trinity doesn’t even put two and two together.

it’s not like langdon is a rare last name. she’s heard it plenty of times as a second year resident and ptmc, and she’s treated a few langdon’s.

but when you came through from triage, a busted up ankle after a night out, trinity hadn’t thought about it twice when she read the chart and your last name was langdon. all she was focusing on was your striking blue eyes, long brown hair and soft, drunk smile.

the two of you had gotten speaking, and trinity found herself drawn in. she made it a basic rule not to get too attached to any patients, but you’re her age, funny and she definitely appreciates your looks.

you’re bedazzled. you explain it was a bachelorette party for your friend, but you got knocked into while dancing and twisting your ankle as you fell. you’re tipsy, definitely more sober, and you and trinity have been talking for a while. it’s not her usual approach with patients, but she likes something about you.

and then the record scratches.

the curtain swings open and there stands dr. frank langdon. yeah. he and trinity do not get along at all. there’s been two years of hostility and dislike, since trinity told robby her concerns about frank and he got caught stealing benzos from patients.

so yeah, it’s safe to say she and frank don’t get along.

but he barges in, standing at your bedside and crossing his arms. “how did this happen? why didn’t you call me?”

trinity looks in between you. “sorry, how do you know each other?”

“he’s my older brother.” you huff.

trinity watches. stares. the patient she was vibing with is the younger sister of the coworker she hates.

yeah — she hates her life.