel safe in a way I haven't felt in a long time. Three: I want to be with you. Four: I deserve to be with you. And, five: you deserve to be with me, too.”

When it comes down to it, Frank just wants to make Mel happy. And Mel, who’s watching him with clear, determined eyes, waiting for him to say something, has made it seem so simple, so easy. 

“Okay,” Frank finds himself saying.

“Okay, you’ll take me out on a date?”

“Yes, I’ll take you on a date.” The corners of his mouth are being tugged upwards by an unstoppable force. He feels weightless. 

Mel smiles, eyes crinkling at the edges. “Good.”

Frank is utterly disoriented. His world is tilted on its axis, and he has to relearn how to sit upright again, because he’s agreed to do something he once promised himself he wouldn’t, and yet, he doesn’t feel bad about it – at least not at the moment, and he’s deciding not to worry about how he’ll feel later until it becomes relevant. It’s a very emotionally mature and level-headed decision he’s making. Frank guesses that’s the power of Mel King. 

Because Mel’s moved so far down the couch, they’re already quite close; Frank’s gaze drops down to her lips, still coated with that distracting, dark lip gloss, and for the second time that evening, he wishes he could taste it, learn what it feels like against his own lips. He aches until he remembers that now, he's allowed. He looks up to meet Mel’s eyes, only to find that her gaze is lowered, too. 

Slowly, so as not to startle her, he cups her cheek carefully with his hand, brushing his thumb over her cheekbone. Frank scans her face, chasing every microexpression. Her gaze doesn’t shift from his mouth as she leans in, her eyes fluttering shut, and all there’s left to do for Frank is to do is close the gap. 

So he does, and holy shit. Frank is kissing Mel. He’s kissing her and she’s kissing him back, and Frank’s brain might be in danger of short circuiting from system overload.

Mel’s lips are warm and soft and slightly sticky against his own; she hums against his mouth, exhaling through her nose, breath fanning out on his cheek, and he wants to hold on to the sound and keep it safe forever. It’s a slow, sweet, and tender thing; Frank revels in the way the simple press of her lips against his feels like home. A few moments later they’ve parted, and he’d be mad at himself for it if not for the fact that it’s because they both can’t stop smiling. He laughs quietly, bumping his forehead against her own before letting it fall against her shoulder. He might be high. 

“Frank?” Mel says, quietly, though he can hear the smile in her voice. “What’s going on?” He feels her lips brush against his neck, and his brain melts. 

“Nothing,” he exhales, looking back up into her eyes, and reaching behind her head to smooth out her braid, not that it needed any smoothing. “I’m just happy, is all.”

Her eyes roam his face, creased at the corners, before she captures his lips again, and Frank is exactly where he wants to be.

*    *    *

Turns out, Samira was right; it had been easy to talk to Frank. All she’d had to do was get through that thick skull of his, and remind him that he didn’t have to deny himself things that he clearly wanted. Mel thinks Frank is an intelligent guy, but everyone knows smart people have the tendency to overanalyze. 

However, at the moment, Mel doesn’t want to think about Samira; she’d rather focus on the gentle pull of Frank’s lips, the careful caress of his hand at the nape of her neck underneath her braid, and the feel of his heart beating, strong and steady in his chest under her fingertips.

Frank’s kisses are reverent; he kisses Mel like she’s something precious, to be savored and handled with the utmost regard, and Mel almost cries because of how cared for it makes her feel. Each press is a promise, and each pull is an oath. His touches aren’t afterthoughts; they’re beautiful, attentively crafted sentences that serve an important, cherished purpose.

Mel feels as though she could kiss him like this forever. 

Part of her wants to; however, another other part wants something else entirely. 

She takes a chance, pressing her tongue against the seam of his lips, and when he opens for her, she brushes it against his own. He grunts, and his hands drop to her waist, pulling her closer, and all of a sudden, she’s halfway in his lap, which is perfectly alright, the way she sees it. 

Their kiss evolves into something messier, more urgent. Frank sucks at her lower lip, squeezing at her hips, the heat of his hands seeping through the fabric of her pants, and Mel is a live wire. When she gives into the urge to lick into his mouth, she feels his heart rate get faster under her hands, and the knowledge that she’s the one who makes him feel this way, who makes him groan against her lips, pull her even closer than she already is, kiss her harder, as though he’s starved for her and her alone, is intoxicating. Everything falls away but his possessive touches, his warm mouth, the sturdy feeling of his body underneath her own, and the pounding of her pulse in the base of her throat. Mel’s floating, racing towards the sun like Icarus, but she’s rooted to the ground, to each sensation, anchored to her body in a way that feels sacred and divine.

 It escalates and grows and climbs until it leaves them both panting, breath mingling in the small space between their mouths. From where Mel sits, straddling Frank’s lap, she takes in his wet lips, and the way his pupils are the most dilated Mel’s ever seen them. A bulge in his jeans has become visible, and Mel’s breath catches in her throat. Heat pools in her stomach, and a ball of need lodges itself in her windpipe at the thought of what strains beneath the fabric, and she wants so much that she feels unsteady.

The sound of Frank’s voice is what makes her look back up again. “Don’t worry about that,” he says exhaling, face flushed. “It’ll go away.” He’s looking at her, eyes full of ardency and tenderness as she slides her hands down to his thighs. 

“Is that what you want?” Mel asks him, curious. 

She watches his Adam’s apple bob up and down as he swallows. “It doesn’t matter what I want,” he says, sincere.

Mel has to fight the urge to roll her eyes, though she is touched at how sweet he’s being. She decides to tell him exactly what she wants. 

“What if I want to have sex with you, right now?”

For the second time that hour, Mel watches as Frank’s eyes widen, brows jump, and his mouth falls open in surprise, his quads tensing where her hands rest. 

“I haven’t even taken you out yet,” he says, voice low, eyes roaming her face.

Mel had considered that, and she’d come to the conclusion that waiting for sex didn’t matter to her. After all, the convention was most likely a remnant of the patriarchal expectations for heterosexual courtship, and those never proved to be good things. What difference would it make if they had sex before or after eating three meals together? Mel couldn’t care less. 

“Do you want to wait?” She asks.

Frank shakes his head, seemingly trying to clear his mind, and doesn’t seem to realize he’s answered her question in doing so. Mel almost wants to laugh at the constipated expression on his face. It’s endearing how badly he wants to get this right.

“You don’t want to take things slow?” he asks, sounding agonized.

“Not really,” she says, bluntly.

Frank visibly wrestles with himself, his jaw tensing, and fingers flexing where they rest around her waist. 

“Why do you think I invited you to my place?” Mel eventually says, looking into his eyes, making sure her intent is clear in her gaze.

When Frank’s eyes flare and Mel sees the heat behind them, her urge to laugh evaporates into a burning desire. She watches unabatedly as he exhales shortly out of his nose, involuntarily pulling Mel’s hips ever so slightly closer to his own. “Well, shit,” he says slowly, and finally, to Mel’s satisfaction, he brings their mouths back together. 

*    *    *

Mel is going to be the death of him. It’s a simple truth; Frank doesn't know why it took him so long to realize.

The thought strikes him when she starts to play with the hem of his t-shirt, sliding her fingers against the trail of hair on his stomach that travels all the way past his pants. She scratches at his skin there, gently at first, then harder, her nails biting into soft flesh, sending ricochets up through Frank’s spine, making his stomach jump, all the while continuing to wreak havoc on his mouth. 

Pulling away from his mouth, she tugs at the hem of his shirt impatiently, giving it an irritated look.

“Take off your shirt,” she says, not waiting to catch her breath. Or rather, she demands it. 

“Yes, ma’am,” Frank attempts to say jokingly, pulling it off at the same time. It comes out kind of gravely and breathless, and Frank thinks it has to be obvious to Mel how much it turns him on when she unabashedly orders him around. 

Once it’s off, her hands are back on him, teasing at his chest, where more dark hair grows in abandon. Frank leans back on his hands, watching Mel as she slides her hands through the thick locks, twisting it between her fingers, as though it's her personal sensory tool.

“I have a lot of hair,” Frank says automatically. Frank knew it had been a turn off for some of the women he’d slept with a few months after the divorce. Abby hadn’t particularly liked it either; when he was with her, he used to keep it trimmed. He hasn’t had the reason to trim it in the past few months, at least, not up until today, so what Mel now has on her hands is quite the jungle. 

It takes a second for Mel to respond; she seems quite preoccupied with her task at hand. “I know,” she finally answers, as though the fact of it is the most wonderful thing in the world. 

With her hands on his body, she doesn’t pay attention when he turns to press a kiss to the side of her neck until his lips touch her skin, openmouthed. She makes a soft keening noise, wrapping her arms around his neck, folding into him. He sucks hard, and her hands scramble for something to grasp at, finding the hair at his head, tugging, hard, and Frank practically whimpers. 

He should be embarrassed by the sound that’s just come out of his mouth, but when Mel pulls back slightly to look down at him, she has the same cocky glint in her eye that drives him crazy, and he just can’t bring himself to care.

“You like that,” she says. It’s a statement, not a question. Frank nods jerkily, and when she pulls at his hair again, testing him, it wrenches a groan out of him. He pulls her back down to him, so he can get to work on the other side of her neck, gently biting down while using his tongue at the same time.  

“Fuck,” she breathes out, tilting her head even further, giving him direct access. “That feels so good.”

Her words give Frank a head rush. He stars trailing kisses down her carotid, reveling in the hammer of her pulse into his mouth, to her clavicle, and the place in between them (suprasternal notch). He tastes the hollow of her throat, and she clutches at his shoulders.

“Frank,” she breathes out. 

He hums in response, tunnel vision singularly focused on her pinkening skin, her sharp inhales, and sweet exhales. He’s tugging the collar of her shirt to access her breastbone, about to ask if he can remove it, when she says his name again, more urgent.

“Frank,” she says, voice strangled. “Wait.”

He pulls back immediately. “You okay?” He asks, watching her face as she catches her breath. Her face is flushed like the rest of her skin, the heat spreading all the way to the tips of her ears. Her lips are parted, her body relaxed and pliant in the seat of his thighs. It’s nothing short of a miracle, divine pardon that he’s allowed to see her like this. 

She nods, pressing her hands into her own thighs. “I forgot to tell you something.”

“Okay,” Frank says. “What is it?”

Her expression slowly starts to get uncomfortable. She looks away. “I—“ She cuts herself off, grimacing.

“Hey,” Frank says, taking her hands with his own before she could get too carried away with overthinking. “Whatever it is, it’s okay.” 

She nods, her nose scrunched up. “I know. It’s just embarrassing.”

“I doubt it's as bad as you think it is.” Frank says.

She shakes her head twitchily, looking downwards, curling in on herself. Frank rubs his thumbs over the back of her hand, waiting as she psyches herself up. 

“I haven’t had sex before,” she blurts out. Her eyes are still shut. 

Her admission bowls Frank over, sends his mind reeling.  Mel has never had sex. And here he was, barreling her into uncharted territories without a goddamn clue. 

“That’s not embarrassing,” he says, firmly, attempting to keep his own shock hidden. 

“Yes, it is,” she says, voice tight. “I’m almost thirty and I’ve never been with someone in that way.” 

“That’s not a bad thing, Mel,” Frank says, adamantly. “It’s not something you’re obliged to do. I hope nobody’s ever made you feel that way.” He feels anger rise in him at the thought. She stays silent.

A terrible thought occurs; what if she only wanted to have sex with him out of obligation? The thought makes him sick.

“We don’t have to do anything,” he says, gently. “Today, or ever.”

“No,” she protests, frustrated. “I’m not asexual, or anything like that. I want to have sex with you. You have no idea how many times I’ve thought about it.” The way she says this, watching him humourlessly, sends the blood rushing from his brain to his groin. 

 “I don’t want to wait,” she continues, stubborn. “I’m just telling you in case I do something weird, or if it’s not that good, so you know why.” 

This might be the one of the funniest things Frank’s heard. “Mel,” he says, seriously, “I don’t think there's anything you could do that wouldn’t do it for me.”

Her mouth falls open into a silent oh shape. She relaxes back into him, muscles releasing, shoulders dropping. 

“Okay,” Frank says, almost to himself, trying to figure out what comes next. These were the facts: Mel has never had sex, but she wants to, with Frank. She trusted him, wanted it to be him. If he thinks about it too much, he might start tearing up again, and yikes, Frank doesn’t think he’s ever cried while being horny before. 

He breathes, calming himself down. “We’ll go slow,” he says, for both of them. 

“I don’t want to go slow,” she says, resolutely, hands leaving his to touch his stomach again.

“Okay,” Frank replies, on autopilot. “Okay.” Of course she wouldn’t want to go slow; She always dove head first into everything she did, giving everything she had.

“Okay,” he repeats for a third time. “Just, promise to tell me if it’s too much, okay?”

She nods impatiently, trailing her fingers right above the waistline of his pants.

“Tell me,” he says, voice hoarse. He needs to hear her say it out loud. 

“I’ll tell you if it's too much,” she parrots, looking down at him.

He swallows. “Okay.”

She leans in and kisses him slowly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and he goes willinging, because kissing Mel feels like a missing cog finally sliding into place, like a familiar melody, something Frank will never be able to get enough of. By the time she lets go of him, he’s breathless.

“I’m going to take my shirt off now,” she informs him.
His eyes darken in anticipation as she pulls her top off above her head, revealing a nude t-shirt bra, and the pale skin of her belly, throwing it somewhere on the couch. And before he gets to fully revel in the new expanses of soft flesh, she’s reaching behind her back to work at the clasp of her bra, and Frank is hypnotized by the time it finally releases, and she carefully shrugs it off, letting her breasts, perfect, swooping, teardrops fall into place. 

Drawn like a moth to a flame, his mouth watering, his hands move up involuntarily. Frank glances up. “Can I?” he asks, aching to touch. She nods, her gaze hungry, watching as he cups her in his fingers. 

Gently, he brushes over her nipples, the sensitive pink flesh constricting and pebbling beautifully under his thumbs. Goosebumps rise where his hot exhales ghost her skin. 

He presses his lips back to her sternum, trailing openmouthed kisses to the top of one of her breasts. “Is this okay?” he mumbles into her skin, incapable of pulling away. She’s saying “yes, yes, yes,” and then he’s laving his tongue against the stiff bud, and pulling it gently into his warm mouth. She shivers above him, arching into his mouth. 

He loses himself in teasing soft sighs out of her, circling her nipple with his tongue on one side, with his spit-slicked fingers on the other. He switches sides, sucking gently, carefully grazing the bud with his teeth, and she shudders, hands fluttering at his back. He does it again, and she grinds her hips into one of his thighs, and the warmth from the space between her legs seeps into his body. 

“Fuck,” he says, releasing her from his mouth, watching as she throws her head back, eyes shut tight, face screwed up in concentration, and begins to shift, and wiggle, and drag herself back and forth on his leg in earnest. It feels toe-curlingly delicious; each movement pulls the fabric of his boxers against his dick, sending rough shivers up his spine. This, and the knowledge that Mel is quite literally using him to get herself off, brings him teetering to the edge in an embarrassingly short amount of time. 

“Mel,” he says unevenly, squeezing at her hips, forcing her to stop. She stills, slumping against him, resting her head in the crook of his neck. “I’m sorry, “ she says quickly. He can feel the way she’s shaking her head into his neck, almost certainly overthinking.

Frank’s hands come up to hold her against him. “No, no apologizing,” he says, into her shoulder, trying to calm down, himself. He feels her lashes brush against his skin as her face moves.

“That was weird,” she says, voice muffled. 

Frank shakes his head vehemently before realizing she can’t see him. “Not weird,” he counters, pulling away and looking into her eyes. Her nose is scrunched. “Good. Really good.” Her expression relaxes and she smiles a little, at her own expense. Her grin is infectious, and the corners of Frank’s mouth lift to match hers. He feels lightheaded.

“Okay,” she says, settling back into herself. “Can we keep going?” 

And what else is Frank supposed to say to that?

“Show me to your room?”

*    *    *

Mel hadn’t realized how easy it would be. How simple, instinctual, and right it would feel, to just let go, give in to indulgence, and let Frank take care of her. 

In her room, he takes her apart with his tongue. She doesn’t shave down there, but he doesn’t seem to mind. His head between her thighs, she bucks up into his mouth, whines, grasps at his hair, and rambles incoherent nonsense; half of her is a mind to scramble away and out the door, because it’s so fucking embarrassing. But, it’s also so good. Frank seems to think so too, from the way he groans into her, and only gets more enthusiastic as she reacts to the pulls of his mouth.

She’s coming to realize that the embarrassing parts are what make it so much better, because it’s not just her who’s releasing her inhibitions; Mel watches through half opened eyes as Frank rocks himself into the bed as he fucks her with his tongue as though he can’t help himself, and she feels so, so close to him. She can’t get enough of it. 

When she comes, she’s almost caught off guard, her legs squeezing around his head in a vice grip, breath caught in a gasp. 

He hums into her, gently licking her through her orgasm as she shudders and shakes, static exploding behind her eyelids. When she’s done, it’s still not over; he presses sweet kisses to the crease of her thigh and rests head on stomach as it rises and falls with each deep breath she takes, regulating her senses. Four beats in, four beats hold, four beats out, four beats hold. She combs through his hair absentmindedly as she comes back to herself. She had no idea it could be this good. 

She pulls him up, overcome with the urge to kiss him, and he crawls over her between her open legs, bracketing her head with his arms, lowering his mouth to hers. He tastes musky and sweet. She revels in the grounding press of his body on top of her own, the gentle glide of his mouth against her own, the stiff weight of his arousal through his boxers on her hipbone. He eventually lowers himself down, resting his head on her naked chest with an exhale, ear pressed right above her heart. 

It’s a few luxurious moments later when she remembers that the insistent press of his erection against her thigh means he still hasn’t gotten off yet, though he does seem quite content to rest on top of her, cuddling her like an oversized koala bear. 

“Frank,” she says. 

“Hm?”

“I want you to fuck me.”

Mel feels his cock twitch against her leg. He gets up on his forearms to look at her.

“Right now?”

“Yes, right now.” She pauses dramatically, watching him watch her. She attempts to hide her smirk when she says, “Maybe later, too.”

“You sure?”

She nods. “I have condoms. In there.” She points her head at the nightstand beside her bed. 

He kisses her once, and slides off of her to walk around the bed towards her drawer. She doesn’t miss the way he winces when he bends over to open and peer in the drawer, but the grimace disappears when he catches a glimpse of what's in it, his eyes widening. 

“You have five dildos.”

“Actually, there's only two dildos in there. Two are vibrators and one’s a rabbit.” She feels the need to correct him.

“Right,” he says, nodding slowly, taking in her collection. He makes no attempt to move. 

“Frank,” she says, a smile making its way onto her face. It’s kind of fun, learning the tells of when he’s getting turned on.

“Right.” He rifles around the drawer and pulls out a genuinely massive unopened box of condoms, and starts cracking up. 

“Jesus, Mel.”

“What?”

“Why’d you get the five hundred pack?”

“They were on sale,” she says, plaintively, a smile creeping onto her face. “There’s nothing wrong with being prepared.”

“I’m not complaining,” he says, opening the box, taking one out, and setting the pack on her nightstand. 

Mel settles back into the sheets, sliding a hand down to her vulva as she watches Frank step out of his boxers, letting his penis spring free. Her mouth starts watering so much that she has to swallow.

Her gaze travels from where wild hair grows free at the base, following a vein up to where it glistens at the tip. Mel’s most entraptured by is the way its shaft curves upwards. A zip goes down her spine, imagining what it will feel like.

She remembers for the umpteenth time in the past hour that this is all very new to her—she’s never had penetrative sex before. The thought doesn’t make her nervous anymore, not when she’s this relaxed, blissed out, aroused. Instead, she sinks into the sensation of her fingers dragging languid circles around her clit.

When she opens her eyes again, it’s to Frank watching her with dark eyes, carefully rolling the condom on.

“Do you think you can come again?” His voice is attentive, tinged with a rough edge. 

“Yes.”

When he finally settles between her legs, he watches her face carefully as he guides the length of his cock with one hand, slowly pushing at her entrance. She’s so ready for him that he slips inside of her without much force. 

She’s so ready for him that when he slowly pushes at her entrance, he slips inside of her without much force. 

And then he’s rocking into her, filling her with a bone deep pleasure and wanting that can’t be sated, and she might be melting into the bed, into him. 

He kisses her deeply, mouths at her neck as she clutches at his back. She shifts her hips, taking him in even further, locking her ankles around him, and he groans into her skin. Everything falls away but the thrum of their heartbeats, his hands, his eyes, his mouth, the reverent words he breathes into her ear, the inescapable weight of his body on top of hers and the fullness of him inside of her. 

It’s so, so much, that Mel feels tears pooling at the corners of her eyes. She thinks it's the expression on Frank’s face that does it. He’s feverish, a vein on the side of his forehead is raised, his mouth is open, and his hair is damp and falling in front of his face, his expression brimming with intense pleasure. And yet, a stubborn gentleness, devotion, and care lives potently in his eyes.

Frank notices almost immediately, and he stills, hands coming up to cup her face.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, nothing’s wrong,” she almost sobs, arching her back to push her hips back into his, out of her mind with the need to be close to him. “Please keep going, don’t stop, I–I need you to keep going.” Mel rambles, clawing at him until he resumes his movements to her immense relief, slower this time. He brushes the tears away as they fall, holding her, kissing her forehead as she writhes underneath him. He removes a hand to travel down in the space between their bodies to thumb at her clit, and it's all it takes to send her tumbling off the edge, clenching around Frank, and dragging him down with her. 

Afterwards, she doesn’t let him get very far, and he doesn’t try to go anywhere. He pulls away the slightest bit to slide out of her, take off the condom, and lean over, trashing it in the can next to her bed, and wordlessly rolling them over and pulling her to his chest, their legs tangling in the sheets. She breathes, listening to the thrum of his heart get slower, and steadier. 

“You okay?” He whispers. She can’t see his face, but she can imagine what it looks like right now; skin flushed, blue piercing eyes immeasurably gentle, peering down at her, mouth slightly open as he catches his breath. She warms at the image.

“Very okay,” she says, burrowing deeper into his side. “Just overwhelmed. In a good way.”

“Okay.”

They’re silent for a while, breaths slowing, falling in sync, as drowsiness starts to kick in.

“Sex is amazing,” Mel states without preamble, around a yawn.

She feels the puff of air he laughs bristle against the hair on her head. “It is,” he says, indulging her.

She decides they’ll have to continue tomorrow, because sleep, too, is amazing. She drifts off to the dulled sounds of passing cars, the warmth of Frank’s body, the lull of his soft snores, and the safety of being held in his arms.