Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Frank should’ve divorced Abby a long time ago.

 Should’ve

 Should’ve.

 Should’ve.

They had fought before—plenty of times—but none of those fights compared to The Fight. That’s what he called it now. He didn’t know what else to name the moment he realized he should’ve never married her in the first place.

He’d gotten off work early that day. He never left work early, but he wanted to surprise Abby with flowers, chocolate, and dinner reservations. He had it all planned out: her favorite restaurant, ice cream afterward at the place where they first met, and a kid-free weekend thanks to his mom. It was going to be perfect.

What he hadn’t planned for was walking in on his wife screwing another man.

It took him three seconds—just three—to understand what he was looking at. ​​One to recognize Abby’s hair splayed out across the pillow. Two to notice the pair of legs that didn’t belong to him. Three to feel the cold crack of realization settle in his chest.

 He didn’t shout or scream, even though he should have. He turned and walked out, slamming the bedroom door behind him.

He heard frantic cursing through the door as they scrambled to get dressed. No doubt they were already coming up with some pathetic excuse. But it didn’t matter. Nothing they could say would fix it. In Frank’s head, the divorce papers were already signed.

He stormed down the stairs, through the living room, and out the front door without a glance back. He didn’t care if Abby followed. Nothing she said would change what he saw.

It’s funny in retrospect how oblivious he had been to everything. He’d always heard of people's spouses being cheated on. He always thought that would never be him, because surely he would know. Frank was wrong. He had no idea.

“Frank!” Abby’s voice called after him. She came stumbling outside, her arms flailing at her sides. Her hair was a mess, lipstick smeared, shirt half-buttoned. “It’s not what you think.”

He didn’t stop. Just dug his car keys from his pocket and hit the unlock button to the minivan. 

“Frank,” she said again, more breathless this time. “It’s really not what you think.”

He barked out a bitter laugh. “Right—because you just fell naked on top of my brother. ” He really should have just walked away. Abby and his brother didn’t deserve a single word. Actually, they deserved less than that. 

“Frank—”

“You’ll hear from my lawyer in the morning.” His grip tightened around the keys. He needed to leave before he did something he’d regret. He tried to remain calm, his voice even and leveled, betraying none of the ache and heartbreak pouring through him.  “I want you out of the house by the end of the weekend.”

She stopped short at the top of the porch steps, nearly tripping. “You can’t just kick me out, Frank!”

“Actually,” he said coldly, “yes, I can. I paid for the house. It’s in my name. Not yours.”

“Frank,” she was shaking her head now. Had she finally realized what exactly her affair had cost her? “Where am I supposed to go?”

“Not my problem anymore,” he said. “If you aren’t out by Monday morning, I’ll call the police.”

“What about the kids, Frank?” She asked. “You can’t just do this.” 

“The kids are with my mom for the weekend,” he told her. He had told her that morning at breakfast, but now he wasn’t sure if she was even listening. “We can talk about them after you leave.” 

His brother, James, came out the door, still buttoning his shirt. “I—”

Oh, great. This ought to be good. Frank wondered what kind of bullshit excuse James had ready. When they were kids, the only thing bigger than James’s ego was his lies.

“Just calm down,” James said, holding up his hands. “We can talk about this.”

“Oh fucking don’t , James.” Frank opened the car door and hurled his bag into the passenger seat. “Nothing you say is gonna fix this. I hope you’ve both got good lawyers because you’re gonna need them.”

Abby had gone white as a ghost. “You’re overreacting, Frank,” she said quietly. “Just... breathe. We can fix this. We always fix this, don’t we, baby?”

Baby? God, how could she—

“ Overreacting? ” he snapped, turning to face her. “I think I’m being damn reasonable considering I just found my wife in bed with my brother on our anniversary. Happy five years, Abby.”

“Our anniversary?” she echoed, blinking.

She didn’t even remember. Of course she didn’t. For fuck’s sake, she didn’t even remember the day they got married. Five years ago, they stood in a church and promised forever. He never knew forever had an expiration date. 

“Don’t do this, Frank,” she begged as he moved to the other side of the car. “It was a mistake. It won’t ever happen again.” 

“Sleeping with my brother wasn’t a mistake, Abby,” he said, forcing the door open. “ Marrying you was.”

“Frank—” she said, her voice rising. “That was uncalled for. Be rational.”

“How many times, Abby?”

She didn’t answer. That was the only answer he needed. How long had they been together, sneaking around behind his back? 

“Frank—”

He didn’t even know if he wanted to know. But the silence made his blood boil.

“Goddamn it, Abby,” he growled. “If you ever want to see your kids again, tell me the truth. For once in your life, tell me the fucking truth. ”

He knew it was a low blow, threatening her access to the kids, but right now, he didn’t care. He’d never actually keep them from her, but he wanted to see her sweat. Wanted her to feel something close to what he was feeling.

“The first time was August 19th,” she said finally. “Five years ago.”

He blinked. “The day before our wedding?”

She looked away. She didn’t deny it.

He took a shaky step back, like the words had shoved him. “Jesus Christ. Why did you even marry me?”

Abby just rolled her eyes. “Because I loved you. But you were always working, always angry, always... exhausted. You weren’t present . James was.”

Frank’s chest clenched. “You’re blaming me ? You seriously have the audacity to blame me for you cheating?”

“You pushed me away,” she said coolly. “Don’t act like you were some perfect husband. You’re an addict.

“I was an addict, Abby,” he said. “I was sick. I’m fine. I have been for two years.”  Of course she would mention his addiction. Whenever she wanted to win a fight she’d always bring it up, wielding it like some double edged sword.

James, finally done buttoning his shirt like this was just some casual inconvenience, stepped forward. “I get that you’re upset, Frank,” he said, smooth as oil. “But Abby and I—this wasn’t planned. It just... happened. We love each other. You can’t punish us for that.”

“Frank—”

“I’ll see you in court,” he said sharply. “And by the way—James doesn’t get anywhere near my kids. If I find out he’s within a mile of them, I’m filing for full custody.”

“That’s ridiculous,” she snapped. “He’s family. ”

“Family doesn’t fuck their brother’s wife.”

“Just calm down, Frank,” James wrapped a protective arm around his wife, and he felt like he was going to throw up. “We love each other. I’m sorry that this happened, but we couldn’t stop it.” 

He smiled. “If she really loved you she would have married you, James. Oh wait, she didn’t marry you. She married me.”

James blinked, the smug little smile faltering as the words sank in.

The silence that followed was razor-thin.

Abby sucked in a breath. “Frank, don’t—”

But it was too late.

James’s hand clenched at his side. His face darkened, blotchy with rage, the kind of fury that had no place in words. And then—he swung.

The punch landed hard — a sharp crack against Frank’s jaw that sent his head snapping to the side. His shoulder slammed into the frame of the open car door, and for a second, everything went muffled, like he’d been dunked underwater.

Frank straightened slowly, breath caught between a laugh and a gasp. His lip was bleeding now. He tasted copper and something bitter in the back of his throat.

Abby was yelling something — a frantic, breathless “James!” — but neither of them looked at her.

Frank turned back to face his brother. “There he is,” he muttered, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve. “There’s the real you. I’m sure it's been exhausting pretending to be someone you aren’t.” James stood frozen, chest heaving, like he didn’t even realize what he’d done until it was already over. His hand shook.

“You think I’m the problem?” Frank said, his voice low, rough around the edges like a blade dulled from use. “Go ahead. Lie to yourselves if it helps you sleep at night. Pretend I drove you to this. Pretend this was some tragic love story and not just two selfish people screwing each other behind closed doors.”

He looked between them — James with his fists still clenched like a teenager caught red-handed, and Abby with her arms folded, her face already hardening into something cold and familiar.

“But let me tell you something. The world isn’t going to see it the way you do. You’re not star-crossed lovers. You’re a punchline. This doesn’t end in some fairytale. It ends in courtrooms and lawyers and custody hearings you can’t afford. James, you’re a line cook who still lives paycheck to paycheck. No shame in that—but you think you're ready to play stepdad in a house you can't even help pay for?”

His eyes flicked to Abby, voice tightening. “And you. You haven’t worked a day in five years. You told me raising the kids was your job. So what now? You gonna raise them in someone else’s apartment while you wait for your half of what I built?”

Abby flinched. James shifted, but said nothing.

Frank shook his head slowly. “You think the worst part of this is that you cheated. It’s not. It’s that you didn’t think . Not about me. Not about the kids. Not about what comes next. I loved you,” his voice caught. Loved. “If you had wanted to be together before the wedding, I would have called it off. I would have sacrificed everything so you could be happy. Even if it meant I wasn’t. But, you didn’t think that, did you? You were so busy feeling wanted that you didn’t stop and think about the lives you were destroying.”

He paused, the weight of everything pressing down on his shoulders—but his voice stayed steady.

“It doesn’t get easier after this,” he said quietly. “It gets lonelier. And harder. And heavier. Abby couldn’t stand by me when life got hard—so what makes you think she’ll stand by you , James?”

Neither of them answered.

Frank took a step back, jaw tight. “You two deserve each other.”

James opened his mouth to speak, but Frank was already stepping back, already getting into the car.

“You’ll be hearing from my lawyer,” he said without turning around. “And if you come anywhere near my kids James. I’ll sue you for everything you're worth. Is that clear?”

Abby’s voice was quiet.  “You really would have let us be together?”

“I guess we’ll never know, will we?” He smiled at Abby. “This—” Frank gestured to James, and the whole twisted mess in front of him, “—is all yours now. I hope it was worth it.” 

And with that, he slammed the door and pulled away, leaving James and Abby behind in the driveway — just two people standing in the wreckage, surrounded by everything they thought they wanted.

~*~

The emergency room was already packed.

The waiting area was a blur of too many people and not enough space — parents with crying toddlers, an elderly man hunched in a wheelchair with an oxygen tank, a teenager holding a bloody rag to his forehead. A baby screamed from somewhere deep in the back.

Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Phones rang. The scent of disinfectant clung to the walls, layered over coffee and body odor. It was all too loud, too bright. But Frank barely registered any of it.

He stepped through the sliding doors and stood there for a moment, like he’d forgotten how to walk. His right hand throbbed in his jacket pocket, raw and hot. The skin was split across the knuckles, blood crusted at the edges. He couldn’t feel the tips of his fingers anymore.

He wasn’t sure why he’d come. He could’ve cleaned it at home. Taped it up in the bathroom, like he had a hundred other small injuries before. But home felt impossible right now. Like walking into a tomb.

He just needed… somewhere else. Somewhere that wasn’t empty.

He approached the check-in desk, blinking against the fluorescent glare. Princess was at the desk, charting. 

“Name?” she asked, without looking up at him. 

“Frank Langdon.”

She started typing. “And what brings you in today, Mr.—” She looked up again, her eyes widening in shock. “Frank? What the hell are you doing here? You look terrible. What the hell happened to your face.” 

Frank blinked again, like the question was too complex to answer.

“I need someone to look at my head. I think I might have a concussion and a broken nose.” he said. His voice was rough, like he hadn’t used it in hours.

The nurse stood. “What did you do, run into a pole?”

He smirked, blood still on his teeth. “Something like that.” 

“Okay. Let me…hold on,” Princess said, eyes flicking over Frank again. She turned quickly and disappeared through the sliding doors behind the nurses’ station.

Frank stayed planted near the entrance, swaying slightly on his feet. Someone sneezed behind him. A child wailed. A paramedic rolled a gurney through the automatic doors, the wheels clicking loudly against the tile. The smell of antiseptic hit him harder than usual—probably because it was the first time he’d entered this ER as a patient.

A few seconds later, Princess returned, a familiar figure walking in behind her, Dr. Michael Robonavitch.

Robby.

Frank straightened instinctively.

Robby’s expression was unreadable, but sharp. It was the same look he wore in trauma bays and tense surgical consults: calm, measured, but taking in everything . Their relationship had been brittle ever since Frank’s substance use had nearly derailed his residency two years ago, but they’d been rebuilding. Slowly. Brick by brick.

“You’re not on until tomorrow,” Robby said—and then stopped short when he saw Frank’s face. His eyes flicked to the bruising, the swelling around the orbit, the split in his lower lip.

“What happened?”

Frank offered the thinnest smile. “It looks worse than it is. I swear.”

“Uh-huh,” Robby said, already reaching for the chart Princess had in her hand. “Come on.”

He gestured Frank through the automatic doors, nodding at a nearby nurse. “Put Exam Six on hold. I need it now.”

Nurses glanced up as they passed—recognition, confusion—but no one said a word. Robby opened the door to Exam 6 himself and held it open. Frank stepped inside, lowering himself gingerly onto the exam table.

“Sit tight,” Robby said. He tugged on a pair of nitrile gloves, pulled a penlight from his breast pocket, and approached with the clinical focus of a trauma attending.

“Pupils equal, round, reactive to light,” he murmured, mostly to himself. “Any loss of consciousness?”

“No,” Frank replied.

“Dizziness? Nausea?”

“Little dizzy, but nothing major.”

Robby gave a soft grunt. He palpated along Frank’s zygomatic arch, then gently over the mandible, checking for instability.

“Jaw sore?”

“Little bit.”

“We’re getting maxillofacial films. Maybe a CT. You’ve got periorbital swelling and a split lip. I want to rule out a zygomatic or orbital blowout fracture. What about your hand?”

Frank flexed it instinctively, winced. “Hurts like hell.”

“Right or left?”

“Right.”

Robby took it, carefully palpating each metacarpal and the carpal bones. “Probably a boxer's fracture,” he said. “You need a three-view X-ray series. I’ll page radiology and ortho. Did you punch him back?”

“No,” he said. “I punched the door of my car after I left.” 

Robby didn’t say anything, just continued looking at his hand.

Frank let out a breath, long and shaky. “Thanks.”

Robby peeled off his gloves and dropped them in the biohazard bin. “You want to tell me what the hell happened?”

Frank shook his head. “It’s not— Look, I just needed to be somewhere. That wasn’t home.”

Robby leaned against the counter. “Frank. You’re here because something got to you. And that doesn’t happen often. So I’ll ask again—who hit you?”

Frank’s jaw worked. He looked away. “My brother.”

That gave Robby pause. He stared at Frank for a moment before speaking. “Okay. What happened?”

Frank’s voice was flat. “He slept with my wife.”

Robby didn’t react right away. He leaned back, folding his arms across his chest. “Jesus.”

“Yeah.”

“You want me to call Security? File a report? We can document this now and back you up if you want to go legal.”

Frank gave a dry, humorless laugh. “What’s the point?”

Robby didn’t answer. Instead, he stepped forward, softer now. “Do you want to talk to Psych? Or just… sit here for a bit?”

“I don’t know,” Frank said quietly. He flexed his hand again. “I just couldn’t go home.”

“Well,” Robby said, grabbing the chart again, “you’re here. That’s enough for now. I’ll get radiology down here, and I’ll write you off for the rest of the week. You’re not going back on shift until your head’s screwed on straight.”

Frank nodded. He hadn’t cried. Not in the driveway. Not in the car. Not even now.

But something behind his ribs felt cracked open—like his chest was filled with glass, and every breath shifted the pieces.

And he didn’t know how much longer he could keep them from slicing through.

“It’s going to be okay, Frank,” Robby said. “I know a good lawyer. We’ll take photos of your injuries for court. Your brother won’t get away with this.”

“Thanks Robby,” he said. 

“You’re gonna need stitches,” Robby said. “I’ll have Mel come in and finish if that’s alright?”

“Yeah,” Frank said. “That’s fine.”

It wasn’t. But nothing had been fine for hours now, maybe longer. Maybe years.

“It’s going to be okay, Frank,” Robby said. “Why don’t we get a drink after work? My treat?”

He nodded slowly, and Robby gave him a small smile and pat on the back before leaving him.

A few minutes later, Mel King opened the curtain and smiled at him warmly. “Frank?”

He looked up. The fluorescent lights made her look paler than usual. Her blonde hair was pulled into a messy twist at the nape of her neck, and there was a faint stain of coffee on the sleeve of her scrubs.

“Hey, Mel.”

Her expression didn’t shift. “What happened?”

“James happened,” he muttered. There was a pause.

“Your brother punched you?” she asked, stepping forward slowly, like approaching a wounded animal.

“Apparently.”

Her eyes narrowed, hands hovering above the tray she was setting up. “What did you do?”

He blinked at her. “Why do you assume I did something?”

She gave him a look, dry, flat, and too familiar. “Frank, have you met yourself?”

“That’s mean,” he said, but there was no weight behind it. His voice felt hollow in his own ears.

Mel shrugged. “Just saying. You’ve got a short fuse. Like attracts like. Nothing wrong with it.”

She meant it lightly, but the words hit too close to something sore. A truth he'd heard Abby whisper during arguments, under her breath— "You're always angry, Frank. Always ready to explode."

He waved it off. “Mel. It’s okay.”

That silenced her. She nodded once and started working in earnest, dragging over a tray of tools, snapping the light on overhead. Mel moved with that clean, clinical efficiency he’d always admired—fast hands, steady eyes. But he could feel the tension under her skin. The stiffness. Like she didn’t know where to put her sympathy, so she stuffed it behind sterile technique.

She tilted his chin up, fingers cool against his jaw. He flinched—not from pain, but the intimacy of it. The last time someone had touched his face like that had been Abby. Different circumstances. Very different.

“This is gonna sting.”

“Go ahead.”

She dabbed at the cut with antiseptic. The sharp burn lit up his senses, but Frank barely blinked. He welcomed the pain—it was cleaner than everything else. “I assume this wasn’t just a spontaneous punch,” she said finally.

Frank stared at the tiles on the floor. “Walked in on them.”

Mel paused, gauze held midair. “…Them?”

“James. And Abby.”

Her hands froze inches away from his skin. Her eyes looked up at him wide, filled with disbelief. “Jesus, Frank.”

“Yeah.”

She went back to work, a little slower now. She threaded the needle with practiced hands. The sound of the thread unspooling filled the room—sharp, deliberate, too loud. Frank watched it with detached interest.

The first stitch pulled at the skin of his nose. A tug. A pinch. Not quite pain, not quite relief. He’d be happy to feel pain, or feel anything at this point. 

“I came home early to surprise her for our anniversary and found them in bed.  She didn’t even remember.” 

Mel didn’t say anything. He swallowed, jaw clenching as she tied the knot and moved to the next. “I didn’t even yell. I just stood there like an idiot, watching them scramble like teenagers getting caught.”

She glanced at him briefly, but not long enough to hold the look. “You’re not an idiot.”

“I should’ve seen it coming.”

“You’re not an idiot,” she repeated, sharper this time.

Frank didn’t respond. The room felt too small, the chair too stiff. His skin itched with invisible tension. Another stitch. Another tug. The thread pulled tight again.

“Did you hit him back?” she asked softly, looking at his split hand.

He shook his head. “Didn’t even move.”

Mel looked up. Their eyes met—and for a moment, everything else fell away. The fluorescent light flickered above them, humming softly like a warning. Frank wondered if she could see everything he was holding in. The humiliation. The rage. The grief that hadn’t found a place to go yet.

“You’re gonna bruise,” she said.

“Yeah. Seems appropriate.”

She tied off the final knot and pressed gauze to the wound, lingering a second longer than necessary. Her thumb brushed his cheek. Just lightly. Just once. And then she stepped back.

Frank exhaled. “Thanks.”

Mel started peeling off her gloves. “You don’t need to thank me. You’ll be okay, Frank. If there is anything you need at all you know you can ask me, right? Abby was—I thought she was my friend.”

“I know,” he said. “We thought a lot of things about her, didn’t we?”


                                                                                                                                                   ~*~

On Monday Abby was gone. 

The first thing he did was hire a locksmith to change the locks. He walked through their home— his home now, like a zombie. 

But, there were still tell-tale signs of her touch. He caught himself reaching for her mug—the stupid white one with the faded gold lettering that said But First, Coffee —but the cabinet door opened to empty space. His fingers hung in the air, twitching. He shut the door quietly, like he was afraid to wake something.

In the bedroom, the absence hit harder. Her dresses, once lined up like color-coded flags, were gone. Empty hangers swayed gently, as if mourning the loss themselves. Her perfume still lingered—soft and cloying—vanilla and bergamot. It clung to the air, the walls, the folds of the bedding. He wanted to open all the windows. He couldn’t bring himself to.

The children would be back by noon, and he needed to pull himself together before then. He needed to hold it together. For them. For now.

The call to the lawyer had been short and brutal. Thanks to the prenup—his father’s idea, not his—Abby would leave with little more than a checking account and a bruised reputation. She hadn’t worked a day in their marriage. She had been charming, radiant, good with the children. But, that was all.

Had his father known? Had the old man seen something in Abby before Frank ever did? The timing, the insistence on a prenup... it felt more like foresight than fatherly protection now. Had everyone seen it before he did? Was he really that stupid?

The loud thudding on the door broke him out of his stupor. He looked down at his broken watch. It was already noon. For hours he’d been walking around his own home like a ghost. 

He stepped toward the door, smoothing a hand down his shirt, breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth like the therapist had taught him years ago. One, two, three. Inhale. Exhale.

He opened the door.

“Hey, Mom,” he said, offering a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

His mother stood on the stoop, tight-lipped and stone-eyed. She gave a single nod.

“Frank.”

And then, before he could brace himself—

“Daddy!” Two small voices tore through the air like birds let out of a cage. Tanner and Millie hurled themselves into his arms, their backpacks bouncing against his shins. He crouched down to catch them, arms circling both of them with practiced ease. He buried his face in their hair, breathing in the safety of them. Warm, familiar, loud, real.

“Daddy!” Millie cried into his shirt. “We missed you.”

“I missed you too, kid,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. Her hair still smelled like strawberries and shampoo. Tanner wrapped around his side like a vice grip, clinging with all the force his toddler arms could muster.

“Where’s Mommy?” Millie asked, pulling back just enough to look up at him with wide, expectant eyes. “I made her this!” She fished a crumpled drawing from her backpack and held it up proudly. A stick-figure family stood smiling in front of their old red-brick house. Abby had a crown on her head. Frank’s figure had a big smile. Millie had drawn herself between them with huge pink pigtails.

His heart seized.

He stared at the drawing like it was a bomb he didn’t know how to defuse. The crayon lines were jagged but cheerful, a child’s perfect world rendered in wax and innocence. He could barely look at it.

“Millie…” he started, his voice raw, cracking just beneath the surface. What was he supposed to say? That Mommy left? That she chose someone else? That she walked out of their lives like it was easy?

Before the silence could stretch too long, his mother stepped in with that clipped, no-nonsense voice she’d perfected over five decades.

“Millie, Tanner,” she said brightly, “remember it’s nap time? Let’s let your father rest, hmm?”

Millie pouted. “But I wanna give this to Mommy—”

“She’ll see it later, sweetheart,” his mother said, already ushering them forward with gentle hands on their backs. “Come on, up the stairs. I put your sheets on the beds and Flopsy Bunny’s waiting.”

Frank watched as his children reluctantly shuffled inside, Millie’s drawing still clutched in her fist. Tanner cast one last look over his shoulder, worry written across his little brow, but said nothing.

Frank didn’t say a word as his mother led the children upstairs. He just stood in the foyer, hands dangling at his sides, staring at the crooked photo on the wall—the one from last summer’s beach trip. Abby had insisted on matching outfits. Millie wore sunglasses too big for her face. Tanner had sand in his teeth. They all looked happy.

It made him nauseous. It had all been a lie. 

Upstairs, he could hear the creak of floorboards, the muffled voices of bedtime negotiations—Millie protesting, Tanner whispering about needing another story, his mother’s even, patient cadence cutting through both of them with practiced authority.

A door closed. Then another. Then silence. He let out a breath that felt too loud in the quiet. After a few minutes, her footsteps returned.

She came down the stairs slowly, hands smoothing the front of her cardigan like she was preparing herself. Frank didn’t move. He stood by the hallway table, one hand gripping the edge hard enough to whiten his knuckles.

His mother entered the living room and stopped a few feet away, folding her arms across her chest again. She looked tired but composed. His mother was always composed. He couldn’t remember a single moment of his childhood when she looked disheveled. 

“They’re down,” she said. “Millie wanted to sleep with the drawing. I let her.”

Frank didn’t respond. He just nodded. 

“I told them Mommy’s resting. That she needed some quiet time today.”

“She didn’t take anything I expected,” Frank said, his voice low and brittle.

His mother tilted her head, brows knitting ever so slightly. “No?”

He let out a short, bitter laugh. “Left the wedding album. Took the damn egg timer.” His mouth twisted. “You remember the one? That cracked, rusted thing from Target that didn’t even work right?”

His mother said nothing. The silence in the room thickened.

She shook her head slowly, folding her arms tighter across her chest. “What happened, Frank? You just said she left?”

He stared at the floor for a long beat, the floorboards warping under the pressure in his jaw.

“I—” He hesitated, the words clawing at his throat. How could he tell her that her other son had completely ruined his life?

He looked up, straight into her eyes. “I caught her and James in bed together.”

The words dropped like a stone. 

He half-expected her to gasp, or cover her mouth in shock, or offer some kind of motherly outrage. But instead, her expression crumpled—not in surprise, but in guilt. Her gaze fell to the floor.

Something inside him snapped.

His stomach turned to fire and his hands curled into fists at his sides. “You knew,” he said, voice cold and shaking.

She didn’t deny it.

“Frank—”

He stumbled back a step, breathing hard. “Jesus Christ. You knew.”

The weight of it hit him square in the chest. The betrayal had layers now, generations. “For fuck’s sake, did everyone know?” His voice rose. “Was I just the last to find out? Why didn’t you say anything? Why would you let me keep living like this?”

His mother lifted her eyes slowly. There was regret in them, but not enough.

“They were going to tell you eventually,” she said quietly.

He barked out a laugh that sounded more like a choke. “Eventually,” he repeated, shaking his head. “Right. Once they finished screwing in every room of the house?”

She flinched.

“I guess James really is your favorite son after all,” he said. The words were venomous, sharp enough to slice. “Always was, huh?”

“Frank, you know that’s not true.”

“No,” he said, eyes burning. “I don’t. You chose him, Mom. Over me. Over your grandkids. Congratulations.” She reached for him, but he stepped back like her touch would burn. “You never have to see me again.”

“Frank—”

He began ushering her out of the house. “Forget about babysitting tomorrow. I’ll figure it out. Don’t worry. Wouldn’t want to inconvenience you.”

Her voice sharpened. “Frank, be rational—”

“Rational?” His laugh this time was louder, more feral. “You want rational ? I don’t trust you. You lied to me. You stood in my house, hugged my kids, kissed Abby on the cheek, and you knew. What makes you think I’d trust you with my children now? What makes you think I want to see you ever again?”

“Frank—”

“Get out.”

She blinked. “Frank, you’re being ridiculous.”

His face darkened, jaw clenched. “I told you to get the fuck out.”

She didn’t moved, so he did. He flung the door open. “Get out. Tell Abby I’m coming for everything,” Frank practically spat. “Full custody. You all thought you could play me? Lie to my face like that and walk all over me? Did you really think you could get away with it?”

His mother stared at him, stunned into silence. Something moved behind her eyes—guilt, maybe, or pity—but he didn’t care. He never wanted to see her face again.

She walked slowly out of the house like she couldn’t believe it.

He realized then. Abby, James, and his mother were all stupid. Maybe they weren’t as stupid as him. But, they were idiots to believe he would just let them get away with everything they had done.

No, he was done with them. He didn’t need them. All he needed was Tanner and Millie. The rest of his family could go to hell. 

With a violent shove, he slammed the front door shut.

BANG.

The sound exploded through the house like a gunshot. The walls shook with it. A framed photo of the kids fell from the entryway shelf and shattered on the floor, glass splintering like ice. The echo of the door vibrated through his bones.

Frank stood frozen, his hand still pressed to the door, breath coming too fast, too shallow. The rage was still there, but it had nowhere to go—no more words, no more people to throw it at. And beneath it, something darker was rising. Something heavier.

He stumbled backward, eyes darting across the living room like he didn’t recognize it anymore.

The kids’ toys were scattered across the rug. A plastic dinosaur half-buried in the couch cushion. Millie’s tiny sock balled up under the coffee table. A juice box on the mantle. Everywhere he looked, it was like someone had died. 

Something had died a long time ago. He’d just been too stupid to notice.

His knees gave out. He collapsed to the floor, spine hitting the wall with a hard thud . The air left his lungs like he’d been punched. His mouth opened, but no sound came. Then, all at once, the dam broke.

A sound clawed out of him—half sob, half gasp. He sucked in a breath like a man drowning, and the first tear hit his cheek before he even realized he was crying. He hadn’t cried when he found them in bed together—his wife and his brother. He hadn’t cried when he’d changed the locks, or packed up her side of the closet. But now—alone, in the stillness, in the wreckage of what used to be his life—he wept.

He broke .

Sobs racked his chest, loud and raw and heaving. His whole body shook with them. He curled forward like he was trying to disappear into himself, forehead pressed to his knees, hands tangled in his hair.

He couldn’t stop. Every breath was a fight. Every inhale felt like it might crack a rib.

It wasn’t just about Abby.

It was everything. The years he spent building a life and a family with a woman who never cared to build something with him. The birthday parties, the late-night feedings, and Goodnight kisses. All of it—for nothing.

He wasn’t a husband anymore. He didn’t even feel like a son. All he had left were his kids—and they didn’t know. Not yet. But someday they would. They would probably blame him for everything too. 

He dragged in another breath, shivering. His throat felt like sandpaper. His face was soaked. His shirt was clinging to him with sweat and tears. His jaw ached from how tightly he’d been clenching it.

“God,” he muttered hoarsely. “God, what the fuck did I do to deserve this?”

There was no answer. Just the dull hum of the fridge in the kitchen and the faint creak of the house settling around him, like it, too, was exhausted.

He reached for his phone with a trembling hand, fumbled with the passcode. His thumb hovered over the screen. Abby’s contact was still there. So was James’s. He almost pressed one of them—almost. Instead, he deleted their contacts, praying that he would never have to talk to either of them ever again. 

He called the first person on his contact list. He didn’t care who it was, but he knew he shouldn't be alone. He needed someone, anyone to help him. 

The phone rang and rang and rang.

Eventually, someone picked up.

Frank?” Her voice, warm and instantly alert.

He choked on her name. “Mel—”

“Frank, what’s wrong?”

“I can’t—” he gasped. “I can’t breathe—I—fuck—I can’t—” Oh god, he was an idiot. Why had he called her? She didn’t need to get pulled into all his shit. He should just hang up and figure it out himself.

“Where are you?” he heard her on the other end of the phone.

“The house,” he said. “She knew. Fuck, she knew” 

“I’m on my way.”

“You don’t have to—I just—”

“I am ,” she cut in firmly. “I’m already in the car. Stay on the phone, Frank. Just keep breathing. You’re not alone. Not tonight.”

He didn’t believe her. He’d never felt more alone in his life.

Chapter Text

The first time he saw Abby after the fight was in a sterile lawyer’s office with flickering fluorescent lights and the faint, bitter smell of old coffee clinging to the air. The room felt too small for how far apart they sat. Between them, a stack of divorce papers waited like a loaded weapon.

She looked different. It had only been a week since he’d seen her, but somehow everything about her looked different. Her hair was a curly mess, he never used to see her without it being perfectly styled. He wondered for a moment if that was his fault. Did she not feel comfortable being around him as she was? He always thought she was the most beautiful woman in existence. She wore the necklace he’d given her for their third anniversary, an involuntary flicker of hope shot through him when he noticed it. It died just as fast.

She glanced at him once, almost timidly. Her expression was pained and searching, like she was looking for something in his face, maybe the man she used to love. Maybe the man she betrayed. He didn’t know. He didn’t ask.

He met her gaze. And for the first time since this whole mess began, he felt… nothing. No heat. No heartbreak. There was just a cold, hollow ache in his chest where his heart used to be. It was like a door had finally slammed shut.

She looked away.

Her hand trembled slightly as she picked up the pen. She signed the top page first, then another, and another. Each flick of her wrist slicing clean through the life they’d built together. Five years flashed before his eyes and disappeared just as quickly. He remembered buying their first house, and when she gave birth to Tanner and later Millie the next year. It amazed him how a few papers and signatures could put an end to all of that.

When she slid the papers across the table, he stared at them for a long time. His name was printed in crisp black letters, but the words blurred at the edges. He reached for the pen like it was something fragile, dangerous.

He signed his name slowly, deliberately, like dragging out the moment might stop it from being real.

When it was done, the silence was deafening.

“I guess that’s it then,” he said, voice low, almost unrecognizable to his own ears.

“Frank—” she stood, her chair scraping softly against the floor. She hesitated. There was something raw in her eyes now, but it came too late. Did she regret it, he wondered, now that the papers were signed they officially were strangers. 

He didn’t stand. Didn’t even look fully at her. He extended his hand to her, formal, and impersonal. A handshake where a marriage had been.

“I wish you every happiness, Abby. I hope James gives you what I couldn’t.” His voice cracked only slightly, but he didn’t let it show.

She stared at his outstretched hand, like it was a stranger’s. “It wasn’t about you,” she said quietly. “It never really was.”

“Right,” he said, memorizing. . “You know, that's what makes this whole thing worse.”

He left the room, and didn’t look back. 

The custody ruling came a week later: Frank would have the kids during the week, Abby on the weekends. She didn’t take it well. Her lawyer had pushed for more, but the court sided with stability, school nights with their dad, routine, structure. Abby didn’t have a job or any way to support the kids. He’d have to pay a hefty sum of child support but he didn’t mind. He had his kids. 

Abby called him once, furious, and accused him of turning the kids against her. He hung up without responding. He told her if he wanted to talk she could do it through his lawyers.

He couldn’t do the hand-offs. He refused to be anywhere near Abby or James. Instead, the hand-offs became a two-grandmother operation. His mom or Abby’s mom would handle it, depending on the day. It was awkward, strained, but clean. No scenes, no fights, no chance encounters in parking lots that ended with screaming.

The surprise was Abby’s mother. She had always been cool toward him—polite but distant. But the first time she came to pick up the kids, she stepped onto his porch, looked him straight in the eye, and pulled him into a hug before he could react.

“It’s a damn shame,” she whispered into his ear, her voice thick with emotion. “You’ll always be a son to me, Frank. I’m sorry it ended this way.”

Frank stood there, stunned, arms still at his sides. His throat tightened so fast he barely managed a nod. She walked back to her car, guiding the kids like nothing had happened.

He closed the door behind them and leaned his forehead against it.

In the beginning, Abby and James wouldn’t stop calling. Frank’s phone lit up at all hours—missed calls, voicemails, messages that got angrier each time. He ignored every single one. Unless it was in a lawyer’s office, he wasn’t speaking to either of them. Eventually, they gave up. The calls stopped. Anything about the kids was filtered through their attorneys or their mothers, exchanged with stiff civility like trading evidence across a courtroom.

Frank told himself he wanted to move on. The problem was—he had no idea how .

So he threw himself into the one place where everything still made sense: work.

He’d made attending six months ago, finally stepped into the role he’d spent years clawing toward. It was brutal sometimes—long hours, constant pressure—but he loved it. At the hospital, the rules were clear. The chaos had order. And for once, he was the one in control.

He worked three days a week, but they were long shifts, packed wall to wall with trauma and adrenaline. The days he was on, Mel usually picked up the kids from school. She and her sister would keep them busy with glitter glue and construction paper, paint-streaked cheeks and late-night giggles echoing down her hallway.

But today, even work hadn’t helped. Not even the buzz of the pager or the scent of antiseptic or the controlled urgency of trauma bay two could quiet his brain.

The envelope had been waiting when he got home. Cream-colored, thick, and his full name printed neatly on the front. It was still sitting on the kitchen table, unopened. He hadn’t touched it. Couldn’t. Just the sight of it made his stomach tighten.

“Frank!” Robby’s voice rang out before he appeared, rounding the corner with a familiar grin. He was already slipping off his jacket, the smell of coffee clinging to him like an afterthought. “Still cool with me coming over tonight? I’ll bring the pizza.”

Frank glanced up and nodded, grateful for something easy. “Yeah, of course. Millie and Tanner are psyched. They’ve been calling you ‘Uncle Robby’ all week.”

Robby placed his hand dramatically over his heart. “Finally. All it took was two years of bribery and four LEGO sets.” 

Frank laughed under his breath. “You earned it.”

Robby’s smile tilted just a bit. “Well, at least they’ve got one uncle they can count on.”

Frank’s face stiffened—just for a second. He looked back down at his chart, shoulders tensing. He didn’t answer.

From the other side of the station, Dana let out a snort. She was propped on a rolling stool, Diet Coke in hand, watching them like they were a soap opera she’d seen every episode of.

“Shouldn’t you be doing something?” Frank asked without looking at her.

“I am,” she said, smug. 

Frank blinked. “What?”

“Nothing,” Dana chirped. 

But before he could press, he saw Mel walking towards them with a focused energy. Her hair was in its normal plait, hanging over her shoulder. 

“Hey, Frank,” she said, slightly out of breath. “Can I steal your brain for a second?”

Frank cleared his throat. “Sure.”

“Bed 17,” she said, handing him the labs. “Elevated D-dimer, but CTA’s clean. No chest pain, no cough. He just started spiking a fever—100.9. No redness around the line, but it’s tender.”

Frank scanned the page, nodding. “Midline?”

“Yeah. Placed last week.”

“Probably early thrombophlebitis. Pull the line, cover him broad-spectrum, loop in ID if he goes over 101.5.”

Mel gave a small smile. “That’s what I thought, but I needed a second opinion. Thanks.”

She turned to leave—but Robby jumped in.

“Hey, Mel,” he said casually. Too casually. “You should come by tonight. We’re doing pizza at Frank’s.”

Mel paused mid-step, blinking. “Pizza?”

Frank turned, eyebrows raised. “Wait, what?”

“Yeah,” Robby continued smoothly. “Tanner and Millie are excited, and let’s be honest they love Mel.”

Frank looked between them, slightly disoriented. “I mean sure, I guess, if you want to. It’s just…uh, low-key. Kids and carbs.”

Dana’s eyebrows shot up behind her soda can. “Well well well. Pizza, huh?”

Mel was watching Frank with a small, unreadable smile, one brow arched in that way she did when she was pretending not to enjoy herself.

“Depends on the toppings,” she said lightly.

“No pineapple,” Frank said immediately, deadpan. “That’s a war crime.”

She smirked, one corner of her mouth twitching. “Noted. No pineapple.”

Then she stepped back, her scrub top slightly wrinkled, a stethoscope draped around her neck like it had always belonged there. “Anyway,” she said, pivoting toward the trauma bay doors, “if I make it out of here alive, maybe I’ll swing by.”

Frank watched her disappear into the hallway, the sound of her sneakers soft against the tile. She moved with an easy confidence, like someone who knew how to dodge flying scalpels and chaos without ever breaking stride.

Both Mel and Robby had been a godsend to him this past year. After the divorce, after the fight, after everything crumbled into something he couldn’t recognize, they’d just shown up—no questions asked. Robby had parked himself on the couch with a six-pack and a look that said you're not getting rid of me that easy , while Mel had corralled the kids into her SUV and told him they were going to see whatever new Pixar movie had talking animals and enough emotional trauma to keep toddlers quiet for two hours.

He’d spent that night drinking with Robby, trying not to cry over the ruins of what used to be his life. Mel had texted him a picture of the kids passed out with popcorn stuck to their shirts and a message that just read: You’re doing okay.

When Frank turned back toward the nurse’s station, Robby was grinning like a man who had just played the world’s most patient long game.

“What?” Frank asked, instantly suspicious.

“Nothing,” Robby said, raising both hands in mock innocence, his expression far too pleased with itself.

“Don’t ‘nothing’ me,” Frank muttered, narrowing his eyes. “You invited her without asking.”

“Relax. I’m trying to help.”

He groaned and ran a hand through his hair. “Help what?”

“Nothing,” Robby said, far too quickly—and then the overhead intercom crackled to life, slicing clean through the quiet.

“Trauma incoming. ETA four minutes. GSW to the abdomen, unstable vitals. CPR in progress.”

The room snapped into motion like someone had flipped a switch. Chairs scraped. Carts rattled. A nurse bolted for Trauma 2 while someone else cleared a path through the hallway.

Frank and Robby both straightened instinctively, the years of training still stitched into their bones.

Mel’s voice came from down the hall, sharp and focused now. “Prep for a thoracotomy. We’ll need blood—O neg, stat. And get the rapid infuser ready.”

Frank was already moving.

****

Frank wasn’t exactly Julia Child, but hell if he couldn’t hold his own in the kitchen. He knew Robby was bringing pizza. It would probably be some greasy, meat-loaded monstrosity with not a single vegetable in sight. Typical. So Frank took matters into his own hands. He tossed together a crisp spinach salad with thin apple slices, toasted almonds, grilled chicken, and just enough vinaigrette to make it sing. Now, he was elbow-deep in garlic bread prep, slathering butter, garlic, and parsley across a warm loaf with the kind of reverence usually reserved for sacred rituals. In his book, pizza without garlic bread was just wrong.

The smell of garlic and toasted bread filled the kitchen, warm and comforting, when the doorbell rang—short and sharp, like always. Robby never knocked. Frank wiped his hands on a dishtowel, muttering under his breath, “Right on cue.”

“Tanner!” Frank called from the kitchen. “Can you get the door, bud?”

There was a patter of socked feet on hardwood as Tanner made his way down the hall. His t-shirt was on backward, and his jeans had clearly been buttoned with great personal effort, the waistband slightly crooked. He moved with the unshakable confidence of a kid on a mission. Lately, his favorite phrase had become “I do it myself.”

Brush his teeth? He insisted on it. Pick out clothes? Absolutely not Dad’s job. Order his own Happy Meal? Non-negotiable. His little dude was growing up. 

He reached up on his tiptoes, struggling a little with the deadbolt before yanking the door open with a triumphant grunt.

“Uncle Robby!”

Robby barely had time to bend down before Tanner launched himself at his legs. The kid clung to him with sticky, grape-juice-stained fingers and the fierce loyalty of a soldier reunited with his general. Robby carefully balanced the boxes of pizza in his hand. It was honestly a miracle that he didn’t drop them. 

“Hey, kiddo,” Robby grinned, ruffling Tanner’s hair and crouching to his level. “Where’s your dad?”

He smiled up at the doctor with large brown eyes. “He’s having a heart attack.”

Robby blinked. His smile faltered just enough to make room for concern. “Oh?” he said slowly. “Is he… okay?”

Frank shook his head and scraped the last bits of garlic into the compost bin with a swift flick of his wrist. The scent still clung to his fingers—sharp, earthy, familiar. He tossed the cutting board into the sink and wiped his hands on a towel before stepping into the living room.

The house had good bones. An old Victorian, lovingly remodeled a few years back to open things up. From the kitchen, he could see straight into the living room and the front hallway—a design choice he insisted on, mostly so he could keep an eye on the kids while cooking. It made the space feel lived in, connected. His.

“Tanner,” he said, voice cutting through the low hum of conversation with just enough edge to grab attention—not harsh, but firm. He stepped fully into the room, tossing a damp washcloth over his shoulder in a gesture that made him feel like some cool bartender

“Don’t lie to Uncle Robby,” he added, locking eyes with his son. “I’m not having a heart attack.”

Tanner blinked up at him, his expression shifting like fast-moving weather—first confusion, then offense, and finally the soft betrayal only a four-year-old could summon. His lower lip jutted out, trembling just enough to make Frank sigh.

“But… you looked so scared when the letter came,” Tanner said, voice wobbling as he clutched the hem of his shirt. “I thought you were dying.”

Robby’s eyebrows, already raised, arched even higher. “Letter?” he echoed, glancing between the boy and his clearly rattled father. “What letter are we talking about exactly?”

Frank exhaled through his nose, slow and deliberate, and nodded toward the coffee table. There, sitting like a snake coiled in plain sight, was a manila envelope. Unopened. Unwelcome.

“Look for yourself,” he muttered. “I haven’t gotten the courage to open it yet.”

Robby crossed the living room in two quick strides, setting the pizza boxes on the counter along the way. He picked up the envelope and turned it over in his hand like it might detonate. “Holy shit ,” he said under his breath. “Is this real?”

From the center of the room, Tanner perked up like someone had rung a bell.

“ Holy shit! ” he repeated proudly.

Frank’s reaction was automatic—swift and mortified. His hand shot out, gently but firmly covering Tanner’s mouth. “Nope. Nope. Don’t say that word, buddy,” he said quickly, crouching down to Tanner’s level. “That’s not a nice word.”

Tanner’s wide eyes blinked up at him, utterly betrayed for the second time in five minutes. “But… Uncle Robby said it.”

Frank pivoted on his heel, glaring up at Robby with all the intensity of a man who’d been pushed to the edge of his emotional capacity. “Yeah? Well, Uncle Robby knows better. ”

Robby winced, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Okay, okay! My bad. I’m sorry.” 

The doorbell rang again, and Tanner smiled wide. “I get it!” 

He flung open the door without hesitation. “Auntie Mel!”

“Hey, kiddo!” Mel’s voice drifted in like sunlight through an open window—warm, bright, easy. She crouched down without missing a beat, arms open wide.

Tanner launched himself into her embrace, giggling as she scooped him up effortlessly, holding him like it was the most natural thing in the world. His laughter spilled over her shoulder, light and unburdened.

Frank watched from a few feet away, something in his chest tightening.

Mel was good with his kids— so good. She moved around them with an instinctive gentleness that never felt forced or performative. She knew when to kneel to their level, when to tease, when to offer a hand or a joke or a quiet moment of comfort.

And sometimes, watching it hurt more than he expected.

Abby used to be like that too.

There were moments—painfully ordinary ones—when he’d catch Mel running a hand through Millie’s hair or sitting cross-legged on the floor helping Tanner build a lopsided tower out of Magna-Tiles, and it would hit him like a sucker punch. That deep, aching wish that his kids still had that. A mother who looked at them like the sun rose and set on their laughter.

He knew it wasn’t fair. Mel wasn’t trying to replace Abby. She wasn’t trying to be anything other than herself.

But still… there were times it was easier to turn away than admit how much he missed the version of their life that should have been.

“Wheres Millie?” Mel asked. 

“She’s already asleep,” he said. “She had a pretty intense playdate earlier. She came home covered in glitter glue.” 

Mel laughed, that warm, throaty kind that made Tanner perk up from his spot on the couch.

“I love glitter glue,” he said seriously, tomato sauce already streaked across his cheek. “You can never have too much glitter glue.”

“You absolutely can,” Frank muttered under his breath, but Mel just grinned.

“You’re an artist, Tanner. Never let anyone tell you otherwise.” She winked at Frank as she took a slice and folded it expertly in half, steam rising from the cheese.

They settled into the living room, Tanner nestled between them on the couch, his legs tucked beneath him like a little pretzel. Robby had already queued up Up , grinning smugly as the first soft notes of the score filled the room.

“Gotta keep it classy,” Robby said, digging into a second slice. “Cinematic masterpiece. Plus, you know, emotional devastation in the first ten minutes. What’s not to love?”

Frank rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. Truth was, he didn’t mind the familiarity. He’d seen this movie more times than he could count. It always made Tanner go quiet, thoughtful. Always made Frank a little wrecked by the time the balloons lifted off.

Midway through the movie, Mel leaned over and brushed the crumbs from Tanner’s shirt with a slow, absent-minded gentleness. He didn’t even flinch—just leaned into her hand like her touch belonged there, like it always had. She stayed like that for a beat longer than necessary, her palm resting lightly against his shoulder. Frank felt it hit him square in the chest—an ache, sharp and sudden. That quiet, instinctive ease she had with his son—it undid him.

Mel caught him watching. Her eyes met his across the couch, and she offered a small, knowing smile before standing. Without effort, she scooped Tanner into her arms, his limbs heavy with sleep.

“Come on, munchkin,” she murmured, brushing his hair back from his forehead. “Time for bed.”

“But the dogs just showed up,” he mumbled, already half-asleep against her shoulder.

“They’ll still be talking tomorrow,” she whispered.

Frank watched her carry him upstairs, Tanner’s head nestled into the crook of her neck, one arm slung limp across her collarbone. Her voice floated back down the hallway in soft, melodic tones—whatever she was saying, it made Tanner giggle. The sound of it tugged something loose inside Frank. Then came the quiet click of the bedroom door, careful and precise, like she was sealing something sacred.

Mel was good with his kids—so good it scared the hell out of him.

The screen faded to black, the final notes of Up lingering in the air like a sigh. The credits rolled in a quiet hum.

Robby yawned, stretching until his back popped. “I should probably get out of here before I fuse with your couch,” he said, grabbing his jacket from the arm of the chair. “You good?”

“Yeah,” Frank replied, maybe a little too quickly. His voice wore that practiced ease like an old coat—familiar, functional, and slightly frayed at the seams. “Thanks for coming.”

Mel padded back down the stairs, her hair a little tousled, cheeks still pink from laughter. “Tanner’s out cold,” she said, smiling at them both like it was the most natural thing in the world. She collapsed on the armchair in front of him. 

“You two want to stay for a glass of wine?” he asked. “I don’t get to see anyone without the kids very often.”

Robby sighed. “Yeah, why not.”

“Good,” Frank nodded, then smiled at Mel. “Yeah. Thanks again for… you know. Tanner.”

She offered a small, knowing smile. “Anytime.”

“You gonna open that letter?” Robby asked casually, like he hadn’t been staring at it out of the corner of his eye all night.

Frank blinked. “What?”

Robby jerked his chin toward the table, where the cream envelope still sat untouched. “You’ve been looking at it every five minutes. It’s not a cursed object, man. It’s paper.”

Frank stiffened. “I’ll get to it.”

Robby narrowed his eyes, then stepped closer and pulled out one of the chairs. Sat. Didn’t move.

“I’m serious,” Robby said, his voice quieter now, more deliberate. “You’re not sleeping tonight until you open that thing. So let’s just… do it.”

Frank didn’t move at first. His jaw tensed. His hands flexed on his knees. He wanted to tell Robby to back off, that it was none of his business, that he’d handle it when he was ready. But they’d been friends long enough that Robby didn’t scare easily.

Finally, with a sigh that came from somewhere deep and reluctant, Frank stood. Walked over to the table like he was approaching a live wire. Picked up the envelope.

He hesitated for a beat, thumb grazing the edge of the flap. Then he tore it open.

A heavy cardstock square slid out, elegant and floral and unmistakably formal.

Frank read the first line and felt his stomach turn to ash.

Together with their families, Abigail Hayes and Jameson Langdon invite you to celebrate their marriage...

His breath caught. The words swam. He dropped the invitation and it fluttered down to the ground in slow motion. 

“…It’s a wedding invitation,” he said aloud, though it felt like someone else was speaking.

He didn’t realize his hands were shaking until Mel reached out, gently taking the card from him. Her fingers brushed his knuckles, warm and solid.

She read it, her brows knitting. “Abby,” she murmured. “She’s… marrying him?”

Frank gave a hollow laugh. “Guess she’s finally making it official. He gets the wife and the monogrammed towels and the… happy ending. I just get to pay child support.”

He pulled a hand down his face, slow and tired. “Jesus.”

Robby stood and crossed to him, laying a steady hand on his shoulder. “You okay?”

Frank didn’t answer at first. His throat felt tight. His heart kept doing this weird stuttery thing in his chest, like it couldn’t quite decide how to beat.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I never expected them to get married. I thought they were just going end up breaking up eventually. I didn’t think it was that deep for them.” 

And it was the truest thing he’d said all night.

Mel stepped beside him again, silent but steady. She didn’t offer clichés or false comfort—just stood there, close enough that he didn’t feel alone.

Frank swallowed. Blinked hard. Then laughed—just once, sharp and bitter. “You think if I send a gift, she’ll return the favor when I eventually remarry?”

Frank was young, only just turned 30. It wasn’t crazy to think he might one day get remarried. Some people didn’t even get married until they were 35. But, who would want to marry a man with two kids under 4? 

Neither of them laughed.

Instead, Mel reached over and gently took the invitation from his hand. She folded it once and set it facedown on the counter.

Mel didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at the invitation like it was something sharp, something that had already cut deep and didn’t need to be handled again. Then her voice, soft but firm: “You don’t have to go.”

Frank let out another breath, one that sagged his whole body downward. He braced his palms on the edge of the counter, eyes fixed on the folded paper. “I wasn’t planning on it. God, can you imagine?” He mimed raising a glass. “Cheers to the happy couple—long may they stab people in the back.”

Robby sat again, slower this time, like the weight of it all was finally catching up. “Do the kids know?”

“That their mother dumped their father for their Uncle? No, they don’t,” he collapsed on the couch. “Tanner is smart though. He asked me last week why Uncle Jamie was with Mom all the time.”

“God,” Robby said. “Is he at their house when she has the kids?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I couldn’t get the judge to get him to stay away. He is family, even if he doesn’t act like it. Is it bad that I’m worried one day Tanner and Millie will think of him as a dad?”

“James will never and could never replace you, Frank,” Mel said quietly, her voice steady but firm, like she’d been waiting for the right moment to say it.

Frank didn’t respond. He just stared into the fireplace, where the embers from earlier had long since gone cold.

Robby, never one to let silence stretch too long, leaned forward with a spark of mischief. “Crazy idea,” he said, nudging Frank’s knee with his own. “You could go to the wedding.”

Frank let out a dry laugh, humorless and sharp. “Why would I put myself through that?”

“Take a hot date,” Robby said, grinning. “Flaunt. Show Abby exactly who she walked out on. Then leave before dessert.”

Frank groaned and collapsed back onto the couch, slumping into the cushions like they might absorb him. “That’s ridiculous,” he muttered. “Of all the dumb things I could do…”

“Not really,” Robby countered, settling beside him. “You’re attractive and only thirty years old.  You’ve got a career most people would kill for. And honestly, she needs to see what she gave up.”

Mel, who had been lingering near the doorway as if debating whether to call it a night, changed her mind and sat down in the armchair across from them. Her posture was relaxed, but her eyes were sharp, tracking every flicker of Frank’s expression.

“That’s petty,” Frank said, shaking his head.

“That’s cathartic,” Mel corrected, not missing a beat.

He blinked at her, disbelief flickering across his face. “You’re agreeing with him now?”

“Frank,” Mel said gently, folding her hands in her lap. She leaned forward just slightly, her voice low and even, like she didn’t want to spook him. “You haven’t left this house in months. You don’t talk to anyone besides me and Robby. You’re barely sleeping. You haven’t shaved in—” She stopped herself, lips pressing together, but her expression was soft. “I know you blame yourself for what happened. But you shouldn’t. You are not the reason your marriage fell apart.”

Robby, who’d been quiet for a rare moment, let out a small sigh and leaned forward from his perch on the arm of the couch. “She’s right. And I don’t say that often. Usually I enjoy being the one with the moral high ground.”

Frank didn’t even smile. “Great. Both of you have teamed up. That’s not terrifying at all.”

“I could go with you,” Mel said suddenly.

Frank glanced over, caught completely off guard. “What?”

“To the wedding,” Mel said, her voice calm, almost casual. “If you need a date. I’d go.”

He blinked, processing. The offer landed heavier than he expected, threading through his thoughts like a slow, pulling current. Honestly, it wasn’t a bad idea. Abby had never liked Mel—never said why, just always bristled in her presence, like Mel's very existence rubbed her the wrong way. Bringing her to the wedding would be a guaranteed way to get under Abby’s skin.

But that wasn’t the only reason. Not even close.

Mel had this uncanny knack for reading him. It was like she had some internal blueprint of his moods and triggers. If he ever started spiraling in the ER, she’d be there without a word, sliding a bitter black coffee into his hand or unwrapping a protein.

She was steady. The kind of person who could keep him grounded without trying, who would know when to step in and when to hang back. If anyone could keep him from doing something stupid at that wedding, it was her.

He stared, searching her face for the catch. “Why would you do that?”

“Because I think it would help. And because I know you,” she said. “You want to see your family again. You pretend you don’t care, but you do. You miss them.” He hated how well both Robby and Mel knew him now. It was a subtle reminder that he used to have someone that knew him like that. 

Frank let out a hollow laugh, no real humor behind it. “God. That makes me pitiful, doesn’t it? Why the hell do I miss people who didn’t give a shit about me?”

“It makes you human ,” Robby said, softer than before. “They’re your family. You don’t get to flip a switch and shut that off.”

“They are your family, Frank,” Mel echoed. “It would be weird if you didn’t miss them.”

Frank leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands dangling between them. “You know I always knew James was the favorite, right? Since we were kids. He could break a window, lie straight to their faces, and they’d still hug him. I got grounded once for bringing home a B-plus.”

“That’s just bad parenting,” Robby muttered.

Frank’s voice rolled on like a current. “I thought if I worked hard enough—if I became someone important—they’d finally see me. That I’d finally matter. It’s why I became a doctor. Why I never let myself screw up.”

Mel sat back, her gaze steady, listening. She didn’t rush to comfort, just held space for him to go on.

“School was hell,” he said. “I’m ADHD, dyslexic. But no one caught it. Or they just didn’t care. I used to lock myself in the bathroom during tests just to breathe. I clawed my way through every class, every semester. But I did it. I got through med school. I did everything right.”

He looked up. His voice cracked.

“And it still wasn’t enough. Because James walks into a room and suddenly I’m ten years old again. Invisible. Always have been.”

Mel opened her mouth to respond, but he cut her off, the words tumbling out faster now.

“My mom knew ,” he said. “About the affair. For years. She knew and never told me. Never even hinted. Just smiled and poured Abby more wine and acted like she didn’t see what was happening.”

He shook his head, staring down at his hands like they didn’t belong to him. “Nothing I do will ever be enough for them.”

Robby exhaled through his nose, gaze flicking toward the ceiling. “Christ. No wonder you never wanted to talk about them.”

“You should go to the wedding,” Mel said gently.

Frank lifted his head, eyes narrowing. “What?”

“Not for them,” she said. “For you . To remind yourself you’re still standing. James and Abby? People like that chew through everyone around them and call it growth. They’ll move on to the next shiny thing eventually.”

“And you really would go with me?” Frank asked.

Mel met his gaze without flinching. “Of course.”

“Anything,” Robby added, nudging his knee with a faint grin. “Though, between us, I think she’s the better date. I’d probably make out with the cake.”

That finally pulled a thin smile from Frank, the first real one in weeks.

Mel just smirked. “And now you’re stuck with me.”

“Okay,” he said. “Let’s go to a damn wedding.”

Chapter Text

“Stop moving around,” Mel said, setting her glass of white wine on the edge of the bathroom counter with a soft clink. “You look great.”

Frank tugged at the stiff collar of his dress shirt. It felt like a noose, slowly tightening with every breath. Like with each passing minute, he was stepping closer to the gallows.

“I look like a monkey,” he muttered. “I can’t believe I’m doing this. I should’ve just burned the damn invitation.”

He shook his head, jaw tense. Frank had made a lot of bad decisions in his life but voluntarily walking into the wedding of his ex-wife was a new level of stupid.  This was Olympic-level stupidity.

Mel nearly choked on a laugh. “A very cute monkey.”

He gave her a look through the mirror, caught somewhere between disbelief and a reluctant smirk. “That’s not exactly reassuring.”

She stepped toward him, her heels clicking softly across the hardwood. The sound was unhurried. Intimate. A quiet rhythm that made his pulse spike just a little. Frank saw her reflection before he felt her presence—warm and sure, slipping into his orbit without hesitation.

“Your bow tie’s crooked,” she murmured, voice soft—almost conspiratorial.

Then she was in front of him, close enough that the scent of her skin hit him: warm and clean with a faint trace of something citrusy, sharp. Without asking, her hands came up between them. Her fingers brushed his neck as she fixed the bow tie, light but sure. Her knuckles grazed his jaw. The contact was brief—barely a whisper—but it set something off under his skin. A flicker. A low, electric hum.

She was focused, like always. That quiet, thoughtful kind of concentration that made people lean in without even realizing it. When she was thinking, really thinking, the bridge of her nose crinkled just slightly. He watched it happen now.

He hadn’t realized, until this moment, just how beautiful her eyes were. Not just the color—though up close, they were a kind of stormy green that made it hard to look away—but the way they held his, steady and unapologetic. She didn’t glance away. She never did.

“You clean up nice, Dr. Langdon,” Mel said, smiling at him. Frank caught her eyes in the mirror, and for a second, the air between them stretched taut.

“Are you sure this isn’t a mistake?” he asked quietly, voice rough.

Mel tilted her head, lips curving into a slow, knowing smile. “You showing up to your ex-wife’s wedding?” she said, fingers still adjusting the fabric at his collar. “ Definitely a mistake.”

He huffed, almost laughing, and looked down—partly to hide the heat crawling up his neck, partly to breathe.

But when he turned back toward the mirror, she was still there. Still close. Still watching him like she saw more than she should.

“You really think I look okay?” he asked, quieter this time, not sure why he suddenly needed her to say it.

Mel stepped in close, close enough that he caught the faint trace of her perfume—jasmine and something darker underneath. Her eyes swept over him, slow and deliberate. “You look like you’re about to make her regret every decision she ever made,” she murmured.

He rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth tugged up. His pulse kicked up a notch. “You look beautiful, Mel,” he said—and he meant it. Her dress hugged her figure like it had been tailored just for her, and the soft curls in her hair framed her face in a way that made it impossible not to stare. She didn’t look like the woman who brought coffee in scrubs and a ponytail. She looked like trouble.

Her cheeks flushed, but she didn’t look away. “You don’t think it’s too much?”

He took a step toward her, his eyes dragging over her slowly, letting her feel it. “It’s perfect.”

For a moment, he wondered what his life would have been like if he had met Mel before Abby? What if he had married her instead? Would his life have been different? 

Mel’s gaze lingered on his jaw a second longer than it needed to. “You nervous?”

“I haven’t seen Abby in over a year,” he admitted. “I don’t even know who she is anymore.”

Mel’s expression softened. “You’re not going to that wedding to remember her,” she said gently. “You’re going to forget her. You owe it to yourself to at least try, Frank.”

The doorbell rang. Frank blinked, breaking the tension like a dropped glass.

“That’ll be Robby,” he muttered, grateful for the distraction and vaguely annoyed by it at the same time. He moved toward the front hall, brushing his hands down the front of his suit jacket.

Mel followed at a slower pace, slipping into her heels with a practiced grace that made his pulse stutter.

He opened the door to find Robby standing there in jeans, a hoodie, and a look that said he had made peace with death.

“God help me,” Robby muttered. 

Frank laughed. “You’re only here for a few hours.”

“That’s enough time for them to shave the dog and rewire the oven,” Robby said as he stepped inside. “Where are they?”

A loud crash echoed from the living room.

“There,” Frank said with a wince. “Thanks again, man.”

Robby eyed Mel as she emerged behind Frank, pulling on a long, slate-blue coat that made her look like she belonged on the cover of a fashion magazine instead of attending a trainwreck wedding. “Well damn,” Robby muttered. “Now I get it.”

“Get what?” Frank asked.

Robby just smirked. “Nothing. You two have fun.”

“Thank you so much for babysitting Robby,” Frank said.. “You have no idea how much I appreciate it.”

Robby gave him a look, one brow raised, arms folded across his chest like a bouncer at the gates of hell. “You know when I said you could ask me for anything, this isn’t exactly what I meant,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t know the first thing about what to do with kids.”

Frank chuckled, already halfway toward the hallway. “Just put on Encanto and pull out the Magna-Tiles. They’ll be fine.”

“Encanto?” Robby blinked. “Is that a cartoon or a cult?”

Mel rolled her eyes. “Shut up. You know exactly what it is.” 

“They go to bed at eight,” Frank continued, ignoring the sarcasm. “Help them brush their teeth—electric ones are labeled, toothpaste’s in the tiger cup. Their PJs are already laid out on their beds. And I made lunch and dinner ahead of time. Two casseroles. They’re in the fridge. All you’ve got to do is heat them up.”

Robby’s eyes widened. “Oh, is that all ?” he said, voice flat.

Frank flashed him a grin. “You’re a doctor. You’ve intubated people in an ambulance during a blizzard. You can handle bath time and some reheated mac and cheese.”

“Not the same thing.”

“The kids love you,” Frank said, sincerity suddenly edging into his voice. “You love them. It’ll be fine. You’re also the safest person I could ever leave them with. If one of them breaks a leg, you can literally fix it.”

“That’s… not as reassuring as you think it is,” Robby said, casting a wary glance toward the living room where the kids had already started bickering over who got the purple Magna-Tile.

Frank crouched to eye-level with the kids. “Tanner! Mellie! You be nice to Uncle Robby, okay? Do what he says or I’ll hear about it.”

Mellie beamed. “Okay, Daddy!”

Tanner didn’t look so thrilled. He frowned, clutching the armrest of the couch like it might fly away without him. “Where are you going?”

“I’m just going out for a little bit,” Frank said gently, brushing Tanner’s unruly hair from his forehead.

“You’ll come back, right?”

The words hit like a dart. Frank froze for half a second, before crouching in front of his son again. “Of course I’ll come back, bud. Why wouldn’t I?”

Tanner’s lip quivered. “Mom didn’t come back.”

Frank’s heart constricted. Leave it to a kid to break you open with one sentence.

“I would never leave you willingly,” he said, voice quiet and thick. He smoothed Tanner’s hair again, thumb grazing the boy’s temple. “I love you more than ice cream.”

“You really love ice cream,” Tanner whispered, as if weighing the odds.

Frank smiled, but it came out soft and aching. “Not as much as I love you.”

Tanner hesitated, eyes huge and too old for his small face. “You’re going to see Mommy, right? Are you going to bring her back?”

Frank swallowed. The question landed like a slow punch to the ribs.

He took a breath. “Do you want Mommy to come back?”

Tanner looked down. There was a long pause. Then, with a slight shake of his head, he whispered, “No. I don’t want to see her again. She makes you sad. I don’t like going to her and Uncle Jamie’s place.” 

“Why not bud?” he asked. 

The little guy just shrugged his shoulders. 

Frank blinked fast. One hand found his son’s cheek, thumb brushing it as if trying to memorize the shape of it. He kissed his forehead and held him a little longer than necessary. “We’ll be back soon, bud.” 

Behind him, Robby stood silently, the sarcasm drained from his posture. He watched Frank with something like reluctant admiration—maybe even guilt for complaining.

Frank stood and exhaled. “You’ve got this, Robby. Just keep them alive until I get back.”

Robby gave a low whistle. “No pressure.”

He closed the door behind them and immediately felt guilty. I didn’t leave the kids often. Actually, if he thought about it, besides work, he never left them. But, they were with Robby so they would be fine. Robby wouldn’t let anything happen to his kids. If anything, he should be worried for Robby and how he was going to handle several hours of laughing kids. 

***

“We don’t have to go in, Frank,” Mel said gently, her hand resting on his forearm. “We can just go home.”

“I need to do this,” he replied, eyes fixed on the building ahead. “I need to.”

He opened the door and stepped out into the warm afternoon air, smoothing the front of his suit like it might armor him. Circling the car, he reached Mel’s door just as she was about to open it herself.

“Well, thank you, sir,” she said with a crooked smile, slipping her hand into his as he helped her out. Her fingers lingered in his just a second too long.

“Anytime, Beautiful,” he murmured.

Color flooded her cheeks, and she looked down, brushing invisible lint from her dress.

Frank turned toward the venue, jaw tightening. The church loomed ahead—an ornate Victorian relic with arched stained-glass windows that glittered in the sunlight. It was the kind of place that screamed old money, with manicured hedges and ivy climbing the stone like nature itself had been choreographed.

He knew neither Abby nor James had ever set foot inside before this week, which made the lavishness of it all feel like a performance. No church discount. No sentimental history. Just a pretty backdrop.

The wide stone steps leading to the entrance were blanketed in cascading arrangements of white and blush-colored flowers—roses, lilies, and delicate peonies—spilling extravagantly from wrought-iron stands like nature had been forced into something opulent. The air was thick with their perfume, almost cloying, the kind of sweetness that felt like it was trying too hard to mask something rotten underneath.

Guests milled about, drifting up the steps in clusters of silk and satin, tailored suits and gleaming heels. Their laughter rang out, bright and hollow, floating above the low hum of polite conversation like confetti tossed into a breeze. Every detail screamed wealth, taste, and curated joy.

Frank’s stomach turned.

“Ah,” he muttered, eyeing the grand facade of the church. “I can see Abby made good use of our divorce settlement.”

Beside him, Mel slipped her hand into his and gave it a firm tug. “Come on, Dr. Langdon,” she said, the nickname laced with quiet encouragement. “We can do this.”

They walked forward, fingers intertwined. The cool press of her skin grounded him, but couldn’t quite drown out the rising tide of nerves. His heart thudded too fast. A mean little voice in the back of his head whispered that maybe, just maybe, they weren’t really in love. Maybe Abby was pregnant, and this whole show was just damage control. He told himself that would be easier to stomach.

What would destroy him—what would absolutely gut him—was if they looked happy.

They were halfway up the steps when a voice called out, sharp and surprised:

“Frank Langdon? No way—Frank?”

He turned, brow furrowed. A tall man in a slightly wrinkled navy suit was standing just off the path, holding a paper cup of coffee like it was the only thing keeping him alive. His hair was thinning now, but Frank recognized the wide, lopsided grin immediately.

“Eric Dunlap,” Frank said, almost disbelieving. “Damn. I haven’t seen you since high school?” Frank and Eric had been great friends in high school. It was before either of them hit puberty, and they were both struggling to say even a single word to a girl. Now, Eric was a finance guy with a beautiful wife and a penthouse on the Upper East Side. 

Eric laughed, stepping forward to clap Frank on the back. “Since senior prom, I think. Jesus, man. I thought that had to be you.”

Frank gave him a tight smile. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Yeah, well,” Eric said, glancing toward the doors with something like disdain. “Believe me, I wouldn’t be. But my wife’s Abby’s cousin. We flew in this morning. She made me put on a tie and pretend I don’t remember how this all started.”

Frank blinked. “How what started?”

Eric raised his eyebrows, then lowered his voice slightly. “Come on, man. Everyone knows she cheated on you with James. Half the family acts like it’s some big love story. The other half calls it as it is—an affair.” 

Frank’s jaw tightened, but Eric just shook his head.

“Sorry. That was blunt. Just—look, you didn’t deserve what happened. You always treated her like gold back in the day. I remember that. And I’m not gonna pretend she didn’t screw you over just because there’s white roses on the stairs and someone playing harp music inside.”

Mel glanced at Frank, then at Eric, silent but clearly intrigued.

Eric noticed her for the first time. “Sorry, I’m being rude.” He extended a hand. “Eric. Friend of Frank’s since we were acne-ridden disasters.”

Mel smiled and shook his hand. “Mel.”

Eric chuckled. “Lucky man.”

Frank found himself smiling, a real one, for the first time all morning.

“Well, if things get weird in there,” Eric said, nodding toward the doors, “I’ll be somewhere near the bar. I’ll buy you a drink. God knows you deserve one.” 

“Duly noted,” Frank said.

“Good seeing you, man. Really.”

“You too.”

And then Eric was gone, swept into the stream of guests, his coffee still in hand like armor.

Frank stood still for a second, the echo of the conversation warming something cold in his chest.

Then the moment snapped—broken by a woman in black slacks and a headset who stepped smartly into their path, clipboard raised like a shield.

“Bride or groom?” she asked sweetly, her voice cutting into Frank’s thoughts like a blade disguised as a ribbon.

He blinked at her, momentarily thrown, the question echoing louder than it should have.

Frank blinked, caught off guard by the question. “What?”

The young woman’s smile thinned, a flicker of impatience sparking behind her eyes. “Bride or groom? Which side are you with?”

He smirked, a bitter twist at the corner of his mouth. “I don’t know. What side do you think I should go on?”

Her brow furrowed slightly, curiosity mixing with something else—interest, maybe? “Well, what’s your relationship with the couple?”

The entrance to the church loomed ahead, all polished stone and heavy wood doors flung open in welcome. Inside, the swell of organ music floated faintly outward. He and Mel stepped in together, and the shift was immediate. He could feel it, like a wave of static crawling up the back of his neck. Eyes turned toward him. Some subtle, some not. Heads tipped together. Whispers bloomed in the pews like dandelions in concrete cracks.

He recognized a few faces—cousins, an old neighbor, one or two people he and Abby used to double-date with. They looked at him like he was a ghost who’d wandered into the wrong wake.

Beside him, Mel's hand brushed his. She leaned in close, voice pitched low.

“This isn’t awkward at all,” she murmured, her breath warm against his cheek.

Frank gave a grim smile, though his pulse had started to thrum hard in his chest. The sanctified air felt suddenly too thin.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have come,” he said, more to himself than her, eyes locking on the flower-covered altar where his brother was about to marry the woman who used to be his wife. “You think they all know?”

“Probably,” she said, voice quiet. “I don’t think anyone blames you for how everything ended, Frank.”

He was about to respond, something vague, noncommittal, when the sound hit him.

A voice. Sharp, unmistakable.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

The words sliced through the soft murmur of arriving guests, silencing laughter, halting footsteps. Frank’s spine stiffened. He didn’t need to turn to know who it was.

Constance.

He pivoted slowly, jaw already clenched, the hairs on his arms rising like they had muscle memory. His mother stood ten feet away, flanked by columns of white hydrangeas and a very nervous usher. She clutched the wedding program like it was a weapon, her knuckles bloodless, her expression carved from marble. Constance never yelled—she never had to. Her disapproval was cleaner, sharper. Like frostbite.

“I was invited, Mother ,” Frank said, forcing the words out evenly. He adjusted the cuff of his shirt with deliberate calm, keeping his gaze fixed, unreadable. “Dad. How are you?”

His father gave a lazy shrug, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Not drunk enough for this.”

Frank let out a humorless breath that might’ve been a laugh. “Yeah. Me either.”

He could feel Mel at his side, quiet but present, and for a second he was grateful for her—if only for the warmth of another body not sharpened to a blade.

Constance took a single step forward, her heels cracking against the polished marble like punctuation. “Franklin, you shouldn’t be here.”

His breath caught, just for a second. God, how many times had she said that, in one form or another? You shouldn’t be here. You’ve embarrassed us enough. Why can’t you just disappear quietly?

“And why not?” he asked, tilting his head. “We’re family, after all. Isn’t that what today’s about?”

Before she could summon another insult wrapped in civility, his father spoke.

“He’s right, Constance.” His voice was casual, but there was something amused in it, almost conspiratorial. “He has every right to be here.”

Frank blinked. That... wasn’t expected. In fact, it might’ve been the first time in years his father had said anything that resembled taking his side. They hadn’t spoken since the ink dried on the divorce papers. He wasn’t sure if that was his father’s choice or his mothers. 

“If you cause any problems—” Constance began, but her tone had lost some of its icy certainty.

Frank turned fully toward her, gaze flat. “What?” he asked, quiet, but lethal. “What could you possibly do to me that you haven’t already?”

That landed. She froze, not for long, but just long enough. Long enough for the guest beside her to suddenly become very interested in adjusting hymnals.

“You want to sit with us, Frank?” his father asked, motioning toward a space in the front pew like this was just another Sunday service and not a minefield made of florals and family.

Frank hesitated—then felt Mel’s eyes on him. Steady. Questioning. Still going along with this, still thinking this was real.

“Sure,” he said. His voice felt thick in his throat. “Why not?”

They moved together toward the front, and Frank was painfully aware of every step. Of how many heads turned. Of how close Mel’s arm brushed his. Of how much his palms were sweating.

As they reached the pew, Frank’s father looked up from his program and then past him, eyes narrowing with a flicker of curiosity. “And who’s this?”

Frank’s stomach pitched. Shit. Right. That part of the plan—the part where he’d explain Mel—hadn’t really been a plan at all.

“Oh.” His hand twitched in the air for a beat before settling, far too deliberately, against the small of Mel’s back. Her dress was soft beneath his palm—silky, warm, unfamiliar. Too soft. Too real. “This is Mel. My… girlfriend.”

The word left his mouth like a stone tossed into still water. Girlfriend. It sounded alien. Mel’s head turned sharply toward him, her expression unreadable—eyes flashing with surprise, maybe even betrayal—but she said nothing.

Why had he said that? She wasn’t his girlfriend. She’d never agreed to pretend, and he hadn’t asked. He wasn’t sure why the lie had come out, wasn’t even sure who he thought he was fooling. His family wouldn’t care, not really. Not about him.

But Mel didn’t miss a beat. No flinch. No hesitation. She offered a smile, gracious and composed, like she’d been born for this kind of social theater.

“Girlfriend?” Constance’s voice rang out like a bell—sharp, deliberate. Each syllable hung in the air with surgical precision. “You didn’t tell me you had a girlfriend.”

Her gaze drifted over Mel with the slow, clinical interest of someone inspecting a flaw in fine china. Her lips pressed into something that wasn’t quite a smile. Frank could feel the heat crawling up his neck, could feel Mel’s spine straighten beside him.

Frank smiled tightly. “You didn’t tell me my brother did either. Guess that makes us even.”

His father let out a bark of laughter—short, but genuine. “He’s got you there, Constance.”

Turning toward Mel with what almost passed for charm, he extended a hand. “Well. Nice to meet you, Mel. Where’d you two meet?”

Frank opened his mouth, but Mel beat him to it.

“Work,” she said easily.

His father’s brows lifted. “Oh? Are you a nurse?”

“I’m a doctor,” she replied, cool and clear. “Fourth-year resident.”

That surprised him. He straightened a little, actually impressed. “Well. Good for you. God knows we’ve got enough old men in white coats thinking they invented the scalpel.”

Mel smiled, the edges of it just sharp enough to show she was more than capable of keeping up. “Yeah. I try not to let them talk over me.”

Frank glanced at her from the corner of his eye. There was something magnetic about the way she said it—unapologetic, unbothered. She didn’t even know she was pretending. She was just being herself.

He took a sip of water from a crystal glass, hiding the grin threatening to break across his face.

Beside him, Constance was adjusting her pearls like they’d started choking her.

“Girlfriend?” Mel whispered in his ear. 

“Sorry,” he said. “I just sort of panicked.” 

“It’s fine,” she said. “I don’t mind. But we should probably get our story straight before the reception.” 

The first notes of the string quartet drifted through the sanctuary—low, elegant, ceremonial. Heads turned. Conversations fell to a hush. Somewhere near the altar, the officiant adjusted his microphone. The wedding was beginning.

Frank stiffened. His father shifted beside him, and gave him a small smile.. Constance sat like a statue at the edge of the pew, her expression frozen somewhere between disdain and resolve. But Frank barely registered them.

He couldn’t stop staring at the front of the church. The flowers. The altar. The candlelight. It was all too familiar.

God, why had he come to this. Of all the stupid things he could have done. He felt like his heart was about to fall out of his chest and onto the floor. He could see the headline easily. Doctor Dies at his Ex-Wifes Wedding. 

The same florist. The same hymn. Even the same damn pastor who’d married him and Abby five years ago. She’d wanted a traditional ceremony—stained glass and classical music and vows that felt like poetry. He hadn’t cared about any of it back then. He would’ve married her in a gas station parking lot if that’s what she wanted.

And now she was about to marry his brother.

His throat tightened.

Mel sat beside him, her posture relaxed, one leg crossed neatly over the other. She had no idea what this meant—what this felt like. She was just being supportive, playing her part. But her presence burned against his side, a reminder of the lie he was tangled in and the truth he couldn’t outrun.

The music swelled, and the doors opened.

There she was.

Abby.

She stepped into the aisle on her father’s arm, veiled in white lace and soft candlelight, bouquet trembling just slightly in her hands. The congregation rose to their feet. Mel followed suit. Frank couldn’t move.

His chest cracked open.

She looked almost exactly the same.

He remembered the way her hands had trembled on their wedding day too—nervous and beautiful and certain all at once. He’d taken her hand as they stood at the altar, had kissed her before the officiant even finished his sentence, had whispered I love you so many times in the span of that first minute of marriage that she’d laughed and cried at once.

We’re going to make it, he’d thought then. We’re going to do this.

He’d believed it.

And now she was walking toward his brother. Toward the man who’d betrayed him in the worst way. The man whose voice used to echo down the hallway on holidays. The man he used to protect on the schoolyard. The man who sat smug and waiting at the altar like this was just another win.

Frank’s hands curled into fists on his lap. His palms were damp.

Mel glanced over at him and hesitated, like she could feel the shift—some fault line opening beneath them. Slowly, discreetly, she reached over and touched his wrist. Light. Gentle.

He flinched.

“I’m okay,” he said, though his voice was barely a whisper.

He wasn’t. He felt cracked open. Hollowed out. His vision blurred for a second, and he blinked hard, teeth clenched.

The officiant began to speak—welcoming everyone, asking them to be seated—but Frank stayed on his feet a second too long, still staring at Abby, still caught somewhere between ten years ago and now. Somewhere between the moment she said I do and the moment she walked out.

Finally, he sat down. Slowly. Mechanically.

The words echoed around him, but they didn’t register. Do you take this man… He heard it. Heard it again. He remembered Abby’s voice—shaky but sure—saying yes to him all those years ago. I do. I love you. I choose you.

And now she was saying it again. Just to someone else. He wondered if she intended to keep her promises this time, or if she was just going to cheat on his brother too. If they had kids, would she forget about theirs? Would she slowly stop talking to them, in favor of a different family?

Frank looked away.

Mel’s hand hovered near his. He didn’t know what he did to deserve Mel. She was kind and sweet. If they had met years before, maybe he would have married her. It would have saved him years of heartache.

Frank’s chest was tight. Too tight. The walls of the chapel felt like they were closing in, the candlelight too warm, the music too sweet. A parody of something that used to be his.

He leaned in, his voice ragged, barely audible. “I think I need some air.”

Mel didn’t question it. She was already moving, rising with him, her hand brushing his arm—And then another hand caught him. Cold. Familiar.

“Don’t you dare walk out of this chapel,” Constance hissed through her teeth, her grip iron-clad around his forearm. “Don’t you dare make a scene, Franklin.” 

Frank’s head snapped toward her. He didn’t even blink. Without a word, he yanked his arm free from her grasp. The motion was swift. Final. Defiant.

And then he stood. Right there in the middle of the front pew, in the middle of the vows, in the middle of the carefully choreographed illusion that everyone else was still buying into.

A hush swept across the room like a gust of wind. Heads turned. Murmurs flickered like embers. Eric was smiling at him, nodding at him. A few others looked rather happy about it. All they needed was a bag of popcorn and they would be happy.

Abby froze at the altar, and so did James. Her eyes met his and for one heartbeat, Frank thought maybe, maybe she’d look ashamed. Maybe she felt regret for everything she had done to him and their family.  But no, the only thing he saw was anger. Cold and sharp. Fury like he was ruining her perfect day.

He almost laughed. But, he found he just didn’t care anymore.

He held her gaze as long as he could stand it, then turned on his heel and walked up the aisle, his shoes thudding against the floor like the beating of a war drum. With every step, the whispers grew louder. A ripple of shock, of judgment.

But he didn’t stop.

Not when he passed the flowers they probably paid too much for. Not when he passed the people who used to call him family. Not even when Constance hissed his name like a curse.

He walked out of the wedding the same way Abby had walked out of his life.

Without apology and without hesitation.

Without looking back.

The heavy door thudded shut behind him, muffling the soft strains of music and murmured conversation still drifting from the chapel. Frank staggered a step forward before bracing both palms against the wall, his head bowed, forehead pressing to the cool wood of the doorframe.

He tried to breathe. In. Out.

But his chest refused to rise. His lungs were stone. Each inhale snagged in his throat like wire. Nothing came.

Nothing.

“Frank?” Mel’s voice was gentle behind him, but not uncertain. “Are you okay?”

He didn’t turn around. His fingers curled against the frame, white-knuckled.

“I thought I could do this,” he said, his voice hoarse and uneven. “I really did. I thought I could walk in there and be... fine. Be civil. Smile. Pretend.”

He exhaled—shaky, bitter.

“God, I never should’ve come. I still love her, Mel.” His voice cracked on the word love . “After everything she’s done—after the lies, the betrayal, after she tore our family in half—I still fucking love her. What the hell is wrong with me?”

Mel stepped closer. Quietly. No judgment in her eyes, only something steadier. Something anchoring.

“There’s nothing wrong with you, Frank,” she said softly, but with a kind of fierce certainty. “Nothing at all.”

He turned toward her then, shoulders sagging, face flushed and raw. His smile was crooked, wounded.

“I don’t deserve you, Mel,” he said with a bitter laugh. “I really, really don’t.”

Her lips curled up. “I know,” she said, smirking faintly.

Chapter Text

Maybe it was petty, but Frank still went to the reception. It was an open bar after all. 

But, If he heard the song, “Can’t help falling in love,” one more time, he was going to lose his mind. He had two glasses of champagne so far, and was already looking forward to the next one. 

Frank sat stiffly at the round table near the back of the reception hall, his fingertips resting against the sweating glass of his bourbon. The white linen beneath his hand was too clean. The chair was too small. The air was too damn warm for a tux. 

The table was in the back and next to the restroom, reserved for people who should have known not to RSVP. 

Mel sat beside him, legs crossed, one elbow resting lightly on the table as she idly toyed with the stem of her wine glass. He still wasn’t sure what had made him say she was his girlfriend. He’d just sort of panicked when he was asked who she was, and the lie slipped off his tongue easily. Mel, for all her merits, didn’t hesitate to support his lie, wrapping her arms around him. 

The band played something slow and sweet, and polite conversation buzzed around them, glittering and harmless like the fairy lights strung from beam to beam. But Frank’s eyes were locked on the double doors at the front of the room.

And then they opened.

The DJ cleared his throat into the mic. “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome for the first time—Mr. and Mrs. Langdon.”

Mr. and Mrs. Langdon . He almost threw up. 

She stepped through the archway with James at her side, his brother, taller, smoother, smug in his fitted tux. Her arm curled delicately in his. The gown was ivory silk, classic cut, hugging the lines Frank had once traced with his mouth. Her smile was camera-perfect. Her eyes were not.

Frank’s stomach curled tight. He didn’t breathe. He couldn’t.

Mel’s hand found him under the table, warm and steady. She didn’t squeeze. Just held.

Abby’s gaze scanned the crowd with practiced ease, nodding to guests, smiling for photos until it snagged. Froze.

She saw him.

There were dozens of people between them, but for a second, it was like the air thinned and there was nothing else. Just Frank, sitting with his broad shoulders squared in a rented tux, a storm behind his eyes, and Mel’s fingers wound calmly with his.

He raised his glass to her, slow, deliberate, unbothered.

Her smile faltered.

Just a flicker. Just enough to confirm what he already suspected: she hadn’t expected him to come. She’d written him out of this night and out of her life so completely that seeing him now, in the flesh, unbroken, dressed in a tux and looking better than he had any right to, was like a slap to the face.

He took a slow sip of his drink. Let the burn ground him.

Beside him, Mel’s hand gave the gentlest tap against his thigh. “I’m gonna run to the bathroom,” she murmured, her voice low and careful. “You good?”

He nodded without looking at her. “Yeah.”

“You sure?”

“Go,” he said, a bit softer. “I’ll still be here. I’m not going to burn the place down in five minutes.”

She offered a small smile, then stood and walked off with that steady, composed grace she always carried, heels clicking against the polished floor until they disappeared into the hallway beyond the reception space.

Frank was alone now. Or at least, it felt that way.

The table felt colder without her next to him. He placed his glass down with precision. Too many people in this room. Too much perfume and champagne and bad decisions. A song shifted over the speakers to some saccharine, overplayed ballad and couples began filtering toward the dance floor.

“Hi,” a voice purred beside him, low, deliberate and close enough to stir the hairs on the back of his neck.

Frank turned slightly. The woman beside him was stunning– glossy hair, glowing skin, and a dress that made the most of every soft curve. She leaned in like they'd known each other in another life, her smile playing at the corners of her mouth like she was already in on some joke he didn’t know yet.

“I’m Ashley,” she said, brushing an invisible speck off his shoulder. Her fingers lingered just a second too long. “And you are?”

“Frank.” He gave a tight smile, one hand still loosely cradling his champagne glass.

“Mmm. Frank,” she repeated, like she was tasting the name. He felt naked in a way, when her eyes scanned over his suit, landing on his face with a smile. Before he was married, he would have known exactly what to say to a girl like this.

She was pretty, and flirting, and for a moment he wondered what it would be like to flirt back. 

He raised an eyebrow. “Bride or Groom?”

“Bride,” she said, her hand dancing around the stem of her wine glass. “I’ve known Abby since I was 12.” 

“You don’t know who I am?” he asked.

She thought about it for a moment. “Should I?” Frank chuckled softly, more out of disbelief than amusement, and took a sip of his drink.

“So,” she continued, sliding even closer until their legs touched beneath the table. Her touch burned him. Her hand slid down, resting on his thigh as if it were the most casual thing in the world. “how do you know the bride and groom?”

“Abby is my ex-wife,” he said, letting the words drop with the weight they carried. “And James is my brother.”

Ashley’s eyes widened slightly, but not in a horrified way. More like intrigued. She leaned even closer, her perfume warm and sweet, intoxicating.

“Well,” she said, her voice low and conspiratorial, “if this wedding wasn’t already interesting, you’ve just made it.”

Frank gave a small huff of air. “Didn’t mean to.”

“Don’t apologize,” she said, reaching out to toy with the rim of his glass. “You’re the most exciting thing at this table. I mean, unless you count the shrimp cocktail.”

He glanced at her sideways, amused despite himself. “A bit of a low bar.”

“Exactly.” Her smile turned sly. “Which is why I’m betting you’re way more fun than you’re letting on.”

She let the silence stretch, her thigh pressed against his, her gaze unflinching.

Frank looked down at his drink again, but his thoughts weren’t on the champagne anymore.

Ashley was still smiling at him, slow and expectant when the air shifted.

“Hey,” came a familiar voice behind him, casually warm. Mel.

Frank looked up just as she slid into the empty seat beside him, her hair slightly windblown, cheeks flushed from the cool night air or maybe just the sprint back from the bathroom. She didn’t seem to notice Ashley at first, just gave Frank a quick glance and a crooked smile.

“Sorry, line for the ladies’ room was longer than my last relationship. Some drunk lady was throwing up in the stall next to mine,” she said. 

Without thinking, Frank shifted. Then smooth and deliberately, he slung his arm around the back of Mel’s chair. His hand found her shoulder and stayed there, relaxed, casual, protective.

Mel blinked at him, surprised but didn’t pull away. Instead, she leaned into the curve of his arm, her body language falling easily in sync with his. She glanced between him and the woman across the table.

Mel glanced between him and the woman across the table. Ashley’s smile had cooled a few degrees.

“Oh,” Mel said, like she’d just noticed her. “Hi.”

Ashley raised her wineglass in acknowledgment, all poise and polite distance. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“We haven’t,” Mel replied, and then so easily she turned and pressed a brief, warm kiss to Frank’s cheek. Her hand rested lightly on his chest for just a moment, lingering. 

“I’m Mel,” she added, her voice easy, pleasant. “Frank’s date.”

The flicker in Ashley’s expression was almost imperceptible, but Mel caught it—and so did Frank. Her fingers curled just a little into the fabric of his jacket as she settled in, her posture relaxed but unmistakably planted.

Frank didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. The smile tugging at the corner of his mouth said enough.

Frank took another sip of champagne, his arm still draped over Mel’s shoulder. “She asked how I knew the bride and groom.”

Ashley laughed a little too brightly. “And I got quite an answer.”

Mel’s brows lifted slightly. “I’m sure.”

“How do you know Frank?” the girl asked, clearly prying. 

“Oh Frankie?” she asked. “We work together.” 

“Where do you work?”

Frank answered this time, getting slightly annoyed that the girl couldn’t get a hint to leave them alone. “PTMC. We both are emergency trauma physicians.”

“Doctors?” she asked. “Really? That must be hard work?”

“Not terrible,” he said. “Not when I’m working with my Mel here. She makes everything better. Couldn’t ask for a better girlfriend, you know?” 

Ashley hesitated—then reached for her purse. “Well, I should go find my table. It was… interesting meeting you.”

“Likewise,” Frank said flatly.

As Ashley walked off, Mel gave him a sidelong glance, amused and a little skeptical.

“Friend of the family?”

“Hardly,” he muttered.

Mel smirked, then leaned back against his arm. “You’re lucky I came back when I did. She was seconds away from naming your future children.”

“Think she already had,” he chuckled into his glass. “Nice kiss by the way. You really convinced her.” 

“Well,” she said, and he could see the tips of her ears were taking on a red tinge. “Girlfriends do kiss their boyfriends.”

Frank turned toward her, one arm still draped loosely around her chair. “Do they?” he asked, eyes glinting. “Because if that was a girlfriend kiss, I’m starting to feel shortchanged.”

Mel rolled her eyes, but her lips twitched. “Careful, Langdon. You’re starting to sound greedy.”

He leaned in slightly, voice dropping. “Only because you’re making it very hard not to.”

He wasn’t sure why he said it, but it was so easy to wind up Mel. A part of himself, he noticed, actually enjoyed seeing the way her face would turn red. He didn’t do it to make her feel uncomfortable, if she ever was he would stop flirting immediately. 

Frank watched as Abby twirled in her father’s arms, her gown catching the light in soft folds. Every part of it felt choreographed—rehearsed smiles, picture-perfect spins, the kind of moments meant to live forever in someone else’s photo album. He took a long sip from his champagne, the bubbles sharp on his tongue, but it didn’t dull the tension building beneath his ribs.

Mel stayed quiet beside him, her hand resting lightly on his thigh beneath the tablecloth. A casual gesture, probably meant to keep him anchored, but the warmth of it bled through him like a slow burn. He wasn’t sure if she noticed it, but she began to slowly rub small circles on his leg with her thumb. 

They were halfway through dessert—a mousse he hadn’t even touched when an elderly woman seated across from them leaned in, her voice the kind of gentle and clear only age and absolute confidence could conjure.

“You two are a beautiful couple,” she said, nodding at them with a sweet, conspiratorial smile.

“Oh thank you,” Mel said, her cheeks turning red.

“Are you going to try and catch the Bouquet? You two could be next, you know?”

“Maybe,” Frank chuckled. “You never know.”

“Frank?”

Her voice was soft, but it still cut through the air like a cold draft. He turned, catching the faint clink of her bracelet as she fiddled with her fingers. Unlike most of the other guests she had greeted, he refused to stand up. Instead, he stayed in his seat. 

Abby.

She looked beautiful. In the way polished glass looked beautiful—clean, elegant, breakable. Her makeup was perfect, her dress fitted like she was still trying to prove something. The veil sat atop her curled hair like a lie she had to wear.

He wondered how they could afford the wedding. He knew neither of them made enough money to cover the costs. Either they had gone into serious credit card debt, or his family had paid for everything.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” she said.

“I don’t know why he did,” his brother said, tightening his hold on Abby’s waist.

“You know me, James,” he said. “I love an open bar.”

“You left the ceremony early,” his brother said with a slight smirk. God, he was gloating. “Yeah,” he said. “Wedding vows nauseate me.  Especially the part about honesty and trust.”

Frank noticed that several party guests were leaning into their conversation—most likely hoping for dinner and a show. He was glad his divorce proved to be so entertaining for all of them.

“You remember Mel,” Frank said to Abby. 

She smiled like this was the hardest thing she’d ever done. “Of course,” she tightened her hold on James. “You're the nurse, right?”

“Doctor actually,” she said, and leaned in closer to Frank. Abby didn’t miss the move, and her eyes flashed for a moment. “I’m chief resident.” 

James laughed. “I thought Frank was chief resident. Did you really get demoted Frankie?”

“Nope,” he said, smacking his lips together. “I’m an attending now.” Dr. Shen had gotten a job at a level 1 trauma center in New York, leaving a space open for Frank. He’d jumped on it. And it was exactly what he needed.

“I thought they were going to wait,” Abby interrupted. “I mean after everything that happened?”

“You mean after the drugs?” Frank asked. Abby never liked to talk about his drug issues. After his quick visit to rehab she’d refuse to ever bring it up. If Frank ever did, she’d get angry and walk out of the room. He guessed it was just one of the signs he missed that his marriage was almost over. 

“Yeah, Frankie?” his brother said, smiling. Frank wondered if his brother was finding joy in his shortcomings. “Why would they let you back after you stole drugs from patients?” He said the words pretty loudly. Other people weren’t even pretending to not pay attention anymore. 

“Drug addiction in residents is a common issue, James,” he said. “It's a hard job and when you're a resident you don’t get compensated for your time or work. I had a bad back issue, you know that. Luckily, I was really only in the beginning stages of addiction, and I had some great people who helped me through it.” 

He smiled at Mel. He wasn't sure he would have gotten through all of his problems without her or Robby. 

“They’d be idiotic not to promote, Frank. He’s one of the best emergency physicians I’ve ever met. The other week, surgery was slammed upstairs, a patient would have died had he not opened up his chest on the table to stop the bleeding.”

Abby’s smile faltered, just slightly. “Wow,” she said. “Sounds intense.”

Frank shrugged modestly, though he could feel the eyes on him. “It was a Tuesday.”

There was a beat. Someone nearby laughed a little too loudly. The cello player hit a sour note before sliding back into the melody. Frank caught the faint scent of overripe gardenias and champagne—it reminded him of funerals. He watched Abby's hand tighten around her champagne flute, nails perfectly manicured, probably done that morning.

Mel shifted beside him, casually slipping her hand into the crook of his arm. It wasn’t planned—but it was seamless. Natural, even. Too natural. Frank didn’t flinch, but something in his chest tugged. Her touch was light, familiar, like she’d done it a hundred times before.

Abby noticed.

“I’m sorry,” James asked. “What exactly is your relationship with my brother?” 

“I’m his girlfriend,” Mel lied smoothly.  “We’ve been pretty happy,” she said with just the right lilt of fondness, leaning a little closer into him. Her fingers grazed his sleeve and then, boldly, toyed with the collar of his shirt like she was adjusting it for no reason other than intimacy.

He was surprised when her hand left his collar and moved into his hair, her fingers moving back and forth. Unconsciously, he leaned into her touch, looking over at her with a small smile. Frank’s breath caught just slightly. It wasn’t the gesture itself. It was how easy it felt. How natural. Too natural. It sent a weird flicker down his spine. He wasn’t supposed to notice . This wasn’t real. It was a performance. That was the whole point.

“Anyway,” Frank said, his tone still chipper. “Beautiful ceremony. Sorry I missed most of it. You understand, I’m sure.” 

Abby’s face turned a shade paler.

“How are the kids?” James asked, his voice casual—too casual, like he was tossing out a line in a conversation that should be light, but something sharp lurked beneath.

Frank didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he fixed his gaze on James, really looked at him—the way the younger man’s eyes flickered with entitlement, as if the right to know was a given, as if Frank owed him everything.

There was a flicker of something like impatience in James’s expression. “Frank?” he pressed.

Frank let out a tight, humorless laugh that didn’t reach his eyes. The sound was dry, edged with bitterness. “Sorry,” he said slowly, “are you asking as their uncle or their stepfather? It’s hard to keep track these days.”

From beside him, Mel’s hand slipped into his—gentle, grounding. A quiet reminder: Not here. Not now. Breathe.

Frank inhaled, slow and deliberate. His jaw clenched tight. Pulse pounding just beneath the surface, a steady thrum of raw, contained emotion. He’d promised himself no explosions tonight. He’d wear the damn suit, bite back the rage, eat the bland catered chicken, and pretend the world hadn’t shattered and rebuilt itself without him.

Before Frank could answer, his mother appeared, gliding into the tight circle like a shadow that had been listening just beyond the edge. Her heels clicked softly against the polished floor, and the scent of her perfume—something floral and expensive—cut through the air. Her eyes flicked from face to face, landing on Frank with a flash of concern that barely creased her flawless, painted features.

“Darling,” she said, voice light but probing. “Is everything alright over here?”

Frank turned to her slowly, his expression neutral, almost amused. “Oh hey, Mom,” he said, his tone balanced on the knife-edge between polite and sardonic. “Dad.”

Constance’s brow pinched—barely—but enough to crack the illusion of poise. The tight muscles around her eyes betrayed discomfort, though not enough to disturb the powder and precision of her makeup. Her gaze flicked between her sons, slow and cautious, like someone watching a pot just beginning to boil. Her lips tugged upward, a well-practiced smile ghosting her face, brittle at the edges. “You all looked so… intense.”

“We’re just catching up,” Frank said, his grin tight and bloodless, the kind of smile you wear when your teeth are the only weapon left. “You know. Brotherly bonding.”

“Frankie here was just telling us how he made attending,” his brother cut in, leaning back with a whiskey glass dangling from two fingers. His voice had the careless polish of someone who knew exactly where the blade would sink deepest—and how to twist it with a smile.

“Really?” their father said, perking up, oblivious or pretending to be. His eyes lit like a switch had been flipped, all warmth and easy pride. “Frank, that’s incredible. We’re proud of you.”

Constance didn’t echo the sentiment. Her expression curdled. Proud wasn’t the word for it. Putrid might’ve been closer—like something sour had turned in her mouth.

Frank blinked once. Just once. Then nodded. “Thank you,” he said, quieter this time. The edges of his voice softened, like maybe—for a second—he let himself believe it. At least someone in the family could say it like they meant it.

“That’s a big accomplishment,” his brother said after a beat, swirling the amber in his glass. It caught the light like flame. “Congrats.”

Frank turned toward him, watching closely. Searching his face. Looking for something real in the spaces between the words. He wanted to believe him. God, he wanted to. This was his brother, after all—the same kid who once bloodied his knuckles on another boy’s face for calling Frank a name.

“Thanks,” he said, the word stiff, as if it had to be pushed past everything he was still holding back.

“I never wanted to hurt you, Frank,” his brother added. His tone dipped lower now, almost regretful. “This whole thing is just… a mess.”

Frank’s jaw flexed. He stared down into the untouched champagne flute in his hand, then looked up again. “That’s one way to call it,” he said, voice flat as iron.

His brother shifted in his Two thousand dollar shoes. “I mean it,” he said. “I never expected things to happen like this.”

Frank’s eyes flicked toward him again, sharp, unblinking. “Didn’t expect to end up with my wife?” he asked, almost conversational, like he was asking about the weather. He didn’t want to give them the satisfaction of blowing up on them. “Or didn’t expect I’d show up to the wedding?”

A flush crept into his brother’s face. “Come on, Frank. You know it wasn’t that simple.”

Frank gave a short, humorless laugh. “It’s always simple. People just lie to themselves to feel better.”

Mel’s fingers brushed lightly against his knee under the table—just enough for him to feel it, steady and grounding. He didn’t look at her, but the warmth of it anchored him.

Abby finally spoke, her voice quiet, as if hoping softness would somehow erase the damage. “Frank… I never wanted to hurt you either.”

He turned toward her slowly, gaze ice-cold. “And yet.” She flinched, just slightly. “Don’t try to rewrite it. You made your choices. Own them.”

“Help! Someone—please! He’s not breathing!”

The scream sliced through the music like a scalpel. The DJ froze. Conversations collapsed. All eyes turned toward the man crumpled near the buffet table.

“Frank—” he heard someone from his family say, but Frank was already moving.

He shoved his chair back so hard it skidded across the polished floor. His suit coat flared behind him like a cape as he sprinted toward the commotion. Mel was right behind—her heels already abandoned, barefoot and focused. The crowd parted instinctively, murmurs rising as guests stepped aside.

A man lay crumpled near the buffet table—mid-sixties, overweight, flushed dark red. His chest moved in shallow, irregular jerks. Cyanosis had crept over his lips, now a purplish blue. His eyes were glassy and unfocused.

His wife knelt beside him, shaking, trying to lift his head.

“Ma’am,” Frank said, voice calm but firm as he knelt beside her. “Are you his wife? What’s his name?”

Through broken sobs, she managed, “Steve—his name is Steve. He has a pacemaker—he’s had heart problems for years.”

Frank nodded once and leaned over Steve. “Mel, I need an assessment.”

She dropped beside him, already sweeping her fingers under the man’s jaw to locate a pulse. Frank pressed two fingers to the carotid and counted—rapid and faint.

“Thready pulse,” he confirmed. “He's still perfusing, but barely.”

Steve’s chest gave one last weak hitch, then stopped.

Frank rubbed his knuckles hard against the man’s sternum, right over the midline. “Steve! Can you hear me?”

No response. Fuck. 

“Mel,” he barked, already moving. “Start compressions.”

“Frank,” he heard his father say. “How can we help?”

“I need you to call 911,” he said. “Tell them possible cardiac arrest. He’s been down for about at least one minute.”

His father nodded fast, already fumbling for his phone. “Yes, calling now.”

Without hesitation, Mel locked her hands together and began chest compressions. They were rhythmic, deep, and  fast—at least 100 per minute, right at the lower half of the sternum. Frank tilted Steve’s head back, checked his airway, swept the mouth for any obstruction but there was nothing visible.

Frank scanned the man’s chest—pacemaker bulge visible on the upper left. No external trauma. No medical alert tags. The man wasn’t breathing. Color worsening.

He leaned in, ear to the mouth. No breath sounds.

He looked back up at Mel. “Switch. I’ve got compressions.”

They swapped smoothly. Frank laced his fingers, straightened his elbows, and began compressions—hard and fast. He felt the sternum depress with each push, heard a slight crack of cartilage as he worked, but kept going. Steve’s circulation—and brain—depended on it.

“Pittsburgh EMS is usually around seven minutes out,” Frank muttered, sweat already beading at his temples. “We just need to buy him time.”

Mel nodded, opening Steve’s airway and performing rescue breaths with perfect technique. “Two in.”

Frank counted under his breath, keeping tempo.

The room was quiet except for the rhythmic sound of compressions, the muted sobbing of Steve’s wife, and the occasional gasp of shocked guests. Somewhere in the distance, the sirens had not yet begun.

“Come on, Steve,” Frank muttered through clenched teeth. “Stay with us.”

Frank’s hands didn’t stop, but something wasn’t right. Steve’s neck veins were distended—jugular venous distension. His trachea had shifted slightly off midline. Each compression felt more and more like it was fighting against pressure inside the chest.

“Mel,” he said. “Its not a heart attack. Look.”

She looked towards his neck. “Trachea’s deviated,” Mel said, running her hands along his neck. “Breath sounds are gone on the right.”

Frank slapped his hand to the man’s chest. Hyper-resonant. “Collapsed lung.”

Mel nodded. “Tension pneumo. His chest’s filling with air.”

He turned to the wife. “Does your husband have a history of any lung diseases?”

“He had cancer in his lungs a few years ago,” she sobbed. 

That was probably what caused the Pneumothorax. The man's poor lungs had probably given out. 

“He’s not going to make it to the hospital,” Frank said, voice low and steady, eyes locked on hers like a loaded weapon. “His chest is filling with air—it’s collapsing his lung and compressing his heart. If I don’t relieve the pressure, he arrests. Right here. Right now.”

The woman’s breath hitched, her hands trembling against her mouth. “You’re going to… cut him?”

Mel stepped in beside Frank, calm radiating off her like heat from sunbaked steel. “Ma’am, listen carefully. Your husband has a tension pneumothorax. That’s a collapsed lung with air trapped in the chest cavity. It’s pushing his mediastinum, the heart, major vessels off-center. Frank and I are Emergency Trauma Physicians. We’ve done this procedure hundreds of times.” 

The woman looked between them, then nodded, her face pale but resolute.

Frank turned, already scanning the room. “You,” he barked at a stunned bartender barely out of college. “I need a sharp bar knife, a section of plastic tubing—soda line, beer line, doesn’t matter—and two liquor bottles. One needs to be emptied and filled with water. Go.”

The bartender blinked. “Wh—what kind of liquor?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Frank snapped. “Just go.”

He glanced at Mel. “Go with him. Prioritize the tubing.”

Mel nodded once, already moving.

Frank dropped to his knees beside the patient and yanked the man’s shirt open, exposing a bruised and heaving chest. His fingers were deft, methodical, as he checked for tracheal deviation and jugular vein distention. Classic signs. Confirmed.

“James,” Frank said to the panicked bystander beside him, “I need you to start compressions. Can you do that?

“I—I don’t know how,” James stammered, pale.

Frank clenched his jaw. Of course he didn’t. His brother was actually useless.

“Anyone here CPR certified?” he barked.

He was shocked to see Ashley raise her hand from the crowd. “I am. I’m a nurse.” 

“Perfect. You’re up. Standard compressions, thirty to two. Don’t stop unless I say.”

She dropped to her knees with surprising confidence, interlocking her hands and starting compressions with clean, consistent rhythm. Frank gave her a quick nod, impressed.

Moments later, the bartender returned with a gleaming bar knife, a length of coiled keg tubing, and a full bottle of vodka and one filled with water.” Frank snatched it without a word.

He poured the vodka straight over the knife, then doused the man’s chest, and the tube.. For good measure, he then poured some all over his hands. He didn’t have any gloves so it would have to do. “We’re making a field chest tube. You can stop compressions.” 

Ashley stopped the compressions, looking over him in surprise. “Can I help with anything else?”

“Can you hold the tube while I make the incision?”

She nodded, getting the tube ready in her hands.

James approached, eyes wide. “Frank, are you sure—”

Frank didn’t even look up. Without hesitation, he made the incision into the fifth intercostal space, mid-axillary line. The blade slid in with surgical precision. The moment he punctured the pleura, a violent hiss of pressurized air escaped, loud enough for everyone around to hear.

“You can’t just cut into someone, Frank!” James hissed. “What the hell are you doing?” 

Frank didn’t look up at James, just kept his eyes on the patient. “James, in case you’ve forgotten. Both Mel and I are Trauma Physicians. I’ve done surgeries far more complicated than this in my life. Let me do my fucking job.”  

“Frank—” he was surprised to see Abby grab James hand to get him to stop.

“Pressure’s off,” Frank muttered. “But not enough.”

He grabbed the tubing from Ashley and slid one end into the chest cavity, his movements smooth, practiced. He shoved the other end of the tubing into the water-filled vodka bottle. Bubbles exploded upward. A tight stream at first, then slower, steadier—air escaping the man's chest cavity, one desperate breath at a time.

“Homemade water seal,” Frank said. “It’ll hold.” He smiled at Mel. “How do you think it looks, Dr. King?”

The man's color started coming back. His chest started to rise. “It looks great,” Mel smiled up at him.

Frank stayed kneeling, one hand on the tubing, the other steadying the bottle. Blood on his cuffs. Sweat on his brow. Calm as a coiled blade.

“He’s stabilizing,” Mel said, glancing at the man’s neck. “Pulse is stronger.”

Frank just nodded once.

“You shouldn’t have done that, Frank,” he brother went on. “You could have killed him. What the hell is wrong with you? I know you're desperate for attention, but god, you really had to go and do that at your own brother's wedding?

Frank tightened his hands into fists, he was a second away from returning the punch James landed on him a year ago. 

Frank stayed kneeling, one hand steadying the bottle, the other still lightly gripping the tubing like it was an extension of himself. Blood soaked the cuffs of his shirt, drying into the fine stitching. Sweat beaded down his temple, sliding along the sharp edge of his jaw. His tie was half-loosened, hanging around his neck.

The wail of sirens echoed through the ballroom—too bright, too real, like the night had finally remembered it was an emergency. Frank looked up to see a team of paramedics tearing through the hall, gurney wheels clattering over tile.

“Right here!” Mel called, waving them down. “Tension pneumo—homemade seal in place!”

Three paramedics hustled toward them. One of them, tall, buzz cut, eyes sharp even under the fluorescents skidded to a halt.

“Holy shit,” he breathed. “Langdon?”

Frank grinned without looking up from the man’s side. “Hey Tom. Fancy meeting you in a ballroom full of drunks.”

“What the hell are you doing down there?” the medic asked, kneeling beside him.

“Oh you know,” he said. “Just here for my brother's wedding.” 

The paramedic turned to James. “This is the asshole who had an affair with your wife?”

Frank almost laughed. “Yes Tom, Yes he is.” 

The paramedic sized his brother up which was terrifying because he was twice as big as him. “I don’t get it.”

Tom let out a low whistle, while he helped get the patient on a backboard. “Jesus, you really did it. Is that a tube from a soda machine?”

Frank nodded. “Pressure’s holding, but he’s still hypotensive. Bilateral lines, a liter wide open. You’ll need to watch the right side—he wasn’t getting any chest rise before I vented.”

James stepped up behind them, incredulous. “Wait—you two know each other?”

Frank sighed through his nose, still holding the tubing in place.

Tom snorted, glancing up. “Know him? Frank Langdon’s one of the best trauma docs in Pittsburgh. Runs that pit at PTMC like it’s a war zone. If he says cut a hole in a chest, you better believe the man needed a hole in his chest.”

“Oh,” James muttered, taking an automatic half-step back.

Frank gave him a razor-thin smile. “But yes, James. Please. Continue telling me how we should’ve waited.”

Tom glanced down at the jerry-rigged setup and chuckled. “Man, you even used the vodka bottle?”

Frank raised an eyebrow. “Would’ve used gin, but I figured he’d already suffered enough.”

The second medic arrived with the proper gear. “Alright, let’s swap this out clean.”

“Wait,” Tom said, lifting a gloved hand before Frank could move. “We take it slow. You hold—I'll place.”

Frank gave a sharp nod, locking his grip around the improvised tube like a vice. Together, moving with practiced choreography, they transitioned from field fix to hospital protocol. Tom slipped in the commercial chest valve, hands steady, quick, while Frank held the seal firm.

The vodka bottle was discarded, sloshing forgotten against the floor. The final dressing came next—sterile gauze, plastic adhesive, tape biting into skin—until the site looked like something approximating control.

Only then did Frank ease back on his heels, spine groaning in protest. His hands were soaked slick with blood, sweat, and the harsh sting of vodka that had dried tacky on his skin. His cuffs clung to his wrists like rope. HHe didn’t even blink at it.

The man on the ground gave a sudden, guttural cough—wet, thick, but real. Not reflex. Not death. His chest now rose evenly in slow, full arcs, no longer hitching like a drowning man. Color bloomed slowly in his cheeks. A pulse fluttered strong beneath the hollow of his throat.

Still here.

Still alive.

“Stabilized enough to transport,” Tom said, rising to his feet as his team swept in behind him like a well-oiled machine. “Nice work, Langdon. You want to come to the hospital with us?”

Frank exhaled like he’d been holding that breath since the knife first sank in. “It’s my day off Tom, see ya tomorrow.” He pushed himself up—slowly. His knees cracked, spine pulling tight like an overused spring. His vision swam for half a second, the world narrowing–

Then Mel was there.

She stepped in without hesitation, her arm sliding around his waist. Steady. Casual. Like it was the most natural thing in the world to be his anchor. She pressed her shoulder into his and murmured, voice low and close to his ear, “You alright?”

He tilted toward her, just a fraction. His face was streaked with sweat and resolve, eyes still sharp despite the exhaustion dragging at his limbs.

“You think Abby’s regretting everything yet?” he muttered.

Mel huffed a quiet laugh. “Oh, most definitely.” She smirked. “That was badass.”

Behind them, James approached—still pale, still stunned.

“You cut into his chest,” James said, his voice hovering between awe and horror.

“Yup,” Frank said, popping his lips together like it was just another Tuesday night.

James blinked. “With a steak knife.”

Frank turned slightly, brow raised, and gave a one-shouldered shrug. “It worked.”

He looked like hell—hands shaking slightly, shirt clinging to him, blood splattered up to his elbows—but he stood there like he owned the room.

“You were always good at stealing the spotlight,” James said quietly.

Frank reached for a clean towel and dried his hands. “Well, I wouldn’t want to upstage the macaroons.”

Abby’s mouth twitched into something that might’ve been a smile or a warning.

“Is he going to be okay?” she asked.

Frank nodded once. “He should be. I got to him in time. If I waited he probably wouldn’t have survived.”

There was a pause. 

“Well,” she said, eyes lingering on the blood still drying on his sleeves. Frank hoped he looked handsomely disheveled with the blood and the sweat,  “you were always good in a crisis. You should stay,” she said. “Get a drink. It's the least we can do after you saved someone.” 

“Nah,” he said. “I’ve seen enough. I think it's time we got home, right Mel? I need to get washed up. I’m covered in blood.” 

“I didn’t realize you could do those things,” she frowned. 

He rolled his eyes.  “What did you think I did all day? Hand babies tylenol?”

“Something like that,” she said. 

“It really was a beautiful wedding, Abby,” Frank said, his voice low but steady. “I hope you can find some happiness. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to give you enough.”

Abby’s lips parted like she was about to respond, eyes wide, wounded. “Frank—”

But he was already shaking his head. He didn’t really get to say goodbye the first time–not really. He’d been too angry, and far too hurt to say goodbye for real. 

“Goodbye, Abby.”

He turned his gaze to her now husband.  “James.”

Without waiting for a reply, Frank reached for Mel’s hand and pulled her with him. They moved out  of the ballroom and into the lobby, the music and soft laughter blurring behind them like a dream they’d both stepped out of. The instant the door clicked shut, he paused. Stopped short like he’d slammed into something invisible.

He didn’t let go of her hand. Just stood there, chest rising and falling too fast, the blood stiffening on his shirt, clinging to his sleeves.

“Mel,” he said quietly, turning toward her. “Can you wait in the car? I need to wash this off before someone calls security. Or the CDC.”

She gave him a small, crooked smile, but her eyes searched his face carefully. “Okay. But if you’re not out in ten minutes, I’m coming in.”

His smirk was faint, tired, but real. He squeezed her hand once before letting go. “That’s a promise?”

She rolled her eyes, already stepping back. “Go. Before I start charging you by the hour.”

He watched her walk away, heels clicking softly across the marble floor, the sound fading as she disappeared through the front doors.

Then he turned toward the bathroom. The blood was drying. The adrenaline was wearing off.

He needed to breathe.

 The bathroom door clicked shut behind him, cutting off the wedding noise. For a moment, he felt like he was underwater. He could still hear the sound, but it was distorted through the door. 

Frank braced both hands on the edge of the sink and stared down at his hands still coated in blood. It was still warm, still tacky between his fingers. The water turned red the second it hit his skin.

He didn’t move for a few seconds. Just stood there, letting the water run, watching the blood swirl down the drain in thin, threadlike rivers. It clung stubbornly to his cuticles. Dried in the creases of his knuckles. The soap didn’t do much, not right away. He scrubbed harder. His skin was already starting to redden beneath the pressure, but he didn’t stop.

He couldn’t.

The smell of it was still thick in his nose, copper and sweat, adrenaline. His sleeves were ruined. He hadn’t even rolled them up before diving in, and now the fabric was stiff with it, dark and curling at the edges. 

He splashed his face, rubbed his jaw, leaned heavily on the sink.

For a moment, it was just the sound of the water and the buzzing light overhead.

Then the door creaked open. Frank froze, droplets still dripping from his fingertips. There were footsteps behind him–high heels clicking on the stone floor. He looked up into the mirror and met a familiar face. The breath left his lungs.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

Chapter Text

Abby?” Frank’s voice was low, tight, barely more than a breath. “What the hell are you doing here?”

She stood in the doorway like a ghost, backlit by hallway light that spilled around her, turning her veil into something gauzy and spectral. There was a smear of blood at the edge of her wedding dress. I was small, but unmistakable. Frank’s eyes locked on it, unmoving. It was on the train, near the hem. 

A stain. Like the whole damn marriage was already rotting from the inside out.

“Go back to your wedding,” he said, voice sharper now, more composed than he felt. “Go back to your husband.”

But she didn’t move. Instead, the door clicked shut behind her, soft and final. Like the sound of a verdict being passed. She leaned against the door like it was the most casual thing in the entire world. 

“Frank,” she said.

Just his name but there was a pull in it. A hook buried deep beneath the surface, barbed with familiarity and years of history. He recognized the way she said it instantly. She always used that tone when she wanted something. When she wanted him.

She used to whisper his name in his ear before she pulled him into bed. He’d made a map of her body with his lips and hands, exploring every single inch of her—worshiping her. 

“I was stupid,” she said.

His shoulders stiffened. He didn’t turn. Just kept scrubbing at the blood on his hands, though the sink was already running clear. The blood was gone but he kept washing, as if he could scrub off the whole damn day.

“About what, exactly?” he asked, voice tight. There were so many things she could’ve meant, so many betrayals he could no longer keep straight. Lies layered on lies, like bricks in his very own tomb.

Her voice cracked. He wasn’t sure if that was a lie too. 

“I should never have left you.”

The words hit like a punch, but he didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink.

Goddamn it.

A week ago, hell, yesterday, those words would’ve gutted him. He would’ve let them unravel him. He would have swept her up into his arms, and made love to her, pretending that the last year hadn’t happened.

But, that was yesterday. 

Seeing her married, made him realize just how terrible their marriage had actually been. Abby had never loved him, maybe she loved the idea of him, the paycheck, the security of his job. But no, she didn’t love him. 

“No,” he said, voice flat, turning the faucet off with one slow, deliberate twist. “No, you don’t get to do this. Not tonight.”

“I’m sorry, Frank.” She stepped closer, barefoot now, the silk of her dress whispering against the tile. “You have no idea. I shouldn’t have married James. I didn’t realize—”

“For fuck’s sake, Abby,” he snapped, spinning to face her. His reflection in the mirror had hidden how red his eyes were, how tight his jaw had become. Now, face-to-face, there was nowhere left to hide. “This is your wedding. You literally got married two hours ago. What the hell is wrong with you?”

She flinched but didn’t stop. Of course she didn’t. Abby had always been relentless when she wanted something.

She took another step toward him, her dress rustling like dead leaves. Her eyes were wide now, frantic, as if she were trying to outrun something invisible. Or maybe she was finally seeing the wreckage she’d caused.

She reached out, her fingers grazing the edge of his sleeve, touching the rust-colored dried blood without hesitation. “You’re a good doctor, Frank. What you did tonight was a miracle.”

Oh, so this was what this was all about. She was turned on because of what he did in the ballroom. Was that all it took for her to cheat on someone?

“Please,” she breathed, almost pleading. “I still love you. It’s always been you. I was so stupid to think it could be anyone else. We can fix this. Start over. We can be a family again, Frank. I’ll annul the marriage to James. We can go anywhere and forget this all happened.” 

Frank felt his chest tighten, a phantom ache curling through him. It wasn’t because he believed her. It was because a part of him wanted to. And that scared the shit out of him. A part of him wanted to just forget everything that happened and go back to the life they had lived before. 

Her perfume hit him like a blow, sweet, floral, expensive. He’d bought it for her several years ago for her birthday. He’d loved the scent, he told her so every single time he slipped inside her. Familiar. The scent pulled him back in time, and  yanked at memories he’d tried like hell to bury. Nights with her hair on his pillow. Laughter in the kitchen. The warmth of her beside him, before everything soured.

And he hated that it still felt like something.

He took a slow step back. “Abby, no.”

His voice was a warning now. “I have a girlfriend. Mel. You met her.”

Abby’s lips twitched, her expression cracking into something twisted and sharp. “Please,” she said again, but now it dripped with bitterness. “You two can’t be serious. Come on, Frank. You’re out of her league. Be honest.”

There it was. The poison beneath the plea. He didn’t answer. Didn’t move. Didn’t blink. The air between them coiled tighter. Static. Charged. Like lightning was about to strike. She stared at him—like she was waiting for something to give. Waiting for him to crumble. But all she found was stone.

Still, she stepped forward. Reached out again. Her hands landed on his chest, trembling just enough to betray the performance. Her fingertips spread across his chest, so delicate, and familiar. It was like  they remembered the shape of him.

And Frank didn’t stop her.

Not because he wanted it. Not because he was tempted.

Because part of him needed her to see—to feel the wall she’d helped build between them.

Then before he could speak, before he could push her back or say her name, she surged forward and kissed him.

Her lips were hard against his, desperate and demanding, as if she thought she could pull him backward in time and make the last year disappear. Her fingers twisted in his collar, holding on like she was drowning. And maybe she was.

But Frank didn’t kiss her back.

He stood there like a statue, cold and unmoving letting the moment die on its own. His arms stayed at his sides. His body locked, frozen and cold, like a man watching a fire burn something he no longer wanted but once loved.

After a second, too long, not long enough, he broke the contact, hands going to her shoulders and pushing her firmly away.

“Don’t,” he said, voice low and tight with disbelief. “Don’t you ever do that again.”

Abby staggered back a step, lips parted, eyes glassy with something fragile and furious all at once.

“Frank—”

For fucks sake, what had she expected? Did she expect that he would just forget what she had done? What Abby and his brother had done to him for five years?

“No,” he snapped. “You don’t get to kiss me. Not after what you did. Not today of all fucking days. You gave me up. You don’t get to take that back.” 

And just as the door creaked behind them, the sound of heels on tile echoed into the quiet like a starting gun. Frank didn’t have to turn to know who it was. His stomach dropped.

“Mel,” he said, voice catching.

“Frank?”

Mel’s voice was light, hesitant, echoing in the tiled room like a slap.

Frank jerked back from Abby like he’d been shot, stumbling a step away, his hand halfway raised as if to prove he hadn’t touched her.

“Mel,” he breathed. “It’s not what you think.” 

Mel didn’t wait to hear another word. Instead, she left, the bathroom door swinging behind her as she moved. 

He shoved the bathroom door open so hard it slammed against the wall, echoing down the marble hallway. Mel was halfway across the lobby already, walking fast, shoulders stiff, hands clenched at her sides.

“Mel!” he shouted. “Mel, wait!”

He caught up with her just as she reached the front doors. He grabbed her hand, trying to stop her. She couldn’t go until he explained. It wasn’t what she thought it was. 

She yanked it free like it burned. He couldn’t let her go. Not like this.

Frank thought his heart was going to explode out of his chest at any minute. Before she could take another step, he grabbed the handle of a utility closet near the lobby doors, yanked it open, and pushed her inside.

“Frank, what the hell—!”

The door slammed shut behind them, swallowing the light and the noise of the lobby in one hollow boom.

It was dark, cramped, the air stale with bleach and dust. Shelves lined the walls, stacked with folded linen, mops, buckets, and cleaning supplies. The overhead bulb flickered dimly above them like it was considering going out for good. Quite frankly, it was nicer than his college dorm. 

Mel shoved at his chest with both hands. “Are you out of your mind?”

“I just need you to listen.”

“Shoving me into a damn closet isn’t the best way to start!”

“I know. I know. But, you were going to leave!” he said. “Please just let me explain.” 

“You don’t need to explain anything,” she said. “We aren’t actually dating. You don’t owe me anything, Langdon.”

He’d felt like he’d been slapped. Langdon, not Frank. He knew technically he didn’t have to explain anything to her, but he had to. It was Mel.

“God,” he said. “I know that, Mel. But you're my best friend. I care what you think about me. I care that you know that I would never do that.” 

“I’m your best friend?” she asked quietly.  Her jaw tightened. Her eyes stayed fixed on the floor, lashes low, chest rising and falling too fast, like she was holding in a flood. Her arms folded tight across her stomach, as if she could physically hold herself together.

Frank watched her, pulse still drumming hard in his chest. He reached out slowly, brushing a loose strand of hair away from her cheek with his fingertips, his touch barely there.“Yeah,” he told her. “I thought that was obvious? Why would I take you to my ex’s wedding if you weren’t my best friend, Mel?”

Her eyes stayed fixed on the floor, lashes low, breathing tight in her chest like she was holding back a hundred things she didn’t want to say. Her arms were folded now, clenched across her stomach like she was physically trying to keep herself together.

Frank watched her, his breath starting to even out but his pulse still thrumming like a drumline behind his ribs. Slowly, he reached out—one hand tentative as it brushed a strand of hair from her cheek.

“Mel,” he said, softer this time. “I didn’t want to hurt you. That’s the last thing I’d ever want. I didn’t kiss Abby. Trust me, that's the last thing I ever want to do.” 

“You’re the last person who could ever hurt me,” she said looking back up at him. 

Frank’s heart kicked against his ribs. Her eyes–god he loved her eyes. 

“Then why’d you look at me like that?” he asked, voice low. “Back there in the bathroom? You looked like I murdered your first born son.”

“For a moment, I almost forgot,” she said. 

He chuckled. “Forgot what Mel?”

“That we aren’t actually dating,” she whispered. “It was easy to pretend that we were for a small moment. I didn’t have any reason to be mad if you were kissing someone else.” 

He reached up, slow but sure, brushing his fingers along the edge of her jaw. “You looked at me like I broke your heart,” he said, barely a breath. “And all I could think was that I couldn’t lose you too.” 

“Frank—”

“You realize it, right?”

She narrowed her eyes at him.

He pressed on, stepping just a fraction closer. “You realize how much you mean to me? There were days I couldn’t breathe after what Abby did. Like my chest had collapsed and the air was gone. But Mel, you were air. You helped me breathe again. And I don’t even think you realized it. Hell, I didn’t either. Not until you had your hand in my hair and I realized I never wanted you to let go.”

She didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. Her eyes—wide, shining—locked onto his like they were the only thing keeping her upright. There was a dare in them. A pull. A gravity that made him feel like stepping closer was the only choice he had.

“I don’t know what to say,” she murmured, her voice low and shaky, like speaking at all was an effort.

He gave a small, breathless laugh, but there was no real humor in it.  “You don’t have to say anything, Mel. I just need you to know that I would never kiss Abby. Because she’s not the person I want to kiss anymore.”

He moved in slowly, each inch deliberate, giving her time to stop him if she wanted to. His nose brushed hers, soft at first, but lingering. She let out the faintest exhale, like the last thread of hesitation had just slipped from her lungs.

Her forehead came to rest against his. Close enough now that he could feel the heat radiating from her skin, could smell the faint trace of whatever perfume she wore—warm, sweet, dizzying. Mel always smelled of Lavender, and Vanilla, and right now he was drunk on the smell of it. 

Her hands found the front of his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric. She wasn’t pulling him in, not yet. But she was holding on. Like she needed the anchor. Like if she let go, she might do something she couldn’t take back.

“Tell me you feel the same, Mel,” he murmured, his voice almost a growl now. He stepped even closer, their bodies brushing. “Or tell me to fuck off and I will.”

Her throat worked as she swallowed, eyes flicking down to his mouth before darting back to his. “I—” She stammered, her breath hitching. “I wan’t—”

“Yes, Mel?” His mouth was at her temple now, his words feathering warm across her skin. “What do you want?”

Her lashes fluttered, the smallest tremor running through her. “You.”

And then he kissed her.

He’d wondered far more often than he’d care to admit what it was like to kiss Melissa King. But, the real thing was even better. He could taste the wine on her lips, and it made him hungry for more. More of her lips, her hands, her touch—just more Mel.

He moved his lips over hers gently. He wanted to take his time with Mel. He wanted her to know that she wasn’t just some quick tumble. She meant something, and she deserved more than he could ever give her. 

Mel however, kissed him back with enthusiasm. It was like she was afraid it might vanish if she didn’t hold it tightly enough. Her hands slid up his chest, curling around his collar. When her hands moved to his hair, he couldn’t stop the groan that escaped from his mouth.

When they finally pulled apart, just enough to breathe, her eyes were still closed. Her lips were parted, swollen from the kiss, and her chest rose and fell in time with his.

He leaned his forehead against hers, his voice husky. “We’re not pretending anymore.”

Her eyes fluttered open. And the smile that broke across her lips was soft and certain, tinged with disbelief.

“No,” she whispered. “We’re not.”

Her lips were still tingling from the kiss when Frank surged forward again, hungrier this time, the restraint in him beginning to fray at the edges.

She met him halfway, hands fisting in the front of his shirt, pulling him down to her as their mouths collided. This kiss wasn’t soft. It wasn’t patient. It was heat and urgency and something that had been building beneath the surface for far too long. It poured out of them like a dam finally cracked open—hot, messy, breathless.

His hands slid to her waist, fingers pressing hard enough that she gasped against his mouth. The closet was narrow, barely big enough for the two of them, boxes stacked high behind them, coats brushing against their arms. But none of it mattered. The walls could have caved in, and they wouldn’t have noticed.

Frank broke the kiss just long enough to murmur against her skin, voice rough and low, “Up. Come here.”

Before she could form a word, his hands were at her hips, lifting her up. Mel weighed nothing, and it was easy to pick her up and put her on the crates. The sudden motion made her gasp, her fingers instinctively clutching at his shoulders. He set her down onto a cracked plastic crate shoved into the corner of the closet. It groaned under her weight, but neither of them looked away long enough to care.

Her breath hitched as he stepped in between her knees, the small, enclosed space making it feel like there was nowhere to go but closer. His palms slid over her thighs, slow and deliberate, the heat of them seeping through the thin fabric of her skirt before slipping underneath. Mel's skin was like liquid silk, and he wondered how he lived today without touching it. 

“Is this okay, Mel?” His voice was quieter now.

She nodded once, sharp and certain, and then hooked her legs around his waist, pulling him in until there was no space left between them.

He didn’t complain. In fact, the low sound that rumbled from his chest told her just how much he liked it.

Her fingers slid up the back of his neck, tangling in his hair, tugging just enough to make him pause for half a second—long enough for him to look at her. Really look. His gaze dropped to her mouth, lingered there, then traveled lower before coming back up again, dark and hungry.

“Mel…” he breathed, like her name alone was undoing him.

Her answer came in the form of her hips tilting forward, pressing against him in a slow, deliberate roll that made his jaw tighten. His grip on her thighs flexed, his thumbs brushing higher, tracing the edge of lace before skimming back down as if he was barely restraining himself.

“Tell me to stop,” he said, even though his hands and his mouth were already finding hers again.

“I’m not going to,” she whispered against his lips, her breath mingling with his.

“Your hips, Mel,” he said, feeling brave. “Move your hips.”

Mel rolled her hips experimentally and instantly he felt himself harden. Fuck.  “Keep going,” His hand snaked around her waist, pulling her flush against him. It didn’t matter that they were already so close—no distance would ever be close enough for him. 

She rolled her hips against him, this time with far more courage, and he immediately ground himself back against her. It felt—Frank wasn’t sure how it felt. All he knew was that he never thought grinding against someone fully clothed in a supply closet could feel so sensual.

“Just like that, Mel. Keep going.” 

“Is this okay?” she asked continuing to grind herself against him.

“Fuck,” Frank moaned. “It’s perfect, Mel. You are perfect.” He groaned into her mouth, his fingers curling tighter against her. Everything about the kiss had shifted, rougher now, needier. He needed to stop, or he’d end up fucking Mel in a supply closet that very second. She deserved far more than that.

“I can't-” he knew Mel was close, and he smiled knowing he could bring her so close to the edge just by grinding on him. He wanted to know what it would be like without their clothes. He wanted to be with her completely in every way that mattered.

“That’s okay.” He said, his head falling into her hair, a loud groan escaping his lips, “Just relax. Enjoy it. Let go.”

She let out a gasp, throwing her head back, and if it wasn’t the greatest thing he’d ever seen. It didn’t matter to him that he didn’t finish because the only thing he could think about was her.

As her body began to relax, he kissed her again, unyielding and hungry, like he’d been holding back for far too long. His hands moved everywhere—up and down her thighs, along her back, skimming over her arms, tangling in her hair. He couldn’t get enough of Mel King.

“What about you?” Mel asked. “Did you?”

“Nah,” he smiled. “But, I’m fine. We have a lot to talk about,” he murmured against her lips.

She laughed softly, still holding him close. “We can talk about it at home.”

Home. The word hit him harder than it should have. God, hearing that come out of her mouth did more for him than anything else tonight. 

He hadn’t realized how important Mel had become to him. It was the simple things. The way she’d pick up the kids from school, know exactly what was wrong before he even spoke. She was kind to his kids, and knew just how to light of Tanners and Millie’s faces. It was the way she got overwhelmed at PTMC and have to look at a lava lamp to calm her down. It was everything. 

He eased her down from the crate, hands lingering on her waist longer than necessary before reluctantly letting go. She smoothed the wrinkles from her skirt, then reached up to try taming his hair. It was a lost cause—half the strands stuck up in stubborn defiance.

“You’re a mess,” she teased, smiling in a way that made his chest ache.

“Yeah, well, so are you,” he shot back, brushing his thumb across her cheek before stepping closer. Then, with a softness that belied everything else, Frank leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to Mel’s forehead—a quiet promise, a grounding touch, a wordless “I’m here.”

She closed her eyes, resting her head against his chest for a moment, and he felt something fragile and fierce settle inside him.

He cracked the door open, peering out into the hallway like a lookout on a mission. No one in sight.

“Coast is clear,” he said, grabbing her hand and tugging her outside.

“God, I feel like a high schooler,” she laughed, glancing over her shoulder as they hurried down the hall, the soft tap of their footsteps echoing faintly.

“Yeah,” he murmured, his voice rough with something between amusement and longing. Before she could say another word, Frank suddenly spun her toward the wall, his palm pressing firmly against the cool surface beside her head, blocking her path. The other hand still held hers, fingers tightening just slightly.

Her breath hitched as his dark eyes locked onto hers. God, he loved even the simple way she breathed.

“I forgot how fun sneaking around could be.”

His lips descended with deliberate hunger, brushing first against hers like a question, then claiming them with growing urgency.

“What was that for?” she asked. 

“Just because,” he said, and gave her another peck.

She straightened her clothes with a smile, and he took her hand. He couldn’t stop the grin that grew on his face as they separated. 

They rounded the corner—straight into Abby. Because of course they did.

She froze mid-step, champagne glass in hand, her eyes narrowing as they flicked between their faces. Her gaze lingered a little too long on Mel’s flushed cheeks and the way Frank’s shirt collar was slightly askew, like she was measuring something she wasn’t ready to accept.

“Well,” Abby said, her slow smile tight and sharp, a flicker of something dangerous lurking beneath it. “That explains why you disappeared.”

Frank felt Mel’s hand tense in his, fingers curling like a lifeline.

“Frank,” Abby said, voice low and insistent, but with an edge that made it clear this wasn’t just about a conversation. Frank groaned inwardly.

“Please, let me just talk to you,” she pressed, stepping closer, eyes flashing with jealousy and anger.

“We have nothing to talk about, Abby,” he snapped, his tone cold, shutting the door before she could wedge it open. “Nothing at all. Go back to your husband.”

“Frank, I need to tell you—” Abby’s voice cracked with frustration, her composure slipping for a bare moment.

“I don’t want to hear a single thing you have to say,” he told her. “Go back to your party.”

“Mel,” she turned to her, and instinctively his hand tightened on her. “You should leave. I need to talk to Frank in private.” 

Frank tried to lead Mel out of the venue, but Abby grabbed his arm. 

“Goddamn it, Abby!” Frank turned, voice low and shaking with rage. He hadn’t lost it completely on her yet. But, he didn’t care anymore. He was tired of being civil–tired of pretending that Abby Langdon wasn’t a horrible person.  “Are you happy now?”

Abby flinched. Good.

“You blew up our marriage, Abby,” he said, his voice rising with every word. “You walked out. You chose him. And now, now, you want to come crawling back on the night you marry my brother? And for what? To screw up the one thing in my life that wasn’t broken?”

Abby blinked fast. “Frank, I didn’t mean—”

“Don’t say you didn’t mean to,” he snapped. “You knew exactly what you were doing when you kissed me. You always know. You knew what you were doing when you married me hours after sleeping with my brother. You knew.”

“You kissed her?” a voice said behind them.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

He should have never come to this wedding. It really was such a bad idea, and now everything was exploding.

James stood in the ballroom doorway, flanked by their mother and father. Constance looked horrified and pinched. Their father was silent and stiff, his arm resting tensely on the small of her back.

But they weren’t alone. Guests had spilled into the hallway behind them—cousins, old family friends, a bridesmaid teetering in heels too high. Dozens of eyes were fixed on them, whispering, watching the slow-motion car crash unravel.

“You kissed her, Frank?” James shouted, stepping forward, his voice cracking with raw emotion. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“I didn’t kiss her back!” Frank bellowed. “She walked in on me, cornered me in the damn bathroom and threw herself at me!”

Frank pushed past James, moving toward the exit, desperate to get away from the suffocating crowd, the stares, the chaos.

But a firm hand shot out and grabbed his arm—James’s hand, rough and unyielding.

“Where do you think you’re going?” James hissed, eyes burning.

Frank jerked his arm, trying to pull free, but James held tight, his grip a silent challenge.

“You can’t just run from this. Not this time.”

Frank’s jaw clenched. He met James’s gaze, the anger and pain reflected there mirroring his own. “I didn’t start it!” Frank’s voice echoed off the marble walls. “You want to act like I’m the villain here? Like I ruined your perfect, picture-perfect wedding day?” He let out a bitter, broken laugh. “You slept with my wife. You destroyed our family. And then you sent me an invitation like we could all just play nice and pretend that none of it happened.”

“Frank—” Abby tried again.

“Don’t,” he hissed, whirling on her. “You made your choice. You don’t get to try to rewrite history because your guilt finally showed up two hours into your new marriage.”

“Frank, calm down,” their father said, stepping forward, palms raised in the universal gesture of silence and peace. “This isn’t the time or the place.”

“Do you think I care?” Frank shouted. “Let everyone hear it. Let the whole goddamn wedding hear what kind of people you are!”

Frank was snapping. Maybe blame the one two many drinks. Maybe blame the adrenaline crash, or his awful family. But, everything was finally catching up to him. 

The crowd behind them stilled.

“You want me to sit quietly? Swallow it like I always have? Be a good son and keep the peace? Fuck that. I’m done being quiet. I’m done being your fucking disappointment.”

“Frank, people are watching,” Constance hissed, eyes darting around, her mouth curled in horror.

“Let them!” he roared. “Let them finally see how fucked up this family is!”

He turned in a slow circle, facing the stunned crowd that had gathered like witnesses at a crime scene.

“You all want to know what kind of family this is? Here—here’s the truth. My wife cheated on me with my brother for five years. The first time was the day before our wedding.  They lied. They hid it. Then they got married and expected me to show up smiling like it didn’t fucking kill me to see the two people who were supposed to love me the most marry eachother.”

He looked back at James and Abby, breathing hard, voice raw now. “You want to talk about ruining things? I didn’t ruin anything. I’ve been the one person in this mess who hasn’t done a single thing wrong.”

James stepped right up to him. “You’re such a fucking child, you know that? You’re always the victim. You can’t stand anyone else being happy.”

Frank’s jaw tightened. “Try me.”

“You know what I think?” James spat, eyes narrowing. “You’re not mad about Abby. You’re mad because you downgraded. You went from a woman like her to that clingy little thing who follows you around like a lost puppy—what’s her name? Mel?”

The crowd went silent.

Frank blinked once.

Then his fist flew.

It landed squarely in James’s jaw with a brutal, sickening crack that echoed down the hallway, the kind of sound that made people flinch even if they hadn’t seen the hit. The impact snapped James’s head to the side, and he stumbled backward, catching himself against a decorative pillar with enough force to rattle the vase perched on top. Blood welled instantly at the corner of his mouth, dark and startling against his pale skin, and dripped in a thin line down his chin.

“Don’t ever talk about her like that again,” Frank said, his voice low and dangerous, his chest rising and falling like a man holding back a second swing. “You can say whatever the hell you want about me. But you don’t get to speak to Mel like that.”

James spat a red streak onto the floor before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing the blood across his knuckles. His eyes burned, hard and unflinching. “Oh, you think you’re some kind of noble hero? Standing up for your little girlfriend? That’s rich, Frank.”

Frank’s fists flexed at his sides, the tendons standing out white beneath his skin. “You should probably walk away before you say something you regret.”

James’s laugh was short and jagged, dripping with contempt. “Regret? No. I think it’s time I finally get something off my chest.”

Frank gave a bitter, humorless laugh of his own. “Yes, James. Go ahead. Tell everyone the truth. Tell them what a scumbag you are.”

James’s lip curled. “Oh, I’ve been wanting to say this for years.” He turned his head slightly toward Abby, who hovered just behind him, her face pale and tight. Her hands clenched and unclenched at her sides, breath hitching as if she was struggling to keep herself together. A tremor ran through her jaw as she bit back a scream or a sob—Frank couldn’t tell which.

“Don’t you think so, Abby?” James sneered.

“James, stop. Don’t do this,” she said quietly, her voice cracking under the weight of the moment. Her eyes darted nervously between James and Frank, panic flickering behind the controlled mask she wore. Her fingers twisted the fabric of her sleeve, trembling just enough to betray the fear clawing up inside her chest.

He stepped forward again, close enough now that Frank could smell the metallic tang of blood on his breath. “You want to know why I never cared that you played daddy? Why did I never fight you on custody?” He let the pause stretch, his smirk twisting sharper. “Because they’re not yours, Frank. They are mine.” 

Chapter Text

“They aren’t your children, Frank,” the man said—steady, unflinching, each syllable clipped with certainty. “They’re mine.”

For a heartbeat, the words didn’t land. They floated in the air like smoke, shapeless and absurd, waiting for reality to swat them away. Any second now—someone would laugh, call it a joke, and the world would slide back into place.

But no one laughed.

No. No. No. No.

Something cinched around Frank’s chest, a slow, merciless tightening. His pulse thudded in his ears, drowning out the room. The edges of his vision fuzzed, tunneled, as if the walls were closing in.

That wasn’t true. It couldn’t be true.

He turned, almost stumbling, toward the only person who could undo this, who had to undo this. His eyes locked on her—pleading, desperate. “That’s not true,” he rasped, his voice cracking under the weight of it. He shook his head hard, like if he rattled it enough the words would fall apart. “Abby?”

It came out barely above a whisper, but she heard it. He saw it in the way her shoulders twitched, the subtle collapse in her spine. She didn’t lift her head. Her chin stayed tucked, hair falling forward to hide her face, her silence thicker than any confession. Shame clung to her like a damp shroud, and the air between them soured with it.

A hot, pounding betrayal surged through him, loud and primal, like the beat of a war drum inside his skull. His hands were fists before he realized, nails biting into his palms.

His kids. His kids. The only thing in this goddamn life that had ever felt solid beneath his feet. The only reason he’d kept crawling out of bed when everything else was ashes. The one part of his marriage he thought had been untouchable, pure and his. 

He turned toward his parents like a man walking into a burning building, rage already blistering his throat. “Did you all know this?” he shouted, the words tearing out of him. “Was this just—just some twisted fucking game? Some secret you all whispered about when I wasn’t in the room?”

His father stepped forward, his voice measured. “Frank—”

“No!” Frank’s roar cracked through the air. His hand shot up, finger trembling as he pointed. “For once in your fucking life, tell me the truth! For once, just do your goddamn job and be my parents! Tell me the truth!”

Frank took a step forward, every muscle wound so tight it hurt to move. His vision tunneled on James— the man who had said it —and all Frank could see was the smirk that wasn’t even there, the imagined satisfaction of shattering his world.

“Frank—” his father started, but the sound was drowned out by the roar in his ears.

He closed the distance in three strides, his hand already curling into a fist, shoulder pulling back, every nerve in his body screaming for the crack of bone under his knuckles.

“Don’t you ever—”

“Frank!” Mel’s voice was sharp enough to cut skin, and then she was there, sliding in front of him so fast he nearly collided with her. Her hands slammed into his chest, pushing him back a step.

“Move,” he growled, low and feral, his eyes locked over her shoulder on James.

Her grip shot up, both hands fisting in his shirt. “You swing at him, you lose everything ,” she said, the words hissing through her teeth.

“He’s saying my kids aren’t mine,” Frank spat, every syllable vibrating with rage. His fist still hovered in the air, aching to finish what he’d started.

“I know,” she snapped. “And that’s exactly why you can’t do this here.”

Her nails dug into his arms hard enough to ground him, but he still strained forward, chest heaving against hers. Then she yanked him—really yanked, all leverage and desperation—forcing him two steps toward the door.

“Come on ,” she said, voice low but edged with panic.

For a heartbeat, he thought about breaking free. About making James bleed just enough to wipe that calm look off his face. But Mel’s hold didn’t waver, and the ice in her eyes told him she’d drag him out by the throat if she had to.

So he let her pull him, his pulse still pounding, the words They’re mine echoing in his head as they stumbled out of the room.

Mel didn’t stop moving until they were clear of the front steps, her hand still locked around his arm like she was afraid if she let go, he’d bolt back inside. The night air hit him hard, cold, damp, too real. Streetlights pooled yellow across the cracked pavement, the world outside painfully quiet compared to the chaos in his chest.

She steered him toward the curb and all but shoved him down. He sat because his legs gave out, not because he wanted to. His hands were still curled into fists, knuckles aching from how tightly he’d been holding them.

For a long second, neither of them spoke. Frank’s chest rose and fell in jagged bursts, every breath scraping against his ribs like broken glass. His shoulders shook, not with anger anymore but with something heavier, something he couldn’t muscle his way past. He stared at the asphalt between his boots, the blacktop shimmering faintly with oil and streetlight, trying to lock himself down, to keep the fury sharp. 

And then he broke anyway.

The first sob ripped out of him, raw and ugly, the kind of sound that clawed its way up from somewhere deep and ancient in the body. His fists, once knotted so tight the veins stood out in ropes, fell open, useless, his fingers digging into his knees as if to hold himself upright while his chest caved in.

“They’re mine,” he gasped, the words splintering on his tongue. “They’re mine, Mel… they’re mine.”

He could still see them, burned into the back of his skull, their faces tilted up toward him in a hundred small, ordinary moments. Laughter at the breakfast table. Bedtime stories half-finished because he’d fallen asleep beside them. Little hands tugging at his sleeve. He had spent his whole life fighting men who took what wasn’t theirs, men who left ruin in their wake, and now—now it was his kids caught in the blast radius of his choices.

Mel knelt beside him, pressing one steady hand to his back. Her palm moved in slow, grounding circles, like she was trying to hold the pieces of him together with touch alone. “I know,” she whispered, her voice low enough that only the night heard it.

“No, you don’t,” Frank rasped, shaking his head violently, tears cutting hot paths down his face. His throat ached with the force of holding it all in and failing anyway. “They’re the only thing in my life that—” His voice broke hard, so hard it nearly swallowed the rest. “—that ever mattered. The only thing I ever got right.”

His whole body shuddered as the truth slammed into him, merciless and absolute. “And now…” The words dissolved, leaving only the hollowed-out sound of him trying to breathe.

His throat closed, his whole body curling in on itself as another sob wracked through him.

Mel stayed there, silent, letting him shatter. She didn’t try to tell him it would be okay—she knew better. All she did was keep her hand on him, solid and warm, a tether to something that wasn’t pain.

Mel stayed crouched beside him, the smell of damp asphalt in the air, the hum of a streetlight overhead filling the silence. She could feel the heat coming off him, the way his whole body still vibrated with the need to move— to act . If she let him go now, he’d march back in there, and they’d have the cops on him in five minutes.

“Frank,” she said softly, her hand still moving slow circles over his back. “You want to win?”

His eyes snapped to hers, sharp and wet all at once. “This isn’t about winning, Mel. This is about them .”

“It’s about the kids,” she corrected, steady but firm. “And if it’s about the kids, then we don’t go in swinging. We go in smart.”

Her words dug under his skin because she was right—and he hated that she was right. Swinging felt good in his head. Swinging felt like justice. But swinging wouldn’t get his kids back.

He scrubbed at his face again, feeling the grit of dried tears on his skin. The pounding in his chest was still there, but it was changing rhythm, slowing, settling into something more focused.

“What are you saying?” he asked, his voice lower now, dangerous in a different way.

“I’m saying we find out exactly what they’ve got, what they can use against you, and we take it apart piece by piece,” Mel said. “We make sure the first move you make is the one that knocks the wind out of them. Not the one that lands you in handcuffs.”

He leaned back slightly, the cold curb pressing into him. The thought of playing it slow made his skin itch, but the picture in his head—the one where the kids were back with him, safe—burned hotter than his anger.

“And you’d help me do that?”

Mel’s gaze didn’t waver. “I’m already doing it. But you have to promise me you won’t let them bait you. Not one punch, not one threat they can write down and hand to a judge.”

Frank stared at her, the fight still in him but leashed now, coiled tight instead of spilling over. He thought of his kids—every laugh, every scraped knee, the way their eyes lit up when he walked in the room. That was worth swallowing his pride. That was worth every ounce of restraint he had.

“Fine,” he said finally, his voice like gravel. “We do it your way. But when I get them back…” He trailed off, his jaw tightening again. “When I get them back, none of those people ever come near them again. I don’t want Abby to ever see them again. I’m coming for everything.” 

Mel nodded once, satisfied she’d pulled him back from the edge. But she could still see the storm in his eyes, and she knew this wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

“I know where to start,” he said suddenly, his voice sharper now, alive in a way that made Mel glance over.

“Yeah?”

“James,” Frank said, his mouth curling into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “If he wants to claim they’re his kids, then he can explain to a judge why he abandoned them. No calls, no visits, no financial support. He’s got years of nothing to show for it. Hell, I bet he doesn’t even know their middle names.”

Mel’s brow arched. “You’d sue him?”

“Damn right I would,” Frank said, his pace quickening. “I’ll paint him as the guy who bailed before they could walk, and now he’s just crawling out of the woodwork to cause trouble. Judges don’t like that shit.”

“And Abby?”

He let out a short, humorless laugh. “She signed the birth certificates with my name on them. That’s fraud. Perjury, maybe. Either way, it’s a lie on a legal document. I can use that.”

Mel was quiet for a moment, processing. “So you hit them both at once.”

“Exactly,” Frank said. His voice had that clipped, tactical edge he fell into when strategy was the only thing holding him together. “Tie them up in court, make them bleed money on lawyers while I build my custody case. They’ll be so busy defending themselves they won’t have time to come after the kids.”

Mel’s lips curved just slightly, the faintest quirk of approval. Her eyes flickered in the low light, steady and sharp all at once. “It’s smart. Aggressive, but smart.”

He gave a short nod, but the plan was already marching forward in his head, every piece slotting into place with the kind of precision that left no room for rest. “I need to go back in,” he said, his jaw locking around the words. They came out tight, brittle, already carrying the weight of a war he hadn’t yet waged.

“Frank—”

“I won’t do anything.” The line of his jaw flexed as though he had to physically grind the vow into being. “I just need to see their faces when they realize I’m coming for everything.” His voice was a blade, sharp and dangerous, but beneath it ran something hollow, a man running out of pieces to sharpen.

Her hand closed over his arm, firm but not forceful. “Okay,” she said carefully, eyes soft even as her grip held fast. “But if you feel like swinging, I’m getting you out of there.”

For a beat, he just looked at her. Really looked. At the unwavering steadiness in her gaze, the way she didn’t flinch from his rough edges or the storm bristling off him. Her presence was a weight that anchored instead of drowning. Christ. What did he ever do to deserve Mel King? He could live a thousand lifetimes and never claw his way close to earning her.

And yet she was here. Choosing him. Standing steady in the blast zone of his ruin.

The thought cracked something open in him, something raw and terrifying. He bent his head before reason could stop him, before fear could shove the truth back down his throat, and kissed her.

It wasn’t gentle. Couldn’t be. The kiss was all fury and hunger, all the violence he couldn’t unleash anywhere else spilling out in the only way it could. A storm desperate for landfall. She met it without hesitation, her hands fisting in his shirt, anchoring him as though she knew he might shatter if she didn’t. The world collapsed down to her—her mouth, her breath, her pulse steady against his chaos.

When he broke away, his lungs were ragged, forehead pressed against hers, as if she were the only thing keeping him upright.

“We are going to need to talk about this,” she whispered, lips brushing his as the words slipped out.

His throat tightened, working around everything he couldn’t say. That he’d been drowning for years and she was the only air he’d found. That for the first time in longer than he could remember, he wanted more than just to win—he wanted her. All he gave was a small, rough nod. Then, softer, reverent, he pressed his mouth to her forehead. “After.”

A ghost of a smile curved her lips. “After.”

He forced himself to step back, exhaling slow like it might keep him from unraveling. His hand lingered at her waist a moment too long before sliding down, fingers lacing through hers, holding tighter than he meant to.

“You ready?” he asked, his voice low, quieter than it had been all night, stripped of the fire that usually drove him.

Mel searched his face for a long beat, as if measuring the storm in him, then nodded. “With you? Always.”

Something inside him shifted at that. Settled. For the first time all night, the wild part of his chest—the part that wanted to burn the world down—stilled. For a moment, he wasn’t a man of fury and strategy, wasn’t a weapon sharpened by grief. He was just Frank. Just a man standing beside the only person who could still see him clearly.

And if the thought bloomed, dangerous and undeniable. He could love her. Maybe he did. 

In another life, Mel would have been the person he married five years ago. He could see it now—Mel playing with the kids in the backyard, lazy saturday mornings where they both sipped on their coffee. They could still have that ahead of them, couldn’t they?

They stepped through the doors together, the muffled hum of voices swelling into a low roar. The reception hall glittered with chandeliers and polished glass. But there was an awkwardness in the air. No one was smiling. People were picking at their food with their heads down. He also noticed that a large group of the party had left. He wondered if the party guests were just as sickened at James and Abby's actions as he was. 

Mel’s arm brushed against his as they moved further inside. She was steadying herself, heels clicking on the marble, but to anyone watching it looked like the two of them belonged there.

He froze in the doorway of the ballroom, before taking a deep breath to steady himself. He smiled at Mel, who looked up at him with her large eyes. “Let's go say hello.” 

When they walked in the room grew silent, but Frank didn’t pay attention to the onlookers. His gaze was fixed on his family. 

James was the first to shift, his drink halfway to his lips, color draining from his face. Abby’s smile flickered, brittle at the edges as she tried to hold her composure.

Frank stopped just short of their table. He didn’t lean in, didn’t sneer, didn’t let the fire show. Instead, he straightened his jacket cuff with the kind of patience that felt like a blade being sharpened.

“James,” he greeted. “Abby.”

“Frank—” his father started. 

“Frank,” his mother said. “Don’t do something you’ll regret.” 

Oh like sleeping with his brother's wife? Oh, wait. His brother had already done that. 

He looked at her blankly, no longer seeing his mother but a complete stranger. “Trust me, I’m not going to regret this.” 

His father at least had the decency to look somewhat ashamed of everything. 

Frank’s words hung in the air, each syllable deliberate: “ You’ll hear from my lawyers in the morning.”

The room froze. Abby’s hands clenched at her sides, knuckles white, her face drained of color. Her eyes darted between Frank and Mel, searching for a crack, a sign that this wasn’t real. But his expression was unreadable—stone-cold, precise.

His father’s jaw tightened, a faint tremor running through his hand as he gripped his glass. “Frank…” he began, voice hesitant, faltering.

Frank’s pulse hammered in his chest, a nervous, jittery rhythm he could feel in his fingertips. He wanted to shake, wanted to roar, wanted to make them pay right now . But he forced it down, pressed it into the edges of his mind, and let the calm mask him like armor. He took a slow, measured breath. Steady. Cold. Controlled. That was the weapon now.

His mother’s eyes were wide, shimmering with unshed tears or perhaps fear—he wasn’t sure. She opened her mouth, then closed it again. She knew she had nothing to say.

The guests murmured quietly, some glancing around at each other, some frozen mid-conversation, sensing the invisible tension stretching through the room. A waiter paused mid-step, tray of champagne bottles hovering like a monument to the moment. Even the music felt like it had been turned down.

Abby swallowed hard, finally finding words. “Frank… please—”

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. His voice was quiet, but it cut like steel. “No. You’ll have your chance to talk through my lawyers.”

“Don’t do this, Frank,” Abby said quickly, her voice trembling. “We can talk about this.”

His jaw worked once before he answered. “I’m done talking.” The calm in his tone was worse than shouting, worse than rage; it was final, a guillotine already falling. “If you wanted to talk, you should’ve done it five years ago—before our wedding day. You should’ve trusted me with the truth.”

His eyes flickered, hard and hollow. “If you’d really loved my brother, I would’ve stepped aside. I would’ve cancelled the wedding. Hell, I would’ve been sad, sure—grieving the life I thought I’d have—but I would’ve found a way to be happy for you both. Because I would’ve known it was real.”

He leaned forward just slightly, voice dropping to a razor edge. “But you didn’t give me that choice. You lied. You let me build a life on rot, and now it’s collapsing on all of us. That’s not on me. That’s on you.”

A pause stretched, cold and unyielding.

“I hope you’re happy with your choices,” Frank said finally, his voice stripped of everything but resolve. “Because now you’ll have to live with them.”

“Don’t do this,” she said. “Thing about the kids. Would you really put them through a court case.”

“I look at my kids,” Frank said finally, barely holding it together. “And I see my whole goddamn heart walking around outside my body. I would burn down the world for them. And you—you looked at me and you let me become their father knowing all this? You let me love them like they were mine.”

“They are yours,” Abby said, voice hoarse. “In every way that matters—”

“Goddamn right they are,” he said. “They are my children. Mine. I raised them. As for you,” he turned to James. He wasn’t really his brother. He refused to call him that anymore., “you ever come near them again— ever —and I will ruin your life in ways you can’t even imagine. I will bankrupt you. I will gut your reputation. I will take everything from you, piece by piece, until you’re unrecognizable. You’ll have to leave Pittsburgh altogether because no one will be able to look you in the eye because of what you’ve done.”

He looked all around at the party guests who were looking on at the events in horror. At least he wasn’t the only room who realized just how fucked up his entire family was. 

The man shifted, eyes darting to the floor, but Frank didn’t break eye contact.

“You may share their blood,” Frank said, voice low, lethal, “but you will never be their father.”

Chapter Text

The front door creaked softly as Mel eased it open, the dim golden glow of the porch light spilling across the hardwood floor. The house was wrapped in the kind of stillness that only came late at night, broken only by the faint hum of the refrigerator and the whisper of crickets outside.

Robby sat slouched on the couch, one ankle crossed over his knee, the blue light of the muted TV flickering across his face. He straightened when he saw them.

“What happened?” Robby asked, brows lifting.

Frank closed the door behind them with a tired thud and tossed his keys into the bowl by the door. His shirt was wrinkled, his tie half-askew, and the tension in his shoulders hadn’t eased an inch since they’d left.

“Did the kids go to sleep easily?” Frank asked, trying to sound casual.

“I gave them some anesthesia,” Robby said lightly, flashing a grin. “They went out like a light.”

“Robby,” Mel warned, her voice sharp enough to cut. She was unwinding her scarf, fingers trembling slightly, her lipstick smudged as though she’d bitten her lip too many times tonight.

“Sorry,” Robby said, rubbing the back of his neck, the grin faltering. “It was just a joke. I take it things didn’t go well?”

“That’s one way to describe it,” Mel muttered, sinking onto the arm of a chair as though her legs might give out. “You really don’t want to know.”

Robby leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, his expression soft but alert. The lamplight caught in his eyes, lending them that same unshakable spark of optimism that always made Frank vaguely envious. “My therapist says talking about things is actually extremely helpful,” he said with a crooked smile. “I know, it’s a crazy concept.”

Frank exhaled through his nose, the sound weary. “I’ll be back. I need to see the kids.”

“Frank—” Mel’s voice cracked gently from where she sat curled in the armchair, her knees drawn in, still clutching her coat as if she hadn’t fully come home yet.

“I just need to see them, Mel,” he said, more softly. His gaze flicked toward the darkened hallway where their bedrooms lay like quiet islands. “I won’t wake them.”

Mel’s shoulders sank as she nodded.

Robby frowned, his tone carefully measured. “What am I missing? What happened?”

Frank dragged a hand down his face, his palm rasping against the stubble on his jaw. The room felt too warm, too still, like it was holding its breath. “The kids might not be mine,” he said at last, the words falling like stones.

“Fuck,” Robby whispered, leaning back as if the air had been knocked out of him.

“Yeah,” Frank said bitterly. “My thoughts exactly.”

“Are you sure?”

“No.” Frank’s voice was rough. He kept staring at the floor, at the braided rug beneath his feet as if it might anchor him. “I should probably get a DNA test. But it doesn’t matter. They aren’t his kids, Robby. They are mine. I’ll fight him for them until I’m dead if I have to.”

Something flared in Robby’s expression—concern, maybe, or admiration. “Do you have a plan?”

Frank lifted his head, eyes cold with resolve. “Bury them in so many lawsuits they’ll have no choice but to give me custody. If it’s true, it means Abby lied on their birth certificates. That’s fraud. A felony. If they really try to take the kids, I’ll end them.”

“Smart,” Robby said, though his voice was hesitant now. “But… you still might lose custody. They might just go into the system.”

“I’ll adopt them,” Frank said immediately, like he’d already fought the war in his head and chosen his hill to die on. “I’m going to talk to my lawyer in the morning to see what my options are. I’ll give them an ultimatum—either they accept I take full custody or I’ll go after everything. Abby’s superficial, and I doubt my brother would stay loyal to her when things get hard. It’s not who he is.”

“Frank… this could get ugly,” Robby whispered.

Frank looked toward the dark hallway again, his expression unreadable, except for the sharp edge of protectiveness burning beneath it.

“It already is,” he said. He looked back up the staircase. “I really need to see them. I’ll be back in a second. Thank you, Robby, for watching them.”

“Anytime, Man,” he said. “You got some good kids. They are exhausting, little ADHD bundles of energy, but they are so sweet.” 

He smiled. They took after him in that regard. 

Frank climbed the stairs slowly, each step groaning under his weight. The house was hushed, wrapped in that fragile kind of silence that felt like it might shatter if he breathed too loud. His hand slid along the banister as he reached the landing, drawn by the soft hum of the white noise machine drifting from the kids’ room.

He eased the door open.

Moonlight spilled across the room in broken slants, catching on the edges of toys scattered on the rug, on the colorful spines of books lined up on the low shelf. The air smelled faintly of baby shampoo and crayons.

Tanner was out cold, sprawled sideways across his bed with his stuffed fox jammed under his chin. Millie, though, stirred. She blinked against the dim light, her small face scrunching, and then her eyes found him.

“Daddy?” she whispered, her voice raspy with sleep.

Frank’s heart clenched. “Hey, bug,” he murmured.

He moved without a sound, lowering himself onto the edge of her small bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. The nightlight cast a soft amber glow across the room, painting her toys in sleepy shadows and catching in the strands of her hair like threads of gold.

She stirred, her lashes fluttering, and then—wordless, instinctive—she slid off the bed. Her tiny feet made no sound on the carpet as she padded toward him, the hem of her pajama pants dragging slightly.

Before he could say anything, she clambered into his lap, trusting him utterly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. She tucked herself against his chest with a small sigh, her arms looping around his neck. Within moments, her breathing slowed again, soft and even, already halfway back to sleep.

Frank eased down to the floor, crossing his legs so she could rest more securely against him. He cradled her gently, one hand splayed protectively across her back. She was warm, solid, and impossibly small in his arms—yet she felt like the center of the universe.

He pressed his cheek to the crown of her head, inhaling the faint sweetness of her shampoo, that familiar scent that somehow still carried traces of sunshine and finger paint.

And then the tears came—hot, silent, unstoppable. They slid down his face as he held her tighter, his shoulders trembling with the effort to stay quiet. He buried his face in her soft curls, desperate not to wake her, clutching her as though sheer will alone could keep the world from stealing her away.

Mine, he thought fiercely, even as his tears soaked into her tiny pajamas. No matter what anyone says. She’s mine.

He wasn’t sure how long he sat there on the carpet, rocking her gently, his tears dripping silently onto the moonlit floor. All he knew was that the thought of letting go felt unbearable—like stepping off the edge of the world.

At some point, the exhaustion caught up to him.

Frank hadn’t meant to fall asleep. One moment he was watching her chest rise and fall in slow, even breaths, and the next, the edges of the world blurred and softened. The warmth of her small body pressed against his chest, the faint hum of the white noise machine, the smell of baby shampoo—all of it wrapped around him like a lullaby he hadn’t realized he needed.

His head had slumped back against the side of her bed, his arms still curled protectively around her as sleep finally dragged him under.

When he stirred again, it was because of the silence—the wrong kind of silence. Not the gentle hush of night, but the heavy stillness of being watched.

He blinked groggily, vision swimming before it cleared.

Two pairs of wide eyes stared back at him.

Tanner was standing just a few feet away, hair sticking up like a startled hedgehog, his stuffed fox clutched under one arm. Millie was still nestled in his lap, awake now, her cheek resting against his chest but her gaze fixed on his face with quiet intensity.

Neither of them spoke. They just looked at him, like they were trying to puzzle out what he was doing there—sitting on their floor, eyes red, shirt rumpled, holding them like he might never let go.

Frank’s breath caught. Something hot and sharp twisted behind his ribs, because they were looking at him like he was theirs.

“Hey,” he whispered hoarsely, forcing a shaky smile. “Morning, you two.”

Tanner tilted his head. “Daddy… were you crying?”

Frank’s throat closed. He smoothed Millie’s hair with a trembling hand and reached his other out to , who came closer, hesitating only a second before crawling into the circle of his arm.

And just like that, he was holding both of them—one warm, heavy weight on each side, their little hearts thudding steady against him.

“No,” he murmured finally, pressing his lips to the top of Tanner’s head. “I was just… loving you.”

Neither of them said anything, but they curled closer, and for the first time that night, Frank felt like he could breathe.

Frank stayed there on the carpet, one arm wrapped around each of them, soaking in the quiet weight of their small bodies pressed close. Their warmth anchored him, pulling him back from the edge of everything that had been clawing at him all night.

The door creaked softly.

He lifted his head just as Mel appeared in the doorway, leaning her shoulder against the frame. She was still wearing yesterday’s clothes, her hair loosely pulled back, wisps falling around her face—but there was something different in her expression now. Softer. Lighter.

A smile tugged at her lips as her eyes landed on the three of them huddled together. “Well,” she murmured, voice warm and quiet, “this is where you’ve been hiding?”

Frank blinked at her, caught between guilt at having dozed off on the floor and the sudden rush of affection that came with seeing her smile like that.

Mel stepped into the room, her bare feet silent on the carpet. “I made breakfast,” she said gently, crouching down to their level. “Pancakes. With chocolate chips.”

Millie stirred at the word pancakes, lifting her head drowsily from Frank’s chest. “Choc’late?” she mumbled, still half-asleep.

“Yes, baby,” Mel said, brushing her daughter’s hair back from her face with careful fingers. “Chocolate.”

Tanner perked up too, eyes brightening. “Can we have whipped cream?”

Mel smiled at him. “Already on the table.”

Frank let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Something inside him eased—not all the way, not even close, but enough. Enough for this moment.

“C’mon, you two,” Mel said, straightening. “Let’s go eat before the whipped cream melts.”

Millie wriggled in Frank’s lap until he set her down, and Tanner slipped his small hand into his. They both looked back at him as if making sure he was coming too.

Frank pushed himself to his feet slowly, his body stiff, his heart somehow steadier. “Yeah,” he said quietly, squeezing their hands. “Let’s go.

Frank followed Mel and the kids down the narrow hallway, their little feet padding softly ahead of him. Millie still clutched his hand with sleepy insistence, while Tanner kept glancing back at him with a grin that made him ache all over.

The kitchen smelled like butter and chocolate, warm and familiar. Pancakes stacked high waited on the table, and the soft clatter of utensils and mugs added a cozy rhythm to the room. For a moment, Frank felt almost normal—almost like the weight of the night could be lifted, just for a few minutes.

He slid into the chair beside Millie, brushing a lock of hair from her forehead. As he poured syrup over the pancakes, his eyes flicked around the room.

“Hey,” Frank said, voice low, trying not to startle anyone. “When did Robby leave?”

Mel glanced at him over her shoulder, a small smile on her lips, but her eyes were attentive, measuring. “A little while ago,” she said gently. “He didn’t want to wake you. Said you looked like you needed the rest.”

Frank exhaled, letting some of the tension slip from his shoulders. He hadn’t realized how tense he’d been, how tightly he’d been holding himself upright, until now. “Right,” he murmured. “Of course. Yeah…”

Tanner nudged him with his elbow, chocolate chip pancake poised on his fork. “Daddy, eat!”

Frank smiled, the kind of real, small smile that felt like it might stick this time. “Yeah, I will, buddy. Don’t worry.” He glanced at Millie, who was already nibbling a corner of her pancake, and then at Mel, whose hand hovered near his, offering quiet reassurance.

Frank took a slow bite of his pancake, trying to focus on the sweet, buttery taste rather than the storm of thoughts circling in his head. Millie sat beside him, fork clumsily stabbing at her own, while Tanner eagerly demolished his stack, chocolate chips scattered across his plate.

Mel leaned against the counter, arms crossed loosely, her expression calm but attentive. “Robby left the name of a good lawyer for you,” she said quietly. “He said you’d call in the morning.”

Frank swallowed hard, the syrup catching in his throat. He set his fork down, trying to meet her gaze without letting the exhaustion show too much. “Yeah,” he said hoarsely. “I… I will. First thing.”

Mel stepped closer, resting a hand lightly on the back of his chair. “He said it’s someone who’s handled tricky custody cases before,” she added. “He wanted you to know you’re not alone in this.”

Frank’s jaw tightened. He glanced at the kids, so oblivious to the weight of everything surrounding them, laughing and jabbering over breakfast. The thought of fighting for them, of protecting them no matter what, sat heavy in his chest—but Robby’s advice made it feel just a little less impossible.

“I’ll call,” he repeated, more firmly this time, determination threading through his voice. “I’ll see what our options are. I won’t let anyone take them from me.”

Mel gave him a small, supportive smile, and for the first time since the previous night, Frank felt a flicker of hope. Not a cure-all, not a fix—but a first step.

Tanner looked up at him mid-bite, chocolate smeared across his cheek. “Daddy, are you gonna play with us after breakfast?”

Frank chuckled softly, reaching over to brush the chocolate off his son’s face. “Yeah, buddy,” he said, his voice steadier than he expected. “We’ll play. I promise.”

Millie yawned against his arm, leaning into him. “Daddy…” she murmured sleepily.

“I know, baby,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “After breakfast, we’ll have all the playtime you want.”

Mel watched them quietly for a moment, her presence a gentle anchor in the room. “You’re doing the right thing,” she said softly. “Call the lawyer, take care of this. And… just let yourself be with them right now.”

Hours had passed. The morning sunlight slanted through the blinds, cutting warm lines across the living room floor. Tanner was busy with a puzzle on the carpet, muttering to himself as he fit pieces together, while Millie napped on the couch, her head pillowed against a throw.

Frank sat at the kitchen table, fingers drumming lightly against the wood. A quiet determination had settled over him, sharpening his thoughts and anchoring his restless energy. The pancakes were long gone, dishes cleared away, and the hum of the house had returned to a comfortable rhythm.

He picked up the piece of paper Mel had given him, Robby’s handwriting neat and precise with the lawyer’s contact information. The name of someone experienced in complex custody cases stared back at him, and for the first time since yesterday, he felt a sense of direction—not relief, not victory, but a path forward.

Taking a deep breath, he dialed the number. Each ring was a small drumbeat of anxiety, of hope, of the weight of everything he was about to fight for.

“Hello?” A firm, professional voice answered on the other end.

“Hi,” Frank said, voice steadying as he spoke. “My name’s Frank Langdon. I… I was given your contact by a friend. I need help with a custody case.”

There was a pause on the line, and then the lawyer’s tone softened, understanding layered beneath the professionalism. “Of course. Robby told me you would call. Why don’t you tell me a little about the situation?”

Frank exhaled, his chest tightening as the words tumbled out—carefully measured, but raw with urgency. “It’s complicated… and it’s time-sensitive. I need to protect my children, and I want to understand all my options. Full custody, legal action… anything that can ensure they stay safe and with me.”

“Alright,” the lawyer replied, scribbling notes, though Frank could hear the confidence in their voice. “We’ll need to go through the details, document everything, and outline the strategy. But you’re in the right place, and we’ll work on this together.”

Frank’s jaw tightened, a surge of relief mingling with the tension. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “I… I want to get started as soon as possible.”

“Good,” the lawyer said. “We’ll schedule a meeting tomorrow morning. Bring all relevant documents and any records you have—birth certificates, communication, anything that could help build the case. You’re not alone in this, Mr. Langdon].”

Frank ended the call and set the phone down, his hands finally stilling. For the first time in a long night and a long morning, he felt a thread of control returning—a sense that the storm he’d been living through could be fought with more than just anger and fear.

He looked over at Tanner, who was still working on the puzzle with furrowed brows, and at Millie, curled up quietly on the couch. His chest ached with a fierce, protective love.

No matter what. No matter what it took. He would do whatever it took to keep them safe.