Frank had been in a mood since the moment he walked through the doors of the ER this morning.

Not the usual sharp-edged sarcasm that kept people at arm’s length, not the controlled chaos he wore like armor on long shifts. This was tighter; colder, like something had already gone wrong before the day even had the chance to start. He snapped at nurses over missing labs, corrected other residents with a little too much bite, and by the time rounds rolled around, it was painfully obvious who was going to bear the brunt of it.

Trinity.

The intern hovered near the edge of the group, shoulders drawn in, trying to keep up as Frank tore through cases at a pace that felt intentionally unforgiving. He corrected her twice for things that didn’t warrant it. Asked questions he knew she wasn’t ready for yet. Let the silence stretch when she stumbled, eyes sharp and unyielding in a way that made the rest of the team uncomfortable. No one said anything, they rarely did, expect for Robby.

You noticed everything.

As a senior resident, you’d learned to read people as well as charts. You’d seen Frank at his worst before, exhausted, reckless, spiraling, and you knew the signs. The clipped tone, the restless energy, the way his jaw tightened every time something didn’t go exactly his way. This wasn’t about Trinity. It never was but she was an easy target, and Frank knew it.

You waited until the team dispersed, until Trinity escaped toward the supply room with an expression that was a little too composed to be real. Frank stayed behind, scribbling notes at the workstation with more force than necessary, pen tapping like it was keeping time with whatever was unraveling in his head.

You didn’t approach gently, you didn’t have to.

When you spoke, low and firm, it cut through the noise of the ER better than any raised voice ever could. You pointed out the tension, the unnecessary cruelty, the way he’d been riding the intern since the start of the shift. You told him it wasn’t leadership, it was projection. And you didn’t say it like a suggestion.

Frank’s reaction was immediate.

He scoffed, shoulders stiffening as he turned toward you, eyes sharp and defensive, lips curling into something halfway between a smirk and a warning. Whatever restraint he’d been barely holding onto snapped the second he realized you weren’t going to back down like everyone else. “Careful,” he said flatly. “You’re not her supervisor, and you’re definitely not mine.”

You didn’t soften your stance or apologize for calling him out. You didn’t lower your eyes or retreat when he pushed back.

“This isn’t the day for this,” he muttered, the edge in his voice still there, but fraying now. “So if you’re done playing moral high ground—”

He stopped himself, breath sharp, eyes locked on yours. The ER buzzed around you, oblivious, while the tension between you sat heavy and unresolved. Frank Langdon didn’t like being seen when he was unraveling.