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Frank sat on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, hands clasped so tight his knuckles had bleached white long ago. The living room was dim, only the lamp in the corner cast long shadows across the rug. Frank hadn’t bothered turning on anything else. It didn’t feel right.
The clock on the wall ticked too loudly. 8:47 p.m. Robby had texted exactly once, over ninety minutes ago, not even bothering to talk to him after the handoff:
Go home. Alone.
No emoji. No follow-up. Just those three words. It all felt cold and final, the way Robby got when he was truly pissed and not just annoyed.
Frank had obeyed instantly. Left the trauma bay without argument, without changing out of scrubs. He drove home in silence, stomach already twisting itself into knots. He knew exactly what it all meant. The joke in the Pitt hadn’t been vicious, not even close to mean. Just a quick, dry “Sure thing, boss. Don’t pop a vein,” delivered with a smirk when Robby barked an order about the crash cart placement. A couple of the nurses had snorted, heads turning toward them. Robby’s jaw had tightened so hard Frank could see the muscle jump from across the room.
It wasn’t the words that had crossed the line. It was the tone and, more importantly, the audience. Robby didn’t tolerate anything that chipped at his authority in front of the team, especially not from Frank. Not when they both knew the rules at home were different. Not when Frank had spent years learning exactly how to push just far enough to earn the kind of attention he craved, and never far enough to actually be disrespectful.
But tonight he’d miscalculated.
And now he was paying for it the worst way possible: waiting.
Frank hated waiting.
He’d rather take the belt, then the hand, topped with sharp words and followed by rough hands pinning him down. At this point, he’d take anything. Anything but this slow, creeping dread that crawled under his skin and settled in his chest like wet cement. Punishment was clean. It had a structure. It had a beginning and led to an inevitable end. More importantly, forgiveness came after, warm and certain. Robby’s arms wrapping around him, voice going all low and soft again.
Compared to punishment, waiting was torture. It was a time where his imagination had an opportunity to run wild with no one to rein it in.
Every car that passed on the street outside made Frank flinch. Headlights swept across the living-room window in slow arcs. He jerked upright each time, heart slamming against his ribs, certain this was it—Robby’s Range Rover pulling into the driveway, engine cutting, door slamming. But the lights always kept moving, taillights eventually fading into nothingness, and Frank slumped back each time, breath shaky, palms damp against his thighs.
He tried to distract himself. Picked up his phone—lock screen empty, no new messages—set it down again. He stared at the entryway table where Robby’s keys usually landed with a familiar clatter. Imagined hearing them now. Imagined Robby walking in, face still hard, eyes dark with that quiet fury that made Frank’s knees weak even when he was terrified.
What would it be tonight?
Spanking, probably. Robby favored it when Frank had been deliberately cheeky in public. There was something about the ritual of it, the way Frank had to count, voice cracking on the higher numbers. Robby’s hand going hard and unrelenting until Frank was crying real tears and babbling apologies.
Frank swallowed hard. His throat clicked. He rubbed his palms on his scrub pants, the fabric still faintly smelling of hospital antiseptic. He should probably change. Shower. Do something normal. But moving felt like admitting the wait might stretch longer, and he couldn’t bear that.
Another set of headlights. Slower this time. Turning into the driveway.
Frank’s heart lurched into his throat.
The engine cut. Silence was thick, ringing in his ears.
Footsteps on the porch. Keys in the lock.
Frank stood up so fast the room tilted. He didn’t know if he wanted to drop to his knees right there or bolt for the bedroom and hide under the covers like a child. He stood frozen in the middle of the living room, hands loose at his sides, pulse roaring in his ears, every nerve screaming as he waited for the door to open.
For Robby to walk in and for the wait to finally end.
Frank’s knees hit the floor the second the front door clicked shut behind Robby.
The hallway light flicked on, and Robby stopped just inside the doorway, still in his coat and boots. His jaw was locked so tight the muscle ticked visibly. He looked down at Frank for a long moment, the disappointment rolling off him in waves thick enough for Frank to choke on.
Frank kept his gaze lowered. He didn’t have to look. He could feel the weight of it anyway.
“You know why I’m angry,” Robby said finally, voice low and controlled. The kind of calm that made Frank’s stomach drop further.
Frank swallowed. “Yes, sir.”
Robby stepped closer, until the toes of his shoes were inches from Frank’s knees.
“You undermined me in my ER and in front of the team. You turned a direct order into a punchline, and you did it with that fucking smirk you know I hate.” Robby exhaled sharply through his nose. “I don’t care if it was a joke to you. It wasn’t to the interns who just watched their attending get talked back to like he’s some first-year. It wasn’t to the nurses who have to trust that when I give an order, it’s followed. And it sure as hell wasn’t to me.”
Frank’s throat worked. “I’m sorry, sir.”
Robby didn’t respond. He just let the apology hang there unanswered.
“Strip,” he said at last. “Everything. Then kneel properly. Center of the room. Hands behind your back. You can use the pillow if your knees start to complain, but you don’t get to hide behind the comfort of clothes tonight.”
Frank moved without hesitation. Underwear slid down, folded, set aside with the rest. Naked now, skin prickling in the cool air, he crawled the few feet to the exact middle of the rug, then settled back onto his heels. Knees spread shoulder-width, spine straight, shoulders back, hands clasped at the small of his back. Chin tucked just enough to show submission without breaking posture.
Robby watched the whole thing. Didn’t offer any praise for the perfectly executed pose.
“I’m going to shower,” he said. “Then I’m going to eat. You will stay exactly like this until I come back. No moving. No touching yourself. No getting up to stretch. If you need the pillow, put it under your knees now. Otherwise, you can feel every minute of the wait, contemplating how you made me feel when you decided to be funny instead of professional.”
Frank’s breath hitched. “Yes, sir.”
Robby studied him another beat, his eyes tracing the line of Frank’s shoulders, the faint tremble already starting in his thighs, then turned without another word.
He shrugged the coat off, hung it properly on the rack. Boots got kicked off by the door. Scrubs were stripped in the hallway, thrown in the bathroom hamper.
Then the shower started. Frank could hear how water hissed against tiles.
Minutes stretched. The rug fibers began to bite into his knees. He ignored it. His arms ached from holding position. He ignored that part too.
Instead, he catalogued every sound from the bathroom: the shampoo bottle clunking, water shutting off, towel snapping off the hook. This one made his pulse jump. He strained to listen for footsteps, for the creak of the floorboards, anything that would mean Robby was coming back.
It never came.
The kitchen light flicked on next. Fridge door opened and closed. Microwave hummed. Plate scraped against the counter. The smell of reheated leftovers drifted into the living room. Frank could smell chicken, something with garlic. The fried rice they’d ordered yesterday. Ordinary domestic life that felt obscene against the tension coiling in Frank’s chest.
He wanted to beg, to simply call out and apologize again, promise anything. But he knew better. Speaking without permission right now would only make everything worse.
So he waited.
His knees started burning steadily now. His shoulders were tight already, and his cock rested half-hard against his thigh despite the humiliation.
Frank focused again. The microwave beeped. Metallic sounds of cutlery for a longer while. Water ran in the sink.
Finally, footsteps.
Frank’s heart slammed against his ribs.
Robby appeared in the doorway with his hair damp, wearing only low-slung sweatpants. He had his arms crossed over his chest, looking calmer now, but not soft. Not yet.
He walked a slow circle around Frank, taking in the posture, the tremble, the way Frank’s breathing had gone shallow and quick.
“Good,” Robby said quietly, almost gentle. “You can stay like that a little longer.”
Robby took a couple of trips back and forth between kitchen, bedroom, and living room, laying out a glass of water, a small decorative bowl with something Frank knew he’d be fed later. Arnica gel came last, and the certainty that he’d be spanked settled in Frank’s bones.
Robby finally sat on the couch, legs spread, elbows on his knees, watching Frank.
Langdon didn’t move. Not even a twitch. Supervision was always motivating. He just knelt there, exposed and aching, waiting for whatever came next, leaving it for Robby to decide when the apology was enough.
Robby let the silence stretch another long minute, watching Frank’s shoulders rise and fall with careful, controlled breaths. The air in the room felt thicker now, charged with the kind of quiet that made every small sound feel obscene.
Finally, Robby stood.
“Up,” he said quietly.
Frank rose slowly. His knees protested, thighs trembling from holding position so long. He kept his hands behind his back until Robby gave a small nod of permission to drop them. Frank followed Robby’s gesture toward the small desk in the corner of the living room. They occasionally used it for paperwork.
“Sit.” Robby pulled the chair out, angled it toward the desk. “Hands on the table. No slouching.”
Frank obeyed, lowering himself onto the hard wooden seat. The cool surface against his bare, embarrassment-flushed skin made him shiver once.
Robby reached past him, opened the top drawer, and set down a single sheet of plain white paper and a black ballpoint pen. The click of the pen cap being removed sounded like a gunshot in the quiet room.
“Write me an apology,” Robby said, voice measured. “Formal. Explain exactly what you did wrong, why it was wrong, and why it won’t happen again. Address it to me. Use my title. Date it. Sign it. You have ten minutes.”
Frank’s hand shook when he picked up the pen. He stared at the blank page like it might bite.
Robby stepped back, crossed his arms, and leaned against the wall to watch. “Starting now.”
Frank got to work.
The words came slowly at first, then steadier as shame forced honesty out of him in neat, careful handwriting. On paper there was no way for him to hide behind sarcasm and deflection. No place for humor.
When the ten minutes were up, Robby simply stepped forward and held out his hand.
Frank placed the page in it, eyes down, cheeks burning.
Robby read it silently. Once. Twice. His expression didn’t change, but the set of his jaw softened by the smallest degree.
“Good,” he said at last, low, almost gentle. “Now stand.”
Frank rose on unsteady legs.
“Center of the room,” Robby added quietly.
Frank moved to the middle of the rug, the same spot he’d knelt in earlier, and assumed the position: spine straight, shoulders back, hands clasped at the small of his back. Naked and exposed again. The lamp from the desk threw long shadows across his body, highlighting every tremor, every flush of humiliation creeping down his chest.
Robby stood directly in front of Frank, offering the paper to him.
“Read it,” he said. “Out loud. Look at me when you speak.”
Frank’s throat closed. He opened his mouth, closed it, tried again. The first word came out cracked.
“Dear Dr. Robinavitch,” His voice shook. He forced himself to meet Robby’s unyielding gaze.
“I want to formally apologize for my behavior earlier today in the trauma bay. I undermined your authority by responding to your direct order with sarcasm and a disrespectful tone. I made a joke at your expense in front of the team of people who rely on you to lead with clarity and consistency. My comment shouldn’t have been public. It eroded the respect you have earned and undermined the chain of command that keeps patients safe.”
Frank’s face was scarlet now. He could taste the humiliation on his tongue already. It was one thing to write those words, but to be forced to acknowledge them was a different thing entirely. His voice wavered on every sentence, but he didn’t stop.
“I know why this was wrong. You are my attending. You are my dominant. In both roles, you deserve obedience and professionalism. I chose charm and deflection instead of accountability. I prioritized my ego over the team’s trust in you. That was selfish and careless. It put my need to be liked above what was right.”
He swallowed hard. “I promise it will not happen again. I will speak to you with the respect you deserve, in public and in private. If I have a concern or a joke, I will bring it to you directly. I will not hide behind humor when I should be showing deference.”
Frank’s voice cracked on the last line. Hot, involuntary tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, but he blinked them back.
“I am truly sorry, sir. I regret disappointing you.”
He finished. The room was silent except for his ragged breathing.
Robby didn’t move. He just looked at him. He eyed Langdon up, taking in the flushed skin, the trembling limbs, the way Frank was fighting not to break posture, not to hide.
After a long beat, Robby reached out slowly. He cupped Frank’s jaw, thumb brushing once over the corner of his mouth in a soothing gesture.
“Thank you,” he said quietly. “For the apology and for admitting what you did.”
Frank exhaled, letting out a small, shaky sound. He stayed exactly where he was, waiting for whatever came next.
Robby lifted Frank’s chin with two fingers, touch gentler.
“You did well so far. You took the reading seriously and looked at me the whole time.” A pause. “I’m proud of you for that.”
Frank’s eyes fluttered shut for half a second before he forced them open again. The praise landed soft against the raw edges of his humiliation, soothing just enough to make the next part bearable.
“But we’re not finished,” Robby continued. “You still need to feel this properly so it has a chance to set. Since you’ve been good so far, and I can see you’re regretful, you get a choice tonight: hand, belt, or paddle.”
He held up three fingers, counting them off slowly so Frank had a visual anchor.
“Fifteen with hand. Ten with belt. Eight with paddle. The pain scales differently, but you know that. Choose whichever.”
Frank’s throat worked. He could feel the options settle in his bones, sinking in as he thought.
The hand would be intimate, Robby’s palm against his skin, the warmth of it, the way Robby’s fingers sometimes lingered after each strike, grounding him. It would feel like connection, like forgiveness already starting. But it would also hurt more in the emotional way, every smack a reminder of how close they were, how deeply Frank had disappointed the one person whose approval mattered most.
The paddle was efficient. Sharp and impersonal in the best way. Just clean lines of pain that faded fast, no lingering intimacy to make him feel exposed beyond the physical.
The belt…
Frank’s gaze dropped to Robby’s waist for a fraction of a second before he caught himself. Leather already supple from years of use. He thought about the way it snapped against skin, the deep thud that vibrated through muscle, the faint sting that bloomed into heat he could sink into. Even when it hurt, the leather felt familiar, like being wrapped in something that belonged to Robby.
He wanted that tonight. Wanted to feel marked by something that carried Robby’s scent, Robby’s control, even if it meant heavier strokes.
“Belt, sir,” Frank whispered, voice hoarse.
Robby nodded once, a small approving gesture. No judgment or surprise. Whatever Frank would have chosen, he’d be okay with it.
“Ten it is.”
He stepped back, moving to grab the cargo pants that he had sled out of earlier. He unbuckled his belt with slow, deliberate movements. The leather slid free of the loops with a soft hiss. Frank’s cock twitched at the sound. Robby doubled the belt once, then let it hang loose in his hand while he studied Frank’s face.
“One more thing,” Robby said, voice dropping to that low, serious register reserved for scenes. “We both know you’re an overachiever. You push yourself past where you should stop, because you want to prove you can take it, and because you want to make me proud.”
Frank swallowed hard. He knew what was coming.
“It’s been a long day already. You have safewords for a reason, so no trying to tough it out to impress me. I’ll be disappointed if you don’t use them when you need to. Understood?”
Frank’s eyes stung again. The reminder that Robby could see him so clearly, knowing exactly how far he’d go to please, hit harder than the pain itself.
“Yes, sir,” Frank said softly. “I understand.”
Robby studied him for another moment, searching for any sign of bravado, any hint that Frank was already trying to grit his teeth through what hadn’t even started yet.
Then he nodded.
“Over the arm of the couch. Ass up. Hands flat on the cushion. Don’t move them. Count each one out loud and thank me after. If you lose count or miss a thank-you, we start over.”
Frank moved without hesitation, draping himself over the wide armrest. The fabric was cool against his overheated skin. He spread his legs shoulder-width, arched his back just enough to present properly, palms flat and fingers splayed.
Exposed. Vulnerable. Ready.
Robby stepped behind him. The belt creaked faintly as he adjusted his grip.
“Ready?” Robby asked quietly.
Frank exhaled. Closed his eyes for one second. Opened them again.
“Yes, sir.”
The first stroke landed.
It was sharp, pain settling deep. Heat bloomed across both cheeks.
Frank’s breath punched out, hips twitching.
“One. Thank you, sir.”
Robby waited patiently until Frank’s body settled again.
The second stroke came harder, crossing the first one at a deliberate angle. Frank’s hips bucked and a low, involuntary groan tore free from between his lips.
The wraparound sting made Frank’s eyes water instantly. He felt pathetic for it, crying so early on, but he knew Robby liked seeing the tears. They were tangible proof that the lesson was sinking in, that the remorse was real.
“Two. Thank you, sir.”
The third stroke landed lower, right across the tender spot where thigh met ass. Pain radiated upward in hot waves.
“Three. Thank you, sir.”
Frank’s voice cracked on the thank-you. He could feel the weight of Robby’s dark eyes immediately, the other man studying every flinch and quiver, gauging Frank’s emotional state.
But Frank needed this. Needed the burn to match the guilt still churning in his gut. The joke hadn’t been cruel, but it had been careless, publicly chipping at the authority Robby carried like armor in front of people who needed to trust him implicitly. Frank had chosen charm over respect, a stupid and selfish move.
The fourth landed in the same low spot again. Frank’s nails dug into the material of the sofa, toes curling.
“Four. Thank you, sir.”
The skin on his ass was already throbbing, welts rising in angry lines he knew Robby would trace later with careful fingers. The belt itself felt almost comforting though: the faint creak of leather in Robby’s grip, the whisper of it through the air before impact, the lingering scent of oil and wear that clung to it like a signature. It was Robby’s, marked by him, soothing even as it hurt.
Robby moved higher now. The fifth stroke landed across the fullest part of Langdon’s cheeks. The crack echoed louder than the previous ones.
Frank’s vision blurred with fresh tears.
“Five. Thank you, sir.”
Halfway. Tears fell freely now, silent and hot, soaking into the fabric beneath his face. The pain felt right. It stripped everything else away: the ER noise, the shift fatigue, the stupid smirk he’d worn in the trauma bay. Frank’s cock had gone soft under the weight of remorse and pain, yet the subspace haze hovered at the edges of his psyche.
The sixth was low and wrapping again. A choked sob escaped before he could swallow it.
“Six. Thank you, sir.”
Frank breathed through it. In. Out. The pain layered now, each stroke echoing the last, and his entire lower half felt like one pulsing brand. Just the reminder he’d needed: that boundaries existed for a reason, and testing them had consequences, and that submission was the safest place he knew.
The seventh slapped straight across, no mercy. Frank’s whole body locked, and a broken sound ripped from his throat.
“Seven. Thank you, sir.”
He was sobbing openly now, the ugly kind too, snot mixing with tears. He felt humiliated and degraded, face to face with the revelation that it was exactly what he’d earned.
The eighth was more angled, crossing every previous stripe in a blaze of white heat, clearly a conscious choice on Robby’s part.
“Eight. Thank you, sir.”
Endorphins were kicking in now, fuzzing the edges, turning the sharp pain into something deeper, warmer.
The ninth was the hardest so far, low and deliberate. Frank’s posture nearly gave. He locked his body through sheer power of will, a yelp tearing free.
“Nine. Thank you, sir.”
One more. Just one. His ass throbbed like a second heartbeat, welts pulsing with every beat of his own. Tears streamed unchecked. But underneath all the hurt was gratitude for the man who loved him enough to take time and punish him properly.
The tenth, final, perfect, crossing everything in a single, searing line.
“Ten. Thank you, sir.”
Frank sagged against the armrest, body limp, breath hitching in ragged sobs. For one suspended second, the room held only the sound of his uneven breathing and the faint creak of the floor beneath Robby’s feet.
The punishment was over, and the forgiveness was only just beginning.
Robby set the belt aside on the coffee table with quiet care, the soft clink of the buckle filling the silence. Frank remained draped over the arm of the couch. His body was limp, breath still coming in uneven hitches, the rise and fall of his back shallow and quick. His face was pressed into the material, tear tracks glistening on flushed skin, welts already darkening to angry red.
Robby didn’t speak right away. Instead, he placed both hands on Frank’s lower back, unmoving at first, simply letting Frank feel the steadiness.
Frank flinched once, just residual sensitivity, then exhaled a long, trembling breath and pressed back into the touch like a rowdy dog finally let back inside the house.
“Good boy,” Robby murmured, voice low and rough from the intensity of the scene. “You took it beautifully. Made me very proud.”
Frank made a small, broken sound, a sob of relief. His shoulders shook.
Robby’s hands began to move then. Slow, deliberate strokes up and down Frank’s spine, tracing the length of him from nape to the small of his back. Each pass grounded Frank further, pulling him out of the sharp edge of pain and back into his body.
“Easy,” Robby said softly. “I’ve got you.”
He carefully helped Frank shift, guiding him off the armrest and onto the couch properly. Frank hissed when his ass made contact with the fabric. Robby shushed him gently, already reaching for the soft throw blanket they kept folded on the back. He draped it only over Frank’s upper half for the time being, protecting the heated skin from direct pressure. He then eased Frank sideways until his head rested in Robby’s lap.
Frank curled instinctively, knees drawing up, face tucking into the crook of Robby’s thigh. Robby’s fingers carded through his hair in the same slow and gentle tempo he used when Frank couldn’t sleep after a bad shift.
“You’re safe,” Robby whispered, thumb brushing the shell of Frank’s ear. “It’s done, blank slate. You’re forgiven.”
Frank’s breathing hitched again, another small sob of pure relief leaving him. He pressed his face harder into Robby’s leg, inhaling the clean scent of their laundry detergent, grounding himself.
Robby kept one hand in Frank’s hair while the other reached for the small bottle of arnica gel he had brought beforehand. He warmed a dollop between his palms first and then began to apply it with feather-light touches, starting at the edges of the welts and working inward, careful circles that soothed rather than pressed. Frank tensed at the first contact, then melted as the cool relief sank in.
“Too much?” Robby asked quietly.
Frank shook his head against Robby’s thigh. “Feels nice,” he rasped, voice wrecked from crying and counting. “Thank you.”
Robby hummed approval, continuing the gentle massage in a methodical and loving manner. After the gel had a moment to settle, he pulled a second blanket over Frank’s lower half, cocooning him in warmth.
“Water in a minute,” Robby said quietly. “But first just breathe with me.”
Frank nodded faintly. Robby’s hand returned to his hair, stroking in long, slow passes. The room settled into soft sounds: the low hum of the fridge coming from the kitchen, the faint tick of the wall clock, Frank’s breathing slowly syncing with Robby’s deeper, steadier rhythm.
After several minutes, long enough for Frank’s tremors to ease completely, Robby leaned down and pressed a kiss to his temple.
“My good boy,” he murmured against damp skin. “I’m proud of you. So fucking proud.”
Frank’s eyes fluttered open, glassy and soft. He turned his face just enough to brush a clumsy kiss to the inside of Robby’s thigh.
“Love you,” he whispered, voice small and raw.
Robby’s throat worked. He bent lower, cupping Frank’s cheek, thumb tracing the dried tear tracks.
“Love you more,” he said. “Always.”
Robby waited, letting the silence of the room wrap around them like a second skin. He didn’t want to rush the hazy space where the world felt soft and distant, but he knew the drop would hit harder if he didn’t get some fuel back into Frank’s system soon.
“Frankie,” he breathed, the name a soft vibration against Frank’s temple. “I need you to take a few sips of water for me, sweetheart. Just a little.”
Frank let out a tiny, protesting hum, burying his face deeper into Robby’s leg.
Robby didn’t push. He simply kept his hand moving in that rhythmic, soothing path from Frank’s crown to the nape of his neck.
“I know,” Robby murmured after a moment. “I understand you’re comfortable. Just a few sips, then you can go right back down.”
With practiced, quiet movements, Robby reached for the tall glass on the side table. He’d already tucked a straw into it, knowing Frank wouldn’t want to lift his head. He eased his hand under Frank’s jaw, providing steady support, and guided the straw to his lips.
“There you go. Small sips.”
Frank obeyed, his throat working as he swallowed the cool water greedily. He took a couple of long draws before turning his head away with a tired sigh. Robby set the glass back down, but he didn’t let the momentum stop there. He reached for the small ceramic bowl he’d prepared earlier.
“Something sweet now,” Robby said. He broke off a small square of the dark chocolate, the high-cocoa kind Frank loved for the bittersweet and rich taste. “Open up.”
Frank parted his lips just enough for Robby to slip the chocolate onto his tongue.
“Let it melt,” Robby instructed, his voice a low rumble. “There’s no rush.”
He watched Frank’s expression, the way his brow smoothed out as the sugar hit his bloodstream, the faint sigh as the taste properly registered. While the chocolate softened, Robby picked up a piece of dried strawberry. It was vibrant and tart, a sharp contrast to the velvet weight of the cocoa.
He waited until Frank swallowed before offering the fruit. Frank took it, chewing slowly, his movements lethargic. Robby fed him two more pieces, alternating chocolate and strawberry, treating it like the ritual it was, a slow, tactile replenishment of everything Frank had left on the floor during the scene.
“Good,” Robby whispered, brushing absently at the corner of Frank’s mouth with his thumb. “That’s it. You’re doing so well.”
He set the bowl aside and pulled the blanket higher, tucking it firmly around Frank’s body until only the top of his head was visible.
Frank’s hand crept out from under the cocoon, fingers fumbling until they found Robby’s free hand. Robby caught them, lacing their fingers together and resting their joined hands on Frank’s chest, right over his heart.
“You’re back with me?” Robby asked softly.
“Mm,” Frank voiced, a bit clearer now. He blinked, his pupils still slightly blown but his gaze finally finding Robby’s face. “Heavy. Everything feels… heavy.”
“That’s the endorphins for you. Let them be heavy. I’m holding all of it.”
Robby leaned down, pressing his forehead against Frank’s. He stayed there for a long beat, sharing the same air, making sure Frank felt the physical reality of his safety.
“Do you need anything else? Ice pack?”
Frank shook his head slowly, a small, sleepy smile finally tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Just you. Don’t move.”
“Not going anywhere,” Robby promised, settling back into the cushions and resuming the slow, hypnotic strokes through Frank’s hair. “Close your eyes. I’ve got you.”
Frank let out one last, deep sigh of total surrender. Within minutes, his grip on Robby’s hand loosened as he fell into a deep, earned sleep, anchored safely in the quiet aftermath of the storm.
The welts would bruise tomorrow, aching when touched, but Frank would wake up wrapped around Robby, safe, forgiven, and utterly loved.