Archive of Our Own

Frank’s chest sinks with an ache that swallows him whole. It’s ridiculously doltish of him to feel like this — so frustratingly desperate, he can’t begin to spare an ounce of sympathy for himself. 

The hollow pit in his core is born of his own fruition: Mel has a date and it isn’t with him. 

It’s entirely his own fault. Frank’s always known that he loves her; he’s loved her for nearly as long as he’s known her. There’d been a sequence of caveats, sick obstacles keeping him from admitting it. First was his marriage, perhaps the largest and most damning of them all. But after his separation, it would have been easy. He had feared for his job, worried to jeopardize his second chance at his career. But he was a coward. Indulging his love to her could’ve been the simplest thing in the world, if he’d had the guts to do so. 

And now it’s too late, he repeats, over and over like a derogatory mantra. 

“He’s a nice enough guy,” Mel explains, her sweet eyes blinking over her sudoku puzzle at him. “He approached me in the stacks. Passed me his number and asked if I would get dinner with him.” Frank nods slowly, pretending like he doesn’t want to hurl all over Mel’s kitchen table. A nice enough guy. Sounds like a real prize. 

“And… you think he’s good enough to date?” Frank presses, not unlike the great friend that he is. 

“He’s— I mean, he’s fine,” Mel says. She lowers her pencil, her attention redirected to Frank’s line of questioning. “I’m not necessarily agreeing to date him. It’s just dinner.” Frank sucks in a breath. The sound is louder than he expects, and Mel’s forehead wrinkles in concern. 

“Frank, are you alright? You seem… well, you seem upset,” she prompts, her voice soft. Her eyelashes flutter at him as she searches his face. He refuses to crack. He’s not a petulant teenager, Mel is his best friend, and she has autonomy over her own decisions. Even if they pique Frank’s interest in eating glass. 

“What? Me?” Frank asks, feigning surprise. “No, no, no. Not upset. Just concerned. About you. Being that you’re my— well, you’re you, and all.” He plays off the burning grief currently consuming his exoskeleton, praying that she can’t read his poker face. 

Her brows furrow and Frank worries that he’s been made. Instead, her face slowly relaxes and she shakes her head. “I don’t want you to worry about it, okay? I’ll be alright.” Frank feels himself slipping off the edge of the planet, tumbling into an abyss of nothingness. First, she agrees to date someone else, then she dismisses Frank from his imperative to look out for her — his Mel. 

“Alright, yeah,” he rasps. “No worries from me. All quiet on the western front.” He mimics a half-hearted salute, earning a giggle from Mel. And just as abruptly as she’d torn Frank’s heart out, she continues her puzzle. He’s shell shocked as he stares down at the page, his eyes tracking her finger’s movements. 

He mistakenly allows his imagination to wander to the possibilities of her impending date. Her golden hair cascading down her neck, an outfit meticulously selected with the intent of impressing someone else. Her gorgeous lips parting to reveal her goofy laugh. Bile rises to this throat and his eyes begin to water.

“Hey, Mel, I gotta—,” he gestures at the door, “I need to get home. Tanner and Penny are spending the night.” It’s only noon, but Frank decides that he simply can’t be in Mel’s proximity for much longer without doing something stupid. Like telling her that he’d rather lay across the light rail and let the train plow over his body than hear about her having romantic interest in anyone but him. 

The next day at work, Frank is aimless. He’s unable to focus; all he can do is picture Mel with a faceless man. Fictitious Mel smiles at the man and his hand slides from around her shoulders to her hip, and Frank’s vision turns red. 

During one of his less obvious crash-outs, he sits at the table in the break room, hopelessly willing his brain to relax. It’s okay, Mel might not even like this guy. Maybe he hates Settlers of Catan and she’ll leave the date early after finding out. 

Donnie approaches him so quietly, Frank nearly breaks his knee from jumping against the table so hard. “Hey man,” he greets. “You doing okay? You seem a little…off.” 

“Huh,” Frank voices aloud. “Yeah, you’re right. I am a little off today,” he concedes, twisting in his chair to talk. Donnie looks at him like he’s afraid he might blow his own head off. Frank doesn’t think his behavior is that abnormal. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Donnie asks, gently. For a fleeting minute, Frank contemplates lying. He reconsiders as the pause in his brain allows an onslaught of troubling images to flood back. 

“Sure, man. If you have a minute,” Frank says. He sighs. “So, I have this...this problem. It’s not a big deal, but I’m kind of in love with someone and I know that they don’t feel the same way. But I’m having a hard time with it and I feel like I’m losing my mind. So,” he trails off, watching Donnie’s face as he absorbs the information. 

“Okay. Okay, yeah,” Donnie nods, pulling the chair across from Frank out and taking a seat. “And you’re sure that this person,” Frank notices Donnie’s eyes flick in the direction of the emergency room, “definitely doesn’t feel the same way? How do you know?” Frank follows Donnie’s previous line of sight and glimpses a flash of blonde hair. His heart tugs uncomfortably and he forces his gaze away. 

“They’re seeing someone else,” he admits, the words burning his tongue. Donnie winces sympathetically, pursing his lips. 

“That really sucks, man. Have you considered getting back out there? Just as a distraction?” 

Frank hesitates, mulling the suggestion through his mind. Get back out there. With someone else. In all honesty, the idea seems sacrilegious. He’s not even sure he can look at another woman and not think of Mel. But, the possibility of distracting himself from his imploding sense of despair is attractive, and Frank is desperate to be freed from his suffering. If only for a night. 

“That’s a great idea, Don. D’you know anyone who’d be interested?” The wheels are in motion before Frank has time to back out. 

He begrudgingly finds himself making dinner plans with a woman named Rachel — she’s cute, she’s a yoga instructor, she likes sports. She’s not Mel. The least he can do is hope that he’ll get laid, a welcome interference to his current conundrum. 

__________

When the curly-haired man from the fantasy section asks to take Mel to dinner, she freezes. Her neurotransmitters fail, sending a beeping dial tone to her brain. Her first functioning thought finally surfaces: What about Frank?

What about him? Her brain scolds her heart. He’s just a friend. A friend that Mel spends most waking hours with. 

It baffles her, knocking her completely off-course. She flounders in her response, uttering out a reluctant, “sure, why not?” The man, David, is a fellow Carnegie Library of Pittsburgh patron, so he earns brownie points for that. He also has good taste in books — she clocks a copy of ‘The Way of Kings’ tucked under his arm as he peruses the aisle. 

They decide to meet at Mel’s favorite Americanized Italian place, a few blocks from her apartment. She’s become a regular and gets the same dish every time, which eases the stress of deciding what to order in front of a stranger.

The night of their date, Mel arrives at the restaurant half an hour early. The dinner rush must be starting, as evidenced by the number of occupants already seated. Mel bites back her residual nerves, balling her fingers into fists and squeezing. She can’t remember the last date that she’d attended. It must have been during her last few years of medical school, but she can’t pin down the exact occurrence. It doesn’t matter much, the dates she’d been on were lackluster. Nothing ever came of them. 

Mel finds herself puzzled by her lack of prospective romance — she’s always considered herself easy to talk to. Nevertheless, being single doesn’t bother Mel. She has Becca, she has her career, and balancing her responsibilities with a social life has never been a main priority. In fact, she hasn’t even felt lonely in years. 

She’s also fairly positive that Frank has something to do with it. They’d become fast friends, practically melding their personalities with how instantly they clicked. Frank makes sense to Mel. She’s harbored a massive crush on him since the first day she met him. He listens to her, he laughs at her bad puns, and he checks up on her at every opportunity. Her feelings for Frank are akin to hunger pangs — if she eats enough, her stomach won’t ache. If Frank were the one she was going to dinner with, she’d do everything in her power to ensure that she’s the last person he ever dates. 

However, in order to understand Mel, one has to understand the hurdles she will leap through to keep everyone happy. In a perfect world, he’d love her back. In any case, Mel has come to terms with the fact that all she’ll ever be to him is a good friend. Any label is alright as long as it means she doesn’t lose him. She has to remind herself, for the nth time that evening, that comparing her date to Frank isn’t fair to anyone involved. She steels her resolve, determined to give David a fighting chance. 

Mel chooses to sit facing away from the window, toward the main restaurant area. Frank always saves her a view of the window, and she’s trying to establish some separation of church and state here. She orders herself a glass of sparkling juice. She takes time to map out which appetizer she should suggest, and calculates how many slices of toasted bread she can eat before she’s too full for her entree. 

By the time that David arrives, she has a loose dialogue planned: the usual pleasantries, a few comments about the weather, and maybe some back and forth about Brandon Sanderson and adjacent novelists. 

He approaches the table cautiously, as if he’s worried that she might bolt. 

“Hi, there,” he greets, reaching for her hand. She’s holding the stem of her wine (juice) glass, and forgets that her fingers can only hold so much. She attempts to give him her already occupied hand, knocking the glass over and juice all over the table. 

“Oh shoot,” Mel squeaks, as rivulets of the liquid run down the tablecloth and into her lap. She picks up the glass and lamely dabs at the small puddle with her napkin. Luckily she had chosen apple juice over cranberry. Her cheeks burn. 

“Oh jeez, I’m sorry, that was my bad,” David apologizes, retrieving his napkin from his still-wrapped silverware set. “Take this,” he says. He holds the napkin out to her, a white flag of surrender. 

“That wasn’t your fault at all,” Mel murmurs. She accepts the table linen, replacing the saturated one with the dry fabric. “I’m sorry. I’m a little nervous.” David lets out a breathy laugh, sinking into the seat across from her. 

“You’re not the only one. I haven’t been on a date in ages,” he confesses. Mel smiles then, a twinge of relief quelling the embarrassment toiling in her gut. They slip into an easy conversation. The two of them place an order for mozzarella sticks to share, and for the first time that evening, Mel isn’t entirely fixated on Frank. 

__________

Frank is running late. Rachel calls him twice as he’s parking his car. He’d gotten off work an hour past when he’d normally be home. The cherry on top is that the restaurant’s parking lot is completely full when he pulls in. He decides to park at Mel’s apartment, as Frank has made the exact trek more times than he cares to admit. 

He arrives out of breath, the cool air biting through his jacket. He pops a piece of nicotine gum into his mouth and pushes into the restaurant. His phone vibrates through his pants. Can’t this girl wait 20 seconds?

He scans the crowd and spots her as she waves him down. She looks nice — her copper hair is curled and shiny under the diffused lighting. She rises from her chair as he nears the table, her face beaming. 

“Frank! I’ve heard so much about you from Donnie,” she exclaims, pulling Frank into a hug. She’s tall enough that she doesn’t have to stretch to reach him. Frank is caught off guard by the sudden contact, but awkwardly pats her upper back so as to not offend her. 

“Rachel!” Frank says, trying on a tone he doesn’t recognize. “Hopefully all good things.” He motions for her to sit and takes his own seat. “I’m really sorry for my tardiness, work’s just unpredictable.” The apology is genuine.

She shakes her head, still smiling. “No worries. I hear you’re quite the worker.” He raises a brow at that and she laughs. “I mean – an emergency medicine doctor? I can’t even imagine.” 

Frank opens his mouth to respond, poised to humble brag his way into charming this woman. The universe has much more interesting plans, deploying its most ironic act of divine intervention: 

“We need a doctor!” a panicked voice yells from behind their table. Fuck. 

“I gotta—,” Frank excuses himself, not sparing a glance at Rachel, although he’s fairly positive that she doesn’t mind. He shoots up and jogs toward the commotion, several diners already gathered around a kneeling man. His skin is purple-blue. Frank zeroes in on the target, preparing to deliver abdominal thrusts, when he sees her: Melissa King, as ethereal as ever, wrapping her arms around the man’s middle and driving her fist into his flesh so hard he can hear the impact. A chunk of meatball flies from his mouth and splats against an adjacent table, leaving behind a saucy splotch against the white tablecloth. 

“Mel?” he murmurs, his voice drowned by the cheer of the crowd. Mel retracts her arms, smoothing a hand over the man’s back as he catches his breath. Frank stares at her, glued to his spot in the middle of the restaurant’s walkway. 

Mel distractedly looks up, not noticing Frank immediately. A second later, her head snaps up and she ogles back at him. “You’re here,” she gasps. 

The man’s skin has returned to a healthy color and he shakily stands. Mel supports his weight and Frank covers the space separating them in less than 2 strides. He slings the man’s other arm around his own shoulders and aids in depositing the man back into his chair. 

“Please be careful,” Mel tells him. The two of them step off to the side, and then they are alone together. Frank and Mel, surrounded by a restaurant full of people, their dates surely craning their heads to see where they each are. Frank is too busy to notice anyone else. 

He drinks Mel in, the sight of her satiating him so deeply he can do nothing but watch her. Her hair is wavy and loose around her shoulders, her skin a luminous glow. She’s lined her eyes with brown and he’s never seen them so green. As she blinks up at him, Frank’s convinced that he’s forgotten how to speak at all. 

“Hi,” Mel says, her lip caught between her teeth. “Did you see that?” she whispers, gesturing to her stomach with a striking motion. Frank snorts, nodding along to her giggles. 

“Yeah, you were awesome. Pittsburgh’s finest superhero,” he breathes. “You were really quick on your feet. I’m proud of you, Mel.” A vibrant pink hue blooms across her cheeks and she dips her chin. She peeks at him through the frames of her glasses, knocked slightly askew on her nose. 

“Thank you.” 

They stand in the walkway for another few moments, grinning at each other. Finally, a server coughs behind Frank and he ducks out of the way. He instinctually moves to follow Mel until he remembers where he is and who he’s here with. The realization stings. 

“Okay, uh, I’ll see you around,” Frank mumbles. She flutters her fingers at him and his heart jumps. He continues gazing after Mel as she makes her way to her table. He doesn’t turn around until she’s seated. She’s facing away from the window. Well, that just isn’t right. 

He returns to Rachel feeling disheveled — like he’s hiding something that reads obvious on his face. She’s looking at him when he sits, her eyebrows cocked. 

“Hey,” he addresses her, his hands sliding over his face. “Do you actually mind if we switch places? I’d prefer to keep an eye on Mr. Chokeroni over there. Don’t want to be surprised again in the event that he swallows another whole meatball.” She screws up her face, but nods and retrieves her purse and jacket from the chair, rising to sit on the other side. 

Frank grins and takes his seat, perfecting his line of sight. Mel sits about 6 tables away, a little to the right. But the rows of patron’s heads part in perfect harmony and her beautiful face establishes itself among them. She flicks her eyes toward Frank and a suggestive smile forms on her lips. 

__________

Dinner had been going so well. She was riffing with David, she managed not to spill anything else, and she’d already identified 3 book series that they’d read in common. And then Frank shows up. 

He’s a magnet; Mel simply cannot take her eyes away from him. She continuously peers over David’s shoulder. Frank converses animatedly to his date — the back of her head bobs along, her hands waving along to whatever Frank is saying. Her stomach twists and she narrowly avoids sprinting to the bathroom to empty the pasta in her stomach. 

She catches fleeting glimpses of the woman’s side profile, but Mel can’t say who she is definitively. She isn’t sure she wants to know. Mel is no stranger to jealousy in general, and she’s been possessive of Frank far too many times to count. 

She’d felt an itching irritation while Frank was still married. Every time he or anyone else mentioned Abby she’d cringe, only to tear at her cuticles until they bled. 

When patients flirt with him, she’s composed. She maximizes her pleasantries toward him, brushes her fingers against his own more than necessary. She feels powerful with the insight that the patient will be leaving without Frank while Mel gets to have him for the rest of the day. 

It’s unhealthy, she knows. She’s well aware of her behavior’s toxicity. But the anger creeps up on her like an illness, filling her head with static until she can’t think anymore. The only anecdote is Frank’s attention – his doting, his admiration, his praise. She chases his eye contact across the aisles, sinking into euphoric bliss when his concentration falls onto her. 

“Mel?” Are you okay?” David asks, twisting to look behind him, Mel averts her gaze as quickly as he does, pretending to be oblivious to her eyes’ wandering. 

“Oh, um— yes, sorry,” she murmurs, face inclined toward the table. “Just a little distracted is all.” 

“Do you want to get the check?” he asks, his voice tinged with hurt. Mel shakes her head, her guilt seeping through her bones. It’s not David’s fault that Mel’s standards are so high. And so impossibly Frank-shaped. 

David fits the bill for the exact type of person Mel always envisioned herself falling in love with. He’s sweet, he’s humble, he asks good questions, and he’s a bit nerdy. But he isn’t Frank, and she can’t help but notice their differences. David doesn’t obnoxiously reach over to take a bite of Mel’s dinner before even looking at his own. He doesn’t deliver jokes in a deadpan tone of voice, prompting her to clarify if it’s even a joke in the first place. He doesn’t look at her like she’s the most brilliant person in the world. 

“No, no. I’m having a great time,” she says. It’s not necessarily a lie. She enjoys being here, she just wishes the circumstances weren’t — this. 

David seems unconvinced, but he relents. A lightbulb pops into Mel’s brain and she scrambles to address it, blurting out, “Hey, should we grab a drink?” His face morphs into a smile. 

“I’d love to,” he declares. Mel plans it out: they’ll head to the bar across the street. She’ll text Frank and he’ll meet them, and then she’ll get to finish her date without sacrificing valuable time that she could be spending with him. It’s practically foolproof. 

“Perfect,” she grins. She waits until David is signing the check to pull out her phone, navigating quickly to her text thread with Frank. 

Would you want to meet us at the bar? We are heading there next. 

She glances in Frank’s direction, watching as he props his phone on the table. His fingers tap out a message, satisfaction flooding her brain with the knowledge that he is paying attention to her during his date. 

sure, let me check with rachel but sounds good to me :) 

“Thank you for picking up the tab,” she tells David, her eyes trained on Frank in her periphery. “I really appreciate it.” He blushes. Mel’s chest twists with guilt. Is she a bad person? Her phone buzzes, the vibration traveling through her fingertips. 

we’ll meet u there! can’t wait to see you 

Her unease evaporates, replaced with a fizzing excitement that radiates through her limbs. She’s eager to introduce David and Frank, and she’ll have the opportunity to gauge her feelings about Rachel. The name alone sits uncomfortably on the forefront of Mel’s mind. Rachel, Rachel, Rachel. Hmm. 

__________

He observes as Mel collects her trench coat from the back of her chair, sliding it over her left arm and struggling to find the hole for her right sleeve, as always. He suppresses his insane craving to cross the room and hold it out for her. Her date notices too late, and by the time he turns around, Mel is clad in her jacket, ready to brave the Fall breeze. Frank bares his teeth, refocusing on the story that Rachel is actively narrating to him. 

“So, he falls over, and the whole audience erupts into this roaring applause, and I’m just standing up there like a deer in headlights because I, like, feel bad, but it’s also the funniest thing in the world,” she continues, speaking with her hands as she recounts an event. Frank has thoroughly forgotten what they are talking about, his mind occupied with its wandering. 

“Anyways…” she trails off, her eyes sinking to the table. “Frank, are you having a good time?” Rachel probes, her features melancholy. He’s been doing a terrible job of staying focused. In other words: he’s an awful date. He knows this. In every universe, in this epoch of his life, he can only extend his best efforts for one person. And that one person just so happens to be at the bar across the street, too far for Frank’s sight to reach.

He clears his throat, putting on his practiced gentle face — the one he uses for his favorite patients. “I’m having a good time, Rachel. I’m just—,” 

“Are you still shaken up from that guy earlier? In all honesty, me too. I’m sorry, Frank, I didn’t even put two and two together,” she interjects, a savior in Frank’s book. No, he isn’t still shaken up. He sees people choke all day, for a living. But the excuse is green-lit by her and he’ll take it. 

“Yeah, a bit,” he sighs, exaggerating his exhale. “I just hate to mix up work and romance. It throws me off,” he lies. Frank lives to mix up work and romance. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be profoundly in love with his junior resident. 

“Totally understood and agreed. Hey, should we go get hammered?” she asks, and Frank can finally relax.  

“Yes, please.” 

Frank covers their check, because he isn’t entirely rotten, and they make their way across the street. The bar sits in a strip, crammed between several other buildings. The street is busy with people, the Friday night foot traffic in full force. The bouncer outside waves them in, and Frank cringes at the reminder that he no longer gets carded. 

Once inside, they adjust to their surroundings. The Steelers game is blaring across 10 flat screens, at minimum. The bar is jammed with college students and older folk alike, the majority sporting merch. The pool tables are rife with rowdy drunks smacking their cues obnoxiously. He scans the area once more to verify that he hasn’t missed her, before pulling Rachel’s hand and leading her to the back. 

“Lets play pool later,” Rachel tells him, and Frank is too occupied with sniffing out Mel’s location to respond. 

The bar’s perimeter is lined with red horseshoe-shaped booths, so Frank stalks around the edges of the building, hunting for a head of blonde hair. He sees her date, instead, leaning on the lip of the booth, facing the bar. Frank cranes his neck to follow the man’s line of sight, spotting her immediately about halfway down, surrounded by bar-goers. She’s resting on her knees, perched on a stool to make herself more visible to the bartender. She looks so very Mel that he can’t resist the urge to stop for a moment to admire her. 

“Are we… going to order something?” Rachel inquires, tugging on Frank’s sleeve. He nods, rolling out his shoulders. 

“What kind of girl are you? Vodka cran?” he asks, sidling up behind a group of older gentlemen sitting at the bar’s ledge. They scooch apart to create a slight gap and he rests an arm on the bar, eyes still situated on Mel. 

“Nope. I’ll take whatever cider’s on tap,” he hears her chirp over his back. Mel leans forward on her elbows to say something into the bartender’s ear and Frank watches the man chuckle and wink at her. Fuck. He really isn’t prepared to fight off two men. 

The bartender hands Mel a beer and a martini glass and she clambers off the stool, careful not to spill. Frank flags him down and orders his and Rachel’s drinks as Mel walks past. Frank sees her head whip around as he repeats, “no, I’ll keep it open,” for the third time, the whooping yelps of college students at the bar drowning him out. 

“Frank!” she yells, forming a beeline toward them. Rachel tilts her head at him. He averts his eyes back to Mel, catching her as she practically throws herself into his arms, her drinks sloshing precariously. He collects her to him, nuzzling his face into her hair for a brief second. Rachel coughs.

“Rachel,” Frank says, gesturing toward his arms where Mel is still buried. “This is Mel, she’s a coworker.” Mel pouts up at him. “And she’s a friend, too,” he corrects. Dribbles of liquid roll down his back, soaking into his shirt. He can’t find it within himself to care. 

“Hi, Rachel,” Mel smiles, holding a glass out instead of her hand. “Um, wow, that’s the second time I’ve done that today. At least I didn’t spill this time.” Frank chuckles, picturing the incident in perfect hindsight. Rachel seems less amused, glancing at the glass and then back up at Mel, quizzically. 

“Nice to meet you,” she mumbles. She purses her lips and turns her head to glare at Frank. “You could’ve introduced me at dinner. I saw you two talking.” 

“That’s right, we were. I, uh—,” 

“I’m on a date, too,” Mel intervenes, pointing to where the man at the booth sits. “Would you like to come sit with us?” She looks between Frank and Rachel, her eyes wide. “It’s gotten pretty crowded since getting here, so you might have a hard time finding a seat somewhere else.” 

Rachel sighs and nods, turning on her heel to begin walking in the booth’s direction. Mel raises her eyebrows at Frank and he chokes back a laugh. 

“You didn’t tell her you were meeting us?” Mel asks, between gritted teeth. Frank shakes his head and collects their drinks from the bar. 

“I didn’t think it was relevant. Why? Did you mention us to your boyfriend over there?” he retorts, his cadence playful. He’s comforted by the knowledge that the man, isn't, in fact, Mel's boyfriend. 

“His name is David,” Mel responds, leading Frank to their table like she has him on a leash. “And he’s not my boyfriend. You know that.” They slide into opposite ends of the booth, Mel on one side, next to David; Frank on the other side, next to Rachel. “Also, no, I didn’t mention you.” 

“David, this is Frank, my friend and coworker. And this is Rachel, Frank’s date,” Mel introduces, pointing at them from across the table. “This is David,” she says, resting one hand on his shoulder, “my date.” Frank zeroes in on the location of her hand, willing it to drop back into her lap. It moves, instead, to retrieve her martini glass, and Frank exhales. 

David grins and waves to them, his appearance and mannerisms almost too innocent to hate. Almost. Frank is sure that he’ll find a way. 

__________

Two drinks in and Mel has stripped off her cardigan, her tank top a saving grace against the stagnant air of the bar. She’s been sticking to lemon drop martinis all night, but Rachel has suggested a round of pickle backs for the table and Mel feels so loose that she doesn’t want to say no. 

Mel decides that she likes Rachel. She’s fiery in ways that Mel isn’t, but she stands up for herself and Mel admires her for that. She won’t claim to know whether she’s right for Frank. Maybe it isn’t her business to begin with. 

“I’ll grab those, Frank, do you want to give me a hand?” Rachel asks, standing at the corner of the booth, her arms crossed across her chest. Mel kicks Frank’s shin lightly under the table, prompting him to stand and follow. He shoots her a withering stare as he stumbles after his date. 

Mel twists her body in the booth to face David and he pivots to meet her gaze. “Can I tell you a secret?” she whispers, leaning close to his ear to mitigate the immense noisiness of their surroundings. 

“Yes,” he answers, face solemn. 

“I’ve never been so tipsy in my life,” she giggles, swaying forward. Her glasses slide down the bridge of her nose and he pushes them up for her. For an instant, she panics that he is going to kiss her. Alarm bells blare through her head, her central nervous system shifting into overdrive. 

Her worry is interrupted by Frank slamming 4 shot glasses on the table with unnecessary force, shaking the booth. Mel jumps, her head jerking toward the movement. Rachel slides behind him, gently placing her 4 glasses down. Frank’s face and neck are stained red, the vein normally reserved for complex cases and angry patients visible across his forehead. 

“Bottoms up,” she sings, holding her pickle juice and Jameson in each hand. Mel scrunches her face apprehensively. 

“Um, I’ve never,” she motions to the shot glasses with a wave. “I haven’t taken one of these before.” Rachel gasps as if Mel’s inexperience personally offends her, and David’s jaw drops slightly. 

“Hey, everyone chill out for a second,” Frank chastises the two of them, approaching Mel’s side of the booth. He picks up a shot of whiskey, placing it between her fingers. “You take this one first, and then this one right after,” he says, setting the shot of pickle juice into her other hand. “I like to sip the pickle juice first, then shoot the whiskey, and then shoot the rest of the juice.” Mel quirks a brow, still perturbed at the idea of drinking a glass of pickle juice. 

“It’ll be okay, I promise. It’ll taste good if you do it how I said,” he reassures her, his hand finding her thigh under the table. She freezes, his palm burning a hole through her jeans. He’s touching her so casually that she feels insane for her body’s reaction, for the sweat meticulously forming at her neckline. 

“Alright,” she murmurs, raising her shots and clinking with everyone. His hand only leaves her leg when he’s tasked with returning her toast. The loss aches and she unconsciously seeks his proximity, leaning against his side as he continues to sit next to her. His date is isolated on one end of the booth and Mel has monopolized Frank’s focus once again. She feels terrible, and she feels exhilarated. Why does he choose her again and again? 

Mel takes her shots as she’s told, whiskey only coating her tongue for mere seconds before the salty brine extinguishes the burn. She coughs once, and the toxic taste of alcohol is gone from her mouth. She’s stunned, her surprise evident on her face. All three of the booth’s inhabitants watch her, gauging her reaction. Mel lets out a small “Whew, that felt crazy,” and Frank smiles so big his eyes crinkle. 

The group unanimously decides to migrate to the dart boards, dangerously situated near the still-occupied pool tables. Mel is glad to be standing, the alcohol rapidly crawling through her limbs like a colony of ants. She can’t stand still, so she hops in place and stretches her arms above her head, her tank top riding up her torso as she extends. 

“Lets split into teams of two,” Frank suggests, his eyes directly on Mel, dipping to where her stomach is exposed. She lowers her arms, heat flooding her face. “No couples,” he adds. 

“Frank,” Rachel groans. Mel chews her lip, more than supportive of Frank’s decision. David doesn’t seem to mind either way, already practicing his throw. 

They split off into teams of two, Mel and Frank paired together by fate. Or merely by Frank’s choosing. Rachel and David start the game off, each throwing 3 darts. David is very skilled, as predicted by his warm up. Rachel doesn’t seem to care about the game, her eyes flitting to Frank several times during her turn. Frank does not see; he holds his beer out for Mel to try, surveying her face as she curls her lip in disgust.

“I knew you’d hate it,” he laughs, and Mel weakly elbows him. 

During their turn, Frank proves himself a consistent thrower, whereas Mel nails a few lucky shots and calls it a day. The alcohol has worked its way to her head, the world slightly blurred around the edges. 

“I need to use the restroom,” she whispers to Frank after they swap positions at the board. He slides his hand to her shoulder blades, nudging her. 

“I’ll go with you.” 

“What? No, it’s fine. I’ll be right back,” she tells him, turning to leave. His hand does not leave her back and she realizes that he’s following her. She sighs and twists her neck to study him, still moving toward the bathroom line. 

“We’ll be right back,” Frank calls over his shoulder. David gives him a thumbs up. Rachel pouts. 

“What? I have to pee too,” he counters, smirking at her as she rolls her eyes. 

“You’re ignoring your date, Frank,” Mel scolds him, her tone lacking any venom. “Maybe meeting up was a bad idea. I feel like I’m neglecting David, too.” 

He stops Mel as they reach the back of the line, spinning her around to face him. 

“Mel,” he says, so earnestly she has to ground herself, “I’m only here for you. I’m serious. I would have gone home alone tonight and sulked, wondering where you were and what you were doing until I passed out.” 

She stares at him, hard. His eyes twinkle as he hopelessly searches her face, his eyes roaming from her chin to her eyebrows to her forehead. 

“You’re it for me. I can’t do this with anyone else,” he whispers. She can hardly hear him, but his mouth is close to her ear and she hangs onto every syllable he speaks. Mel’s lips tremble without her permission. She ducks her head, unable to meet the intensity of Frank’s eyes. He looks at her so delicately she thinks she might crumble. 

“Frank,” she rasps, her voice wavering. “Please don’t. I can’t keep— I don’t want to feel like this,” she chokes out. Tears collect on her waterline, bulging and threatening to spill. 

“Sweetheart,” Frank murmurs softly. “Trust me, I’ve tried to stop. But, I can’t. Not with you.”

Mel stifles a wet sob as one of the bathroom doors swing open, a line of people now waiting behind her. She covers her face, blindly wiping away her tears. 

“I have to—,” she starts, gesturing at the door. Frank nods, an unreadable expression crossing his face. She squeezes into the restroom, shutting and locking the deadbolt behind her. In her wildest dreams, Frank would have pushed his way in after her, crowded her against the sink, and kissed her until she saw stars. But that’s just it: her wildest dream. In real life, there’s no way that he feels that way about her. They are friends. Just friends. 

She dunks her face under the sink, letting the cool water lower her body temperature. She box breathes in sets of 5 until her exhales are less erratic. Mel convinces herself that Frank is just drunk, that he’s telling her things he doesn’t mean because he’s had too much. It calms her down, and she braces herself to return to the chaos of the bar. 

__________

Frank stares at the door for several moments after it closes. A hinged wall separating him from all the goodness he’s known for the past year. The subject of his every waking and sleeping dream. He’s cemented to the floor until a gruff voice from behind him calls, “Hey, the next bathroom is free! Some of us gotta go!” 

His feet take him to the open restroom, his spine making impact with the back of the door as he rakes his hands through his hair. This is bad. 

He doesn’t regret telling Mel; he wishes he could tell her every day for the rest of his life and retroactively, every day he’s known her prior to now. But the panic that overtakes his body freezes him, and the only solution in his brain is to pretend he hasn’t said anything at all. Then, he needs to make Mel forget he’s said anything. Is it a good fix? No. But it’s all he has, and he can’t lose her. 

He charges out of the bathroom with the resolve of a man on a mission, forming a direct route to the dart board. Rachel turns as he approaches, her eyebrows furrowed and her lips in a tight line. Without any warning, Frank cups the sides of her face and draws her to his lips, connecting their mouths in a hasty kiss. It feels wrong — pieces of a puzzle shoved together with force, jagged edges breaking off out of compliance. 

David clears his throat from behind them, and Frank pulls away, releasing Rachel with a small “hmph.” He looks up and sees Mel, standing off to David’s side, her eyes red and blotchy with old tears. New ones well up as she watches him, her arms clutching her elbows in front of her body. She’s completely motionless for several seconds before she takes off, too swiftly for Frank to stop her. 

He witnesses it happen: a spectator to a Greek tragedy before his very own eyes. Mel, in her expeditious exit, notches her foot on the heel of a very drunk, very large man in the middle of a game of pool. She promptly catches herself on the lip of the pool table, knocking the man’s elbow askew. This botches his visualization of the ball and sends his cue flying directly into the 8 ball, which in turn, sinks into the corner pocket. The game ends. It’s cataclysmic. 

The man spins on his heel, sizing Mel up. His poor, clumsy girl, who he’d sent running. It’s his fault, it’s his consequence. Frank steps forward, thanking the powers that be (his genetics) for his height. 

“Watch where the fuck you’re going, bitch,” the man spits, puffing his chest like a lunatic. Mel doesn’t cower, or argue, she apologizes. Like the angel she is. 

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs, moving to go around the table. He blocks her escape, holding his arms up. 

“Not so fast,” he tells her. 

“Hey, you fat fuck,” Frank growls, cracking his fists like he’d dare to throw a punch in the first place. He briefly considers downing another drink for some extra courage. “Maybe if you didn’t take up so much room, we wouldn’t have to clear acres to get around you.” The man redirects his blazing temper to Frank, who desperately straightens his posture. 

“Excuse me?” the man slurs, capturing the pool cue in his closed fist. Frank tracks its movement with his eyes, a sense of dread filling his gut. 

“Let her go,” Frank demands, employing every ounce of possessiveness he’s ever felt toward Mel. All the patients he’s told off for looking at her the wrong way. All the times he’s chewed out Robby for giving her a hard time. He manifests the blind rage as a weapon. 

“What are you going to do if I don’t?” the drunkard taunts, the stick in his hand waving erratically. All Frank knows is that if this man touches a single hair on Mel’s head, he will burn him to the ground. 

“I don’t think you want to find out,” Frank says, inching closer to the table, determined to put himself between this maniac and his Mel. 

Frank feels it before he understands what’s happened: a scorching heat blooms across his forehead, the pain immediate and throbbing. He staggers, bringing a hand to his face. He pulls it back, his fingers coated red. The fucking guy has struck him as hard as he can with the pool cue. 

Blood trickles down his face, catching on his eyelid and sticking it shut. The earth’s axis shifts and Frank suddenly can’t stand up straight.

“Frank!” Mel exclaims, rushing toward him, holding him up by his arms. Her voice is muffled from the ringing in his ears. Rachel and David follow suit, shooting withering glares at the perpetrator. Mel lowers Frank into a wooden chair.

“What’s your problem, man?” David snaps at him. The bouncer from outside is brought into the bar to escort the unruly man out. He goes without a fight, hurling loudly into a trashcan on the way out. His friends leave with him, abandoning the once lively pool table. 

Mel’s eyes don’t leave Frank’s face once during the entire exchange, the cardigan previously tied around her waist pressed to his head. 

“We need some ice,” she orders, pointing at Rachel to assign her the task. “And a clean towel if there are any.” The bar is hushed, the roar now a low hum. 

“Look at me, Frank, you’re going to be alright,” she whispers, both hands securing the blood-soaked material. “Just a minor laceration. I’ll get this taken care of.” The bartender approaches, first-aid kit in one hand and a bag of ice wrapped in a towel in the other. 

“Um, here,” Mel directs, reaching for the bag of ice. “I don’t need the kit, I’ll take him to my apartment. It’s 2 streets down.” Frank exhales in relief. He doesn’t need all of their coworkers kibitzing about tonight. 

“Hospital?” a few voices ring out in unison. 

“No hospital,” Frank blurts. Mel removes her sweater and replaces it with the ice. He takes the damp article from her red-stained hands, grateful as ever for her existence. Despite the stabbing ache radiating through his skull, warmth surges his heart. 

“I’m an emergency medicine resident, I’ve got it handled,” she addresses the small crowd. The bystanders nearby begin to dissipate, leaving only David and Rachel. They gather behind her, faces clouded with concern. Mel turns to them, continuously holding pressure on Frank’s wound. 

“I think we should go. I’ll need to suture this,” Mel informs the two. “I’m sorry for, uh– everything.” 

“No worries,” David responds. He looks between Frank and Mel, a knowing glint in his eyes. 

“I hope you figure out,” Rachel waves her hands, “whatever it is you two have going on. Seriously.” Mel returns her gaze to him, her features soft. He hopes so, too. 

__________

“Okay, Frank, I know you can support your weight— oof— a little better than that,” Mel huffs, as she tugs Frank’s arm tighter around her shoulders. The pair hobble down the sidewalk, making slow progress to Mel’s apartment. The streets are empty at this late hour and the air has turned bitterly cold.

In all the turmoil of everything, Mel realizes that her coat is still at the bar. Too late for that. She bites back a shiver, her teeth only slightly chattering. The incident at the bar has sobered her up, and she hardly notices the buzz of alcohol still in her system. 

Frank pauses abruptly, unwinding from Mel’s shoulder and slipping his wool flannel off, arm by arm. He holds it out for her, wrapping it around her torso. His hand returns to holding the towel from the bar to his forehead. Mel’s cardigan hangs limply around his belt. 

“Frank…,” Mel murmurs, shaking her head. “I don’t need your shirt, you need your shirt. You’re bleeding and I know you’re cold, too.” Frank’s unoccupied hand, frozen to the touch, comes to rest on Mel’s cheek. She’d flinch if she weren’t so enamored by him. Her big idiot. 

“I’d freeze one hundred times over if it meant you’d stay warm, Mel,” Frank says, softly. She wants to be angry with him. But had he really done anything wrong? Mel’s dazed, and she’s confused, and she wants to take a long nap. But she has business to attend to. 

“O—okay, let’s keep going. We’re in view of the touchdown,” she mutters, offering Frank her shoulder. 

“I think you mean we’re in view of the end zone,” he replies, walking on his own. 

“Wait,” Mel states. “Did you even need my help to walk? Frank stifles a snort next to her, and she groans into the night. 

“You’re the worst,” she mumbles, the words a blatant lie. He’s her favorite person (barring Becca) on this planet. She can’t even look at him the wrong way.

They reach her front stoop and she fumbles with her keys, luckily stored in her jeans pocket. She imagines the possibility of having left the keys in her coat and the walk she’d have to endure there and back. She sighs in relief. The door swings open, the scent of a cinnamon candle wafting into the entry way. 

“Smells good,” Frank observes, making a beeline for Mel’s couch. He plops into the soft cushions, inhaling loudly. “Everything in here smells like you. I love it.” 

“It’s a candle warmer that I forgot to unplug,” Mel says, her voice flat. “Do you need help taking your shoes off?” 

“Mhm,” he hums, eyes shining at her from across the foyer. She unzips her boots, tossing them onto her shoe rack, before kneeling in front of Frank to untie his shoelaces. He smiles down at her head as she tugs his sneakers off. “Thank you,” he murmurs. 

“You’re welcome. Let me grab what I need,” she tells him, breezing into her guest bathroom.  She pulls out her shoe-box first aid kit, searching for a needle driver, pickups, 3-0 Vicryl, 5-0 fast, bacitracin, scissors, alcohol wipes, and 2 ibuprofen. She collects everything on the lid of the box, balancing it all under her chin as she strides back to Frank. 

“You have all of that here?” he asks, his jaw ajar. She nods, placing the tray of materials on her coffee table. She flits to her kitchen to pour him a glass of water.

“I like to be prepared,” Mel responds. He raises his unbloodied eyebrow. She catches his expression, a fond look that she can’t quite translate. 

“What?” Mel asks, returning to the couch and sinking into the cushion next to him. 

“Nothing. Just glad you’re taking care of me,” he says, his eyes intently following hers. She fights her blush, busying herself with un-packaging her supplies and loading her needle driver. 

“Take this,” she instructs, handing him the ibuprofen. She points to the water on the table. “This is going to hurt pretty bad regardless, but hopefully the medication will help with residual soreness later.” He obliges, swallowing the pills all at once. She removes the towel from Frank’s head, collecting it into a pile along with her bloody cardigan. The cut is deeper than Mel originally thought and she winces. She internalizes it to maintain her professionalism. 

“Slight sting,” she warns, swiping his injury with an alcohol swab. He grits his teeth, leaning into the arm of the couch. She scoots closer, nearly landing in his lap as she cleans around the edges of the laceration. 

“Are you ready?” she asks, his face resting in her hands. He nods, his pout positively cherubic. She bites her lip, returning Frank’s nod. 

“Okay, I’m gonna start with 3-0 Vicryl for muscle approximation. Pinch starting…now,” she narrates, piercing his frontalis muscle with her needle, throwing deep dermal sutures as meticulously as she can. He only needs about 4 stitches, so she finishes her first round quickly. She ties off her last knot, the tension in her shoulders leaking away. Frank exhales deeply, his hand finding Mel’s leg and squeezing so hard she almost swats him away. 

“Great, Frank, you did good,” she praises, pausing to give him a break. “I’m going to finish with 5-0 fast for your skin, running sutures,” Mel explains, reloading her needle driver. The dermal sutures are easier to guide, and Mel makes quick work of tying them off, a fifth knot in her last stitch for good measure. Frank’s hand kneads into Mel’s jeans, a hiss escaping his lips. 

“All done,” she announces, snipping off excess suture. Sweat beads along Frank’s scalp and his chest heaves like he’s run a marathon. Mel returns the bloodied materials to the table to be disposed of later. “I’m just going to put some bacitracin on the wound. We’ll reapply in the morning.”  

“Jesus, Mel, you’re the best person I know,” Frank rasps, his hand still resting on her thigh. Her fingers layer the ointment over his forehead, lingering on his skin for longer than necessary. 

“You keep saying things like that,” she murmurs. 

“Because I feel things like that,” he responds, his eyes pleading with her for answers that she doesn’t have. 

“Well, it’s confusing to me when you say that…stuff, and then follow it by kissing someone right in front of me,” she says, shifting to rise from her seat. Frank holds her down by her legs, his other hand coming to rest on her other thigh. His touch is molten lava even over her jeans. A strange desire sparks in her gut, its flame licking up her spine. 

“Mel, I needed to— God, I don’t know how to say this. I thought you’d be upset to know how I feel. I assumed you were angry. I kissed Rachel because I thought you wanted us to stay friends, not– whatever we’re doing right now.” Mel’s brows furrow, a deep crease across her forehead. 

“Well, what are we doing right now?” she asks, her hands loose at her sides. She rejects the urge to touch him — to run her fingers through his hair, or caress his cheek, or even bandage his wound. To touch him feels like admitting that they have mutually crossed a boundary. She’s stronger than that. 

Frank’s eyes fill with tears and Mel has to recalibrate, the legs she has folded under herself suddenly wobbly. 

“I am in love with you, Melissa, and I’ll stay friends with you until the end of time if it makes you happy, but I can’t even pretend to love anyone else the way that I love you,” he confesses, the words spilling faster than Mel can comprehend. “I see you everywhere I go, in everyone I talk to, but at the end of the day, I just want you. I want the real thing.” 

Mel’s entire world cracks apart at his words. He’s in love with her. In the same way that she’s loved him forever. But, it’s too good to be true, isn’t it? If he loves her and she loves him, what happens if someone gets hurt? If he breaks her heart? If she breaks his? 

Her heart rate quickens and she finds it difficult to take deep breaths, her quest for more air futile. She inhales and exhales in short, shallow breaths, a hand to her diaphragm to guide her lungs. Everything grows fuzzy around the edges. 

“Mel,” Frank says softly, “it’s okay. You’re okay. Breathe with me.” He directs her breathing, slowing his own as a framework. He collects Mel’s hand, placing it over his heart. “In… and… out.” She syncs herself to him, as she finds herself doing in every aspect of her life. After several moments of breathing in tandem, her head gradually clears. She can breathe normally. 

“I—I need to take a bath,” Mel blurts, resolutely. Frank stares, his face in shock. “Join me, will you?”

If Frank Langdon loves her, the least Mel can do is indulge herself. 

__________

Frank follows after her like a ghost. He’s haunting her apartment, possessing her to do things like get naked and bathe in front of him. He’s certainly not complaining. She walks through her hallway, entering her bedroom. He’s been in her bedroom before, obviously. They’ve collaborated on research projects, their papers and computers sprawled across the carpet as they trade ideas. But, this feels different. Like a switch has been flipped and now their proximity holds unspoken tension. 

She flicks her bedside lamp on, casting a golden glow through the room. From there, she pads into her master bathroom, turning its light on as well. She unravels her shower curtain, the rings zipping across the curtain rod. He’s only used Mel’s master bathroom twice. Once during a study session, and once when Becca was over and locked herself into the guest bathroom. 

He’d always known it was too intimate a place for him. Mel’s cosmetic products fill her cabinet, a cruel reminder that an inanimate object is handled by her fingers nearly every day. Her lilac shampoo and conditioner in her bath, a scent so heavenly he’d snort both bottles if given the opportunity. 

And most of all: her clawfoot bath tub. Her favorite thing about her apartment. Mel tells anyone who will listen just how much she adores her bathtub. It doubles as a shower, it’s spacious, and the windowsill behind it is perfect for candles and a book. This is the first time Frank has seen the tub without Mel’s seashell-clad shower curtain draped over it. 

He watches Mel kneel to rifle through her cupboard, pulling out several bottles and boxes as she goes. She hums to herself, peering over her glasses to examine the text displayed on the products. 

“You like bubbles, right, Frank?” 

“Um, yes,” he manages. “I do like a bubble or two.” 

“We’ll be using quite a few bubbles,” she informs him, handing him a box. “Pick one.” 

He quickly pulls out a green bottle, waving it a little as he holds it. Like your eyes, if they were less hazel, he wants to say. 

She nods, returning the products that she’d taken out to their previous location in the cupboard. She rises and brushes past Frank on her way to the faucet, sitting on the edge of the tub as she fiddles with the dials. He’s silent, studying her as she works. 

She finds an agreeable temperature and uncaps the bottle that Frank has chosen, drizzling the liquid under the tap. As the water spreads across the circumference of the bath, huge bubbles form over the drain, dancing across the current and covering the water’s surface in a cloud. 

Frank blinks. He’s about to… take a bubble bath with Melissa King? She turns to look at him, her face expectant. He’s frozen, still blinking like an owl. 

“You can’t take a bath with clothes on,” she informs him. His brain short circuits. She’s asking— no,—telling him to take his clothes off. He holds her gaze as he strips, their eye contact unyielding. He tosses his shirt onto her sink and begins to fumble with his belt when Mel coughs. 

“Actually, um,” she mumbles. “Could I help…you? With that,” she points at this belt. He follows her finger, head inclined to his pants. 

“My belt? Yes,” he nods his head rapidly. “Absolutely you can.” A small grin plays across on Mel’s lips and she beckons him closer. He steps forward until their toes touch and she wastes no time in unbuckling his clasp, gently tugging at the leather and slipping it through the loops. She handles the belt with grave care, setting it on the tile flooring as if it’s alive. He has never wanted to kiss her more in his whole life. 

“I’ve always wanted to do that,” she whispers. Frank isn’t sure whether she means she’s always wanted to take off a belt in general or his belt specifically. He doesn’t ask. He climbs out of his pant legs, laying them over the sink’s ledge with his shirt. He stands in front of her, sporting only his plaid boxers, and he might as well be naked. He’s unreasonably erect, all from her fingers undoing his belt. 

“What, uh,” he begins, “what about you? You’re still wearing clothes.” The observation sounds idiotic out loud and he cringes.

“Yeah. I’ll take mine off once you’re in the bath,” Mel says, matter of fact. His cheeks redden.

“Okay. I’m… taking my underwear off,” he announces. Mel bats her eyelashes expectantly. Frank is certain that he’s died and gone to heaven. He slides the elastic down his hips hesitantly. What if she suddenly decides to tell him that this is all a prank? His erection springs free, bobbing in the air. His boxers puddle at his feet and he kicks them away, his skin aflame. 

Mel gapes at him, her reaction unsubtle. A wild blush overtakes her face and she grips the sides of the tub so hard her knuckles turn white. She drinks him in, leaving no inch of his body unobserved. He grows confident under her gaze, her curiosity a prize for him to claim. 

“Do you like what you see?” he asks, his hand brushing through his hair. She swallows. 

“Get in,” she demands. The command shoots straight to his dick, his feet moving before his brain has time to process. He thinks he’d break his own knees if she asked him to. (She wouldn’t, which he is thankful for.) 

He plunges his toes into the water, bubbles climbing his legs as he sinks in. He fists the edges of the bath to keep him anchored, plunging until only his chest remains unsubmerged. Mel watches him from her perch, her lip pulled between her teeth. She looks at him like he’s her prey. It sends a chill down Frank’s spine, this side of Mel completely foreign to him. She turns the faucet, the stream of water slowing to a drip. 

She pushes herself up, removing her tank top in one swift movement. She wears a lacy black bra, and Frank considers the idea that she had picked it for David. The thought ignites a feral itch in his brain, his fingers aching to pull her down and mark her as his own. She peels the jeans from her legs, briefly sitting on the toilet seat to yank them off. Her panties match the bra. Frank’s mouth fills with drool. He’d strangle anyone else who gets to see Mel like this with his bare hands. 

Mel pauses, capturing Frank’s eyes to her own, before reaching to unclasp her bra. The straps drape down her arms, her breasts in full view. He clenches his jaw until his teeth ache. She tosses the bra into their growing pile of clothes. Her face grows apprehensive as she slips her underwear off her legs. A mound of brown curls rests at the crown of her crotch, and Frank yearns to feel her under his tongue. Desire courses through his veins, hot and heavy. 

“I don’t, um, shave,” Mel falters, her voice small. Frank shakes his head. 

“Me neither. Look at my chest,” he replies, motioning to his own body. “Doesn’t matter. I need you to get in here now, please.” Mel smiles, her eyes crinkling at the edges. She removes her glasses and places them on the counter before tiptoeing to the tub. She lowers herself into the bath with ease, the precision of someone who bathes here often. The water level rises, tediously close to the lip of the tub. 

“For the record, I like your chest hair,” she remarks, the water rising to her shoulders. “Temperature okay?” Frank hums, his neck falling to rest on the tub’s edge. 

“I like your hair, too, Mel,” he discloses. She squints, narrowing her eyes. With her hair down and glasses off, she’s practically unrecognizable as Dr. King. The Clark Kent of his own heart. 

“Now it’s hard to see you,” she murmurs. Frank nudges her ankle with his foot. 

“So come closer.” 

Mel heeds to his request, scootching toward him little by little, the water lapping as she wades. She sits up on her heels, situating herself between Frank’s legs. She’s pressing into his erection, the pressure tantalizing. His heart pumps overtime. She reaches for her washcloth, draped over the side of the tub, getting it wet with soapy water. She gingerly wipes at Frank’s face, cleaning the dried blood from his eyebrow and forehead. He tenses, gritting his teeth. His wound still stings, and Mel’s proximity is giving him palpitations. 

“That hurt?” she questions, retiring the washcloth to the window’s ledge. He grunts, a small sound. 

“Just a little.” 

“What can I do to help?” She whispers, a glint in her eye. She’s a little pervert, Frank thinks. His cock twitches against her stomach.  

“I’m yours,” Frank answers. “Do whatever you want with me.” Mel gazes at his lips, hungrily. 

“If I kissed you, would it ruin everything?” she asks, her voice hushed. He swears he sees fireworks explode over her head, his vision tunneling. 

“I think I’ll die if you don't,” he breathes. He watches her face register his words, her gears turning a hundred miles a minute. Her eyes flick back to his for a moment, sparkling like he’s divulged the secrets of the universe. 

Mel holds his face with one hand, her thumb smoothing over his cheek. She brings her other hand to the side of his neck, and tentatively presses her lips to his. Mel’s lips are cashmere soft and Frank melts into them, moaning immediately at the sensation. She sighs, a lovely sound that he wishes he could replay in his brain for the rest of time. 

They kiss with abandon, their movements growing desperate. Mel licks into Frank’s mouth like she’s starving, gasping as he lifts her onto his lap. The water splashes over the tub, soaking the tile. Mel giggles against his lips, grinding down as they explore one another. His dick throbs under her, every movement prompting a groan from Frank. 

She directs her kisses to Frank’s neck, sucking bruises into his skin. He whines, arching into her mouth. He feels her smirk against his sternocleidomastoid, rolling her hips as she does.

“Fuck, Mel,” he growls, fisting his hands into her hair. He tugs and she moans, deliciously. “You like that, huh?” 

“Mmm,” she responds, running her fingers down his arms. She lightly nips at his biceps, her breathy exhales tickling his skin. 

“You’re going to kill me,” Frank proclaims, his head falling backward. Mel huffs out a laugh, her face heady with pleasure. 

“I hope not,” she says, reaching under the suds. Her fingers find his length and he jerks upward, hissing. She wraps her hand around his girth, squeezing lightly. The noises that fall from his lips are lewd. 

“Do you want to touch me, Frank?” she asks, the question sending his head spinning. He gives her a look that he hopes communicates: Is the sky blue? Mel licks her lips. 

He chases her neck, kissing her flesh. She mewls. His hands slide down her body, her skin intoxicatingly soft under his fingers. He reaches between her legs, brushing into her heat. They both moan simultaneously, an electric pulse traveling through their bodies. 

“God, my gorgeous girl,” he mumbles. He shakily maps out her anatomy, jealous of his own dick for getting to see her. He traces her clitoris and she sighs, dropping her head to his shoulder. 

“Inside?” Frank rasps. She nods eagerly, a small hum vibrating onto his skin. He pushes into her with his ring finger, her walls constricting around him. “So tight, sweetheart.” 

“More,” Mel pleads, her hips rocking into Frank’s hand. He obliges willingly, adding a second finger. He crooks them as he twists into her, her whimpers like a drug he can’t resist seeking. He will do anything to hear those pretty sounds. He fucks her with his fingers until her walls begin to flutter. Frank presses her clit with his thumb and she gasps. 

“Right, ah—, right there!” she cries, her fingernails digging into his scalp as she comes. Frank admires her face, the way her lips part as she moans, the crease that forms between her eyebrows as arousal floods her brain. 

Frank then learns one very important fact about Mel: her refractory period does not exist. She pants against Frank’s shoulder for an instant, catching her breath, inhaling him. The next minute, she is humping into his lap, whining for him to hear. Mel’s hair hangs in gold curtains, fanning over Frank’s face as she rocks into him. Her low voice rumbles out breathy moans into his mouth and onto his skin and against his ear. His body is so charged he can feel the buzz in his bones. 

“You wanna give me another?” he encourages, lips closing over a nipple. 

“Please,” she begs, seeking friction and utilizing his body however she can. “W—want you inside of me.” His self restraint dissolves into thin air. Condom? No use. Birth control? Not in his world. 

She rises up, using him as leverage, carefully lining herself above his erection. He holds his breath in anticipation. They lock eyes as she sinks down, his cock filling her inch by devastating inch. Her heat is inebriating; the burn choking and extinguishing at the same time. She rotates her hips to allow herself to descend even further, small exhales punctuating her movements.

Frank uses every shred of discipline in his body to keep himself still. He resists the urge to meet her hips with his own. 

“Oh, wow,” Mel breathes, flush with Frank. She leans forward, kissing the uninjured side of his forehead. “I feel so—mmm, fuck—good.” Frank’s eyebrow raises at the profanity; thrilled at the ability to hear such naughty words from his sweet girl’s lips. 

“You feel insane, Mel,” he grumbles, skating his fingers lightly along her torso. She smiles down at him, batting her lashes. She rocks her hips forward and he nearly sees God. “Fuck,” he hisses. 

She grinds in his lap, her hands cemented to his shoulders as she draws herself off of him, only to plunge back down in one movement. Wet squelches and moans fill the air as she works, riding him at her own pace. He throws his head back, his mind drunk with Mel. 

“C—can you move?” she stammers, asking him as if he’d be indulging her. He wants to tell her how he’s dreamt about thrusting into her for the past 2 years. How he gets off thinking about making her come.

“God, I love you,” he says instead. He holds onto her hip with one hand and the edge of the porcelain with his other, bouncing her up and down with his pelvis. He grits his teeth, the sensation of her walls clenching around him deliriously fulfilling. 

“Taking me so well, my girl,” he coos. The water continuously sways with their movements, escaping the tub and plastering the bathroom floor in a layer of their fluids. Mel makes a noise, low in her throat, and Frank diligently thrusts into the same spot, at the same angle. 

Her pussy contracts, a vice-grip over him, and she groans. His gut tingles, a tether yanking tightly. Mel’s lips collide with his own and the pressure building inside him snaps, tension pouring away. His moan is so loud, it bounces off the walls. He spills inside of her, her arms wrapped around him in an embrace. They remain in that position, his dick softening, their heaving bodies slick to one another. 

“Oh my god,” Mel murmurs, her lips at rest against Frank’s neck. “Does it always feel like that?” 

“No,” Frank responds, his heartbeat blasting in his ears. “I only feel like this with you.”

__________

They lay atop Mel’s comforter, her head crooked into Frank’s neck as he traces shapes across her back. Her body is void of stress, putty against Frank’s torso. She’s never felt so at peace: existing 28 years just to live for 3 hours. 

“Frank,” she mumbles into his skin. “I need to tell you something.” He tilts his head up, peering down at her. His hair is messy, and his neck is collaged with purple bruises. He looks like he belongs to her. Maybe he does. 

“I love you too,” she whispers, her voice shaky. “I was scared to admit it and mess everything up. I just— I don’t want to lose you.” 

Frank brushes his fingers through her hair, tucking a piece behind her ear. “You won’t lose me.” 

“Promise?” she asks. He smiles fondly. 

“Promise.” 

They lay in silence for a few moments, the sounds of their breathing the only noise in the world. Mel lifts her head to look at him. He’s the most beautiful thing she’s seen. 

“I need you to know I would have been happy staying friends,” she starts, “this— tonight wasn’t some Machiavellian scheme to get you to be with me.” 

Frank laughs at this, his hand caressing her scalp. “Maybe you weren’t plotting.” She wrinkles her forehead. “But I’ve been wanting this forever. Probably as long as I’ve known you.”

Mel’s eyes soften and she kisses his skin. She might be the luckiest person alive.