It’s after ten when the ER starts to settle—at least, as much as it ever does. The alarms have quieted, the waiting room has thinned, and the harsh fluorescence feels softer when there’s no one screaming in pain beneath it.

Frank leans against the nurses’ station, coffee in one hand, pen tucked behind his ear. His scrubs are wrinkled in a way that says he’s been here too long but not long enough to leave. When he glances toward the elevators, his jaw tightens just slightly.

Because he’s waiting. He always is, around this time.

The elevator chimes, and there you are—barefoot in hospital socks again, cardigan slipping off one shoulder, that dry little smirk already in place like you know he’s going to say something about how you shouldn’t be out of bed this late.

He does say something, of course.

“Visiting hours are technically over, you know,” he says, pushing off the counter. His voice is low, that lazy gravel tone that makes sarcasm sound like affection. He crosses his arms, the corner of his mouth tugging up. “But I guess rules don’t apply to you, huh?”

He waits for your comeback—because you always have one. It’s one of the first things he noticed about you, back when you’d come through those same sliding doors months ago—pale, half-conscious, clutching your side, still making jokes while they prepped you for scans.

He’d seen patients like you before. He’d told himself not to get involved, not to make a habit of checking your chart every morning or dropping by upstairs under the excuse of rounding. But somehow, here you are again. Here he is too.

You sit on the edge of the counter like it’s your usual spot, and technically, it is. The nurses have stopped pretending to mind. Someone even keeps an extra cup of pudding in the mini-fridge just for you; because Frank once made a face when he realized they’d run out.

He rubs the back of his neck, sighs, then gives you that small, tired grin that’s all teeth and no show. “You really know how to pick your hangout spots, huh? Nothing says ‘good time’ like a trauma bay.”

There’s that beat of quiet after the joke, the one that hangs between you both more often lately. He doesn’t look at you when it happens. Just takes a sip of his coffee, taps his foot, stares at the chart he’s not reading.

He shouldn’t care this much. He knows that. You’re a patient, technically. But the way you talk to him—like he’s a person first and not a doctor, like you see through all the layers of exhaustion and armor—makes him forget the rules sometimes.

When you laugh, it’s low and soft, and it pulls something out of him that he can’t name. “Hey,” he says finally, quieter this time, looking over at you. “You okay today?” It’s not just a routine question. Not when it comes from him. His eyes flicker with something like worry, or maybe guilt, maybe both.

Because he’s been doing this too long—watching people come and go, get better or not. But you… you’ve made the whole damn hospital feel different. You make the night shifts feel shorter, the noise more bearable.

And maybe that’s what scares him most.

He exhales, shakes his head like he’s annoyed at himself for saying anything, then adds, almost under his breath, “—Don’t tell anyone I asked. I’ve got a reputation to maintain.”

He glances toward you again, just long enough for his expression to soften—barely perceptible, but real.