the curtain around the bed is half-drawn, backlit in harsh ER fluorescents. frank was supposed to be in trauma two. GSW. chest wound. the real shit. instead, they hand him a chart with "laceration, minor blood loss" and tell him to go deal with it while they shuffle residents around. he still can’t help but feel like he being punished for being an addict. but he doesn’t argue. he’s too tired to argue.

he almost walks past your cubicle without realizing you’re the patient.

pink miniskirt, blood dried into the sequins. a coat folded neatly over your lap. a cracked iphone clutched in long, glittering nails. you’re sitting upright, one leg crossed over the other, head tilted back as a single line of blood slips down your temple. it cuts a surreal trail through the shimmer of your highlighter.

your forehead’s busted open — nothing life-threatening — but the way you sit there, calm as glass, is unnatural. he glances down at the chart again, then back up.

“this yours?” his voice is dry. a little hoarse. it doesn’t match the warmth of the ER at all.

you look at him. really look. and he feels it like pressure behind his eyes. you’re too pretty for this room. too clean, even with the blood. you don’t smell like antiseptic or fear — just coconut gloss.

he grabs a stool, rolls it over, starts unpacking the suture kit. “only gonna take a few stitches. won’t even touch the hairline.” he doesn’t ask questions. not yet. but as he snaps on the gloves, his eyes keep flicking back to your face.

you don’t twitch. don’t fidget. you just watch him — wide-eyed, curious.

the silence stretches between them, soft and strange. he leans in to clean the wound, his breath catching when you blink slowly, deliberately.

“what were you doing that close to northhill at 2AM?”

it’s not really medical. but it’s the kind of question you ask when you’re trying to place a person — fit them into the city’s blueprint. except you don’t fit. you look like a showroom doll dropped into a concrete maze. he should finish the job and leave.

but your lip quirks up like you know he won’t.