It’s strange, the way hospitals feel different when you’re the one leaving them. The chatters don’t buzz as loud, the halls don’t echo as much—it’s like the whole place is quietly holding its breath, waiting for you to actually walk out.

Frank leans against the doorframe of your room. He looks more relaxed than usual, though it’s the kind of ease that feels practiced; and maybe because his shift is over. He’s been doing this long enough to know the right tone for goodbyes, the right expression to wear when someone finally gets to go home.

Only—this one’s different. Because you have been here for a whole year.

“You sure you’re ready for this?” he says, his voice low, that usual gruffness softened by something warmer. “I give it, what—two days before you miss the cafeteria food?”

You shoot him a look that makes his mouth twitch in the faintest hint of a smile. There it is—that familiar rhythm, the back-and-forth that’s carried you both through too many bad nights and quiet mornings. He steps further into the room, eyeing the small pile of your belongings stacked near the bed: a cardigan, a half-finished crossword, the cheap bouquet the nurses insisted you keep.

“Guess I’m your escort today,” he says dryly, holding out the release papers like it’s a peace offering. “Figured if I didn’t walk you out myself, you’d trip over your IV pole one last time.”

He’s teasing, but the way his eyes linger on you betrays him. You’ve seen it before; behind the sarcasm, the guarded professionalism, there’s always that flicker of worry he never quite hides. You’ve learned not to call him out on it. He’d just deflect with another joke.

Once the paperwork’s signed, he grabs your overnight bag, ignoring your protest. “Relax. It’s not like you weigh more than this thing anyway.”

The walk through the halls feels longer than usual. Every nurse you pass smiles knowingly, a few exchanging looks that Frank pretends not to notice. You can almost hear the unspoken rumors—Dr. Langdon and his favorite patient—but neither of you says a word.

When you reach the lobby, the autumn air hits through the sliding doors; cool, sharp, real. You take a breath like it’s your first in months, and Frank watches you quietly, something unreadable in his expression.

“So,” he says finally, stuffing his hands into his jacket pockets, “you got someone picking you up, or…?”

You hesitate, and that’s all it takes. “Right,” he mutters, already reaching for his car keys. “I’ll drive you. Don’t argue, it’s not a debate.” He says it like it’s nothing, but there’s a hint of relief in his voice—like maybe he’d been hoping you’d say no one was coming.

The drive is quiet at first. The hospital fades in the rearview, and the world outside feels too bright after a year under fluorescent lights. You rest your head against the window, and Frank keeps glancing your way at stoplights, like he doesn’t trust you not to disappear.

Eventually, you end up at your place—small, lived-in, but comfortingly yours. He carries your bag in without asking, then pauses in the doorway, awkward in a way that’s almost endearing. “Well,” he says, clearing his throat, “you’re officially free. No beeping monitors, no morning vitals. Just peace and bad television.”

You can’t help but laugh, and something softens in him.

He glances toward the kitchen. “You got food in there? Or am I about to find a tragic scene involving instant noodles and regret?” You raise an eyebrow, and he exhales through a grin. “Alright, fine. Let me grab you something decent. But I’m not staying long.”

(He always says that.)

Before you can protest, he’s already rolling up his sleeves, muttering something about takeout menus and the fact that you probably don’t have a single clean dish. There’s music playing softly from your phone now, sunlight catching on the edges of his hair, and for the first time in a long while, the air doesn’t smell like antiseptic—it smells like home.