Work Text:
What the Rain Brought
It had been raining for most of the night, and Pittsburgh seemed to have made it to morning without quite enough time to recover.
Water had collected along street corners, a few underpasses had begun to flood, and the sky remained buried beneath a layer of gray so thick it was hard to tell what time of day the light belonged to.
December wasn't helping.
The cold, the rain, and the approaching holidays seemed to have put everyone in a hurry at the same time.
Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe it was the absurd need to finish before the end of the year everything that had gone unresolved for months. For some people, December meant excitement, family gatherings, anticipation. For others, anxiety, unfinished business, and the uncomfortable sense that the calendar was moving much faster than they were.
In the ER, the distinction didn't matter much.
People drove worse, argued more, fell down, got sick, and made questionable decisions with surprising frequency.
The Pitt was paying the price.
Mel King had had a difficult year, too.
Although, for the first time, she was beginning to think that difficult and bad didn't necessarily mean the same thing.
Too many things had changed.
Becca was becoming more independent. Mel was proud of her. She really was.
The problem was that she'd never stopped to think about what would happen to her own life when it finally happened.
For too long, she'd made decisions with someone else in mind first. Schedules. Jobs. Apartments. Routines. Even the smallest things had always had one constant variable:
Does this work for Becca?
Now another question was beginning to appear.
What works for me?
Surprisingly, the second one was much harder to answer.
At Javadi's suggestion—she was doing a psychiatry rotation now—Mel had started therapy a few months earlier.
The first few sessions had been uncomfortable.
Mel was used to questions that had answers.
Symptoms. Dates. History. Causes.
In medicine, even when an answer wasn't immediately obvious, there were at least procedures for trying to find it.
Talking about herself was different.
She had started to understand more clearly why she needed certain routines, why seemingly minor changes could throw her off for hours, and why, when too many things happened at once, her first instinct was to try to control all of them.
She had also discovered something considerably more uncomfortable.
She couldn't always do that.
The first time she'd really accepted it had been two months earlier.
It had been a particularly bad shift.
She couldn't even remember now which of the things that had happened that day had finally done it.
Probably none of them.
Probably all of them.
All she remembered was making it to the ambulance bay, sitting down, and starting to cry.
And then Frank.
He hadn't asked her what was wrong.
That was what she remembered most.
He had simply sat down beside her.
Mel had been trying to wipe the tears from her face with her hands when Frank pulled his AirPods out of his pocket. He put one in his ear and held the other one out to her.
Mel looked at him, confused.
Frank didn't say anything.
He just kept his hand extended.
After a few seconds, she took the AirPod and put it in.
Frank found something on his phone.
A song they both knew began to play.
Nothing special.
Just something quiet.
Frank stayed beside her without speaking.
Mel closed her eyes.
Breathed.
Once.
Again.
Then once more.
The ambulance bay was still noisy. Doors opening. People talking. A siren somewhere in the distance.
But little by little, everything stopped reaching her all at once.
When she finally opened her eyes, Frank was still sitting exactly where he'd been.
“Thank you,” Mel said.
He gave a small nod.
“One thing I've learned over the last couple of years is that we can't always do everything. We can't always be there for everything.”
Mel looked down at her hands.
Frank waited.
“And there's nothing wrong with asking for help.”
Mel took off her glasses and wiped away the remaining tears before cleaning the fogged lenses.
“I know.”
Her voice was quiet.
Frank watched her for a moment.
“You know you can count on me, right?”
Mel looked up at him.
She nodded.
“Yeah.”
Frank gently rubbed a hand over her back.
Mel finished cleaning her glasses, handed the AirPod back to him, and stood.
Frank stood with her.
A loose strand from one of Mel's braids had stuck to her damp cheek.
Frank carefully moved it aside.
Mel looked up at him.
“It's gonna be okay,” he said.
She looked like she was about to answer when the door opened behind them.
“Langdon! King! We need you inside!” someone called.
And they went back.
Like always.
There were emergencies to deal with.
Everything else had to wait.
The next day, Mel talked to Javadi.
She didn't want to see Becca's therapist. Too many of the things she needed to understand involved her sister, and sharing a therapist seemed unnecessarily complicated.
Javadi, who was doing a psychiatry rotation, recommended someone else—a psychologist she thought was very good.
Mel called.
And went.
Two months later, she was still going.
Rain hammered against the glass doors of the ER.
Mel looked up.
It seemed worse than it had an hour ago.
Her shift was ending, which had created a dilemma that had been coming up a little too often lately.
She wanted to leave the hospital.
She wasn't entirely sure she wanted to arrive at her apartment.
Learning to be alone was considerably harder than people made it look.
Her therapist hadn't asked her to give up her routines. Some of them were necessary. They helped her function.
But Mel was beginning to understand that there was a difference between structure that helped her and structure she held on to simply because the unknown was uncomfortable.
She'd started small.
Changing a plan.
Accepting an invitation without knowing every detail in advance.
Trying something simply because it interested her.
Saying no when she genuinely didn't want to do something.
And perhaps the hardest one: asking herself what she needed before asking what everyone else needed.
It was a process.
And she didn't always know what to do with it.
“Doesn't look like the rain's letting up.”
Frank's voice came from behind her.
Mel turned.
He had already changed. Street clothes, and a jacket that looked woefully inadequate for whatever was happening on the other side of the doors.
Mel looked outside again.
“I think I may end up sleeping here, very much against my will. I'm not making it to my apartment in this.”
Frank watched the street for a few seconds.
“I'll drive you.”
Mel looked at him.
She clasped her hands in front of her while she considered it.
“I still have some charting to finish. I don't want to make you wait.”
“I'm not in a hurry. I'll call the kids. Let me know when you're ready.”
Mel nodded.
Frank pulled out his phone and walked away, looking for somewhere quieter to make the video call.
Mel watched him for only a few seconds before turning back to her charts.
Frank had been divorced for several months.
For a while, he'd kept the separation within a small circle. After rehab, coming back, and everything else that had happened, he'd probably had enough conversations about his private life to last him several years.
Eventually, he'd stopped hiding it.
He and Abby had tried to repair their marriage.
It hadn't worked.
They hadn't become enemies, either.
Now they were learning how to raise their children from two different homes, while Frank adjusted to a life in which being a father still occupied exactly the same place even if Tanner and Penny weren't under his roof every day.
Mel had never asked him too many questions.
He talked when he wanted to.
That was enough for her.
Forty minutes later, Mel finally appeared with her bag over her shoulder and her coat on.
Frank was waiting near the exit.
“Ready?”
“Yeah.”
Mel looked toward the doors.
“I think it's raining less now.”
The automatic doors opened.
A gust of wind drove a sheet of water against the entrance with enough force to stop both of them in their tracks.
Outside, the rain was falling almost sideways. Water streamed across the parking lot and the trees bent under the wind.
For several seconds, Mel simply stared at the evidence that had just contradicted her.
Frank looked at the storm.
Then at her.
“Yeah. Definitely better.”
Mel slowly turned her head toward him.
Frank barely managed to hide a smile.
She looked outside again.
There wasn't much to argue with.
Frank adjusted his jacket.
“Wait here. I'll bring the car around.”
He headed out into the parking lot.
Mel watched him make his way through the rain.
There was an umbrella near the door.
She looked at it.
Then back at Frank.
It didn't make sense for him to walk all the way to the car alone in that weather.
She grabbed the umbrella and went after him.
The decision seemed perfectly reasonable...
for approximately five seconds.
A gust of wind turned the umbrella inside out before she'd even made it halfway.
Mel tried to hold on to it.
The next gust ripped it out of her hands completely.
The umbrella went flying several yards across the parking lot.
Mel stared after it.
For a moment, she calculated whether it was worth chasing.
Definitely not.
By the time she reached Frank's car, she was completely soaked.
She opened the door and got in.
Frank looked at her.
Then through the windshield at the umbrella still making its way across the parking lot.
Then back at her.
“I told you to wait.”
Mel took off her water-covered glasses.
“I thought I could help.”
Frank shook his head slightly as he pulled away.
“You're soaked.”
“So are you.”
Frank couldn't argue with that.
He turned up the heat.
Mel tried to dry her glasses on a relatively dry section of her shirt.
It didn't help much.
Frank was wet, too. The rain had darkened his hair, and a few drops still ran down his forehead.
Mel looked up at him.
He looked good.
Too good, considering he looked like he'd just walked through a swimming pool fully dressed.
She immediately returned her attention to her glasses.
That observation required no further analysis.
Frank reached behind his seat.
“Here.”
Mel took the small blanket and spread it over her lap.
She studied the pattern.
Moana took up most of the fabric, surrounded by the ocean and bright flowers.
Mel ran a hand over it.
Then looked at Frank.
“It's Penny's,” he said.
Mel looked down at the blanket again.
“I like it.”
Frank smiled and turned the heat up another notch.
The rain got worse as they drove.
Frank knew the way to Mel's apartment. He'd driven her home before, though never under anything resembling these conditions.
Traffic barely moved.
Mel took out her phone.
A message from Becca.
I'm staying at Adam's. The street is awful. I'll call you tomorrow ❤️.
Mel read it.
It wasn't a surprise.
Lately, Becca had been spending more nights there than anywhere else.
Mel stared at the message for a few seconds.
Then, almost without realizing it, she murmured to herself, acting out the conversation Becca hadn't had with her.
“And how are you, Mel? Are you gonna make it home okay? Did you get soaked?”
She paused briefly, as though waiting for her own turn to answer.
“I'm fine, Becca. Thanks for asking.”
“Sorry, were you talking to me?” Frank asked.
Mel looked up.
It took her a second to realize she'd been speaking out loud.
“Uh... no. I was just repeating a message out loud.”
“Oh.”
Frank turned his attention back to the road.
Mel looked down at her phone again.
She still thought Becca could have asked how she was doing.
But she typed:
Okay. Be careful. Love you.
The reply came almost immediately.
Love you too ❤️.
Mel looked at it for a few seconds before putting her phone away.
It didn't mean her apartment would feel any less empty when she got there.
Only that she was beginning to understand that both things could be true at the same time.
Becca could be okay without her.
And still love her just as much.
The windshield wipers were going at full speed and still barely keeping up.
Traffic crawled. Ahead of them, several cars slowed to avoid the water collecting along the curb.
Frank slowed down even more.
“This is getting worse.”
Mel looked outside.
“I made you change your route. I should've stayed at the hospital.”
“No. My place is only a few blocks from here.”
A drop of water slid from Frank's hair down the collar of his shirt. He shifted his jacket with a slight grimace.
Mel wasn't doing much better.
The heat had started to help, but her hair was still wet, her clothes clung damply to her body, and her pants were soaked from the knees down.
They could stop somewhere and wait.
But that meant sitting around in wet clothes for who knew how long.
If Frank's apartment really was only a few blocks away, there was a much more logical option.
“Then we can go to your apartment.”
Frank glanced at her.
“I can wait there until the rain lets up and then go home. We can dry off. If that's okay with you, obviously.”
“Not a problem. Actually, that's probably best.”
Frank took the next turn.
The decision was made without much discussion.
Neither of them seemed to find anything particularly remarkable about it.
A few seconds later, Mel spoke.
“I'm good at making soup. If you have some chicken and vegetables, I can make something.”
Frank glanced over.
“I didn't know you liked to cook.”
“It's therapeutic. I'm not saying it turns out well. Usually I'm the only one who eats it, but I think it's acceptable.”
Frank smiled.
“We're five minutes away.”
“Good.”
For a while, neither of them spoke.
It wasn't an uncomfortable silence.
They'd stopped needing to fill every space between conversations a long time ago.
Mel turned toward the window.
Pittsburgh's lights blurred behind the rain.
She hadn't planned on ending the night at Frank's apartment.
Frank hadn't planned on taking her there.
It was simply the most logical solution under the circumstances.
At least, that was what Mel had decided.
Outside, Pittsburgh kept disappearing behind the rain.
Inside the car, for the first time in many hours, neither of them had anywhere else they needed to be.
The building came into view a few minutes later.
Frank parked as close to the entrance as he could, and this time neither of them attempted to challenge the storm unnecessarily.
They ran.
By the time they made it inside, Mel had Penny's Moana blanket wrapped around her shoulders and her glasses were once again dotted with rain.
They went upstairs.
At his door, Frank dug through his pocket for his keys.
“I should warn you about something.”
Mel looked at him.
“The kids stayed with me two nights ago, so watch out for toys.”
“Okay.”
Frank put the key in the lock.
Before opening the door all the way, he glanced inside.
Just for a second.
As if he were trying to quickly remember exactly what condition he'd left the place in that morning.
Mel watched him.
He seemed unusually interested in making a good impression.
She found that curious.
“Come on in.”
Mel stepped inside.
And immediately discovered that his warning had been greatly exaggerated.
The apartment was small, yes, but tidy.
The living room and dining area shared essentially the same space. There was a couch facing the TV, a table that seated four, and a bookcase against one wall.
There were toys.
A small collection of cars, blocks, and figures had accumulated in one corner by the couch, but they hardly constituted the minefield Frank had suggested.
Mel took a few steps farther in.
Her attention immediately went to the bookcase.
Photographs.
Tanner and Penny.
In one, both of them were with Frank.
There were books, too. Some medical. A couple of novels. Several about parenting. One of them was called The Blessing.
Below them sat a record player.
Mel stared at it.
“Let me find you something dry,” Frank said behind her. “Bathroom's down the hall.”
He pointed.
“Which means about six feet that way. As you can see, it's a small apartment.”
Mel looked around again.
It wasn't luxurious.
It wasn't particularly modern, either.
But there was something pleasant about it.
It felt lived in.
“I think it's really cozy.”
Frank opened a closet.
“Tell my parents. They think I live in a shoebox.”
Mel smiled.
Frank disappeared for a few seconds and came back with a towel, a T-shirt, and a pair of sweatpants.
“I know it's not ideal, but it'll work while your clothes dry. Dryer is at the end of the hall.”
Mel took them.
“Thanks.”
“There's another towel in the bathroom.”
“Okay.”
She headed that way, a little shyly.
Frank stood still for a few seconds after the door closed.
He looked around the apartment.
It was exactly the same place where he'd eaten breakfast that morning.
Same toys.
Same books.
Same mug he'd forgotten to put away before leaving.
And yet, for some reason, it felt different now.
Not bad.
Just different.
Frank pushed the thought aside before giving it too much room and went to find dry clothes for himself.
When Mel came back out, Frank was gathering their wet jackets from the entryway.
She was wearing the clothes he'd given her.
She'd had to roll the sweatpants several times at the waist, and they were still too long.
She'd undone her braids. Her still-damp hair fell over her shoulders, and her glasses were back on.
Mel walked past him carrying her wet clothes.
“You said the dryer was here?”
“Yeah.”
Frank pointed.
Mel crouched to put the clothes inside.
Frank kept looking at her.
One second.
Then another.
He looked away.
“Uh... okay. I...”
He stepped backward and bumped his hip against the edge of a small table.
Mel looked up.
Frank cleared his throat.
“I'm gonna take a shower.”
“Okay.”
He took two steps toward the bathroom.
“Frank.”
He stopped.
“Can I look through your kitchen? I'll start the soup.”
“Sure. Whatever you find is yours.”
Mel nodded.
Frank started toward the bathroom again.
Two seconds later, he stopped.
“Although maybe I should've said that after you saw what's in there.”
Mel frowned slightly.
Frank disappeared before explaining.
She went to find out.
She opened the refrigerator.
And stared.
A carton of skim milk.
Two eggs.
A piece of cheese wrapped in plastic.
Nothing else.
Mel opened the bottom drawer.
A piece of squash.
She closed it.
Checked the next one.
Empty.
She looked at the refrigerator door.
A few condiments.
Frank appeared behind her again, this time carrying a towel and clean clothes.
“What?”
Mel didn't answer.
She opened the drawer again, as though there were some possibility that food might have appeared in the last ten seconds.
Frank came closer.
He looked inside the refrigerator.
Then at Mel.
“Any soup you can make out of ice and milk?”
Mel continued considering the possibilities.
She took out the squash.
Then the eggs.
Then the cheese.
She set them on the counter.
Frank studied the ingredients.
“That doesn't look like soup.”
“Not yet.”
Mel opened one of the cabinets.
Salt. Pepper. Oil. A few seasonings.
“This'll work.”
Frank decided not to ask any more questions.
“Okay.”
He lifted the towel.
“I'm actually gonna shower now.”
Mel was already looking for a pot.
By the time Frank came out of the bathroom, a warm, subtle smell had begun to fill the apartment.
He'd changed into sweatpants and a dark T-shirt. A towel hung around his neck, and his hair was still wet.
Mel stood at the stove.
She lifted a spoon to taste the soup.
Then Frank walked in.
Mel looked at him.
The spoon stopped halfway to her mouth.
Just for a second.
Then another.
No white coat.
No stethoscope.
No scrubs.
Nothing that belonged to The Pitt.
Just Frank, fresh out of the shower, his hair still damp, a towel around his neck.
Mel remembered the spoon.
She put it in her mouth.
Too hot.
Her eyes widened slightly behind her glasses.
She didn't make another move.
She forced herself to swallow and carefully set the spoon on the counter with a dignity the circumstances did not warrant.
Frank walked over.
“Hey. I'm dying to know what kind of magic you managed with what was in my kitchen.”
Mel swallowed again.
Her tongue was burning.
“Five minutes and you'll find out.”
She said it with the seriousness of someone stating a scientifically established fact.
Frank smiled.
“Five minutes.”
He walked toward the window.
Mel waited until his back was turned.
She grabbed a glass.
Filled it with water.
Drank, trying to soothe the sensation that she'd burned herself from her tongue all the way down to her stomach.
Much better.
The rain was still falling, although they could finally make out the buildings across the street.
Mel put down the glass.
Then something caught her attention again.
“Does it work, or is it decorative?”
Frank followed her gaze.
The record player.
“Works perfectly. It's one of the few things I got to take from my parents' house.”
He walked over.
“Records are in the bottom drawer. Mostly classics.”
That was all Mel needed.
She left the spoon behind and went over.
Opened the drawer.
And ended up sitting on the carpet.
Frank watched her pull out the first record.
Then another.
Mel read the covers, checked the backs, and moved on to the next one with complete concentration.
It was simply Mel when something interested her.
No monitors going off.
No one calling her into a trauma.
No patient waiting for an answer.
Frank watched her.
He knew her.
Of course he knew her.
But this wasn't exactly the Mel he saw every day at the hospital.
Or maybe it was, and here he could simply see her more clearly.
Uncomplicated.
Observant.
Curious.
Beautiful.
Very beautiful.
Frank ran the towel through his hair and looked away.
“That one was my dad's,” he said, pointing to one of the records. “Think the next one was, too.”
Mel kept looking.
Until she found one.
Frank Sinatra.
She held it up.
“Can I?”
“Sure.”
Mel stood.
“Do you know how to put it on?”
“I've only seen it in movies.”
Frank smiled.
“Come here.”
He carefully took the record.
“First, hold it like this. Never touch the surface.”
Mel watched his hands.
Frank placed the record on the turntable and showed her how to move the tonearm.
“Easy.”
Mel did it.
The needle touched the record.
A soft crackle filled the room.
Then the music started.
Mel smiled.
“My mom really liked Frank Sinatra.”
Something in her voice shifted.
Just slightly.
Frank looked at her.
Mel was still watching the record turn.
For a few seconds, she seemed somewhere else.
Frank could see the nostalgia in her eyes.
He didn't ask.
Mel blinked.
Then remembered something.
“The soup.”
She hurried back toward the kitchen.
Frank stayed by the record player.
“I'll get the bowls.”
He opened a cabinet.
“I have to have at least two.”
He found exactly two.
Mel looked at him.
Smiled.
Against all odds, the soup was actually good.
Frank took a spoonful.
Paused.
Took another.
Mel watched him from across the table.
“Is it okay?”
Frank nodded.
“It's really good.”
Mel smiled, satisfied.
“I told you cooking was therapeutic.”
Frank looked down at his bowl again.
“I need the recipe.”
“There isn't a recipe.”
“You just made it.”
“That doesn't mean there's a recipe.”
Frank looked up.
Mel thought for a few seconds.
“I can try to write down the proportions.”
“The kids almost never want soup. Maybe this'll work.”
Mel considered that.
“I wouldn't set your expectations that high.”
Frank waited.
“But you can try,” she added.
“I will.”
They kept eating.
Sinatra played softly from the living room.
They talked.
About nothing particularly important.
And maybe that was why it felt different.
Frank told her something Tanner had done during his last visit. Mel ended up telling him a story about Becca that had nothing to do with the hospital.
They talked about a movie.
Music.
A patient they both remembered for completely different reasons.
Then they stopped talking.
And nothing happened.
They ate in silence.
Frank had a second bowl of soup.
Mel decided that was sufficient evidence that he'd actually liked it.
At some point, without either of them noticing, the rain began to ease.
When they finished, Frank picked up the dishes.
Mel stood.
“I can do that.”
“You cooked.”
He turned on the faucet.
“I'll wash.”
Mel accepted that.
She went back into the living room.
The record had stopped playing a while ago.
She walked over to the window.
Drops still ran down the glass, but she could see the street clearly now.
Mel checked the time.
Blinking, she looked again.
“Oh.”
Frank looked over from the kitchen.
“What?”
“It's late.”
She looked outside again.
“It's barely raining anymore.”
Frank looked, too.
She was right.
The storm that had turned their drive into a small odyssey had faded into a drizzle.
Neither of them had noticed when it happened.
Mel picked up her phone.
“I should go. I'll get an Uber.”
Frank shut off the faucet.
“An Uber?”
Mel looked at him.
“Yeah.”
Frank stared at her as though she'd just suggested something completely absurd.
“I drove you all the way here through rain that almost took both of us out, and now that it's stopped, you think I'm letting you leave in an Uber?”
Mel felt her cheeks grow warm.
“I've already been enough trouble. My clothes should be dry. I'll change, and don't worry about it, okay?”
Frank watched her.
Mel lowered the phone.
She didn't want to leave.
The realization came with a clarity she hadn't expected.
And strangely, it had nothing to do with the empty apartment waiting for her.
She simply liked being there.
With him.
Frank didn't seem particularly eager for the night to end, either.
For a few hours, they'd shared a space where no one needed anything from either of them.
No patients.
No monitors.
No residents.
No children or sisters depending on them.
They had simply eaten.
Listened to music.
Talked.
And it had been easy.
Frank rested one hand on the back of a chair.
“We should do this more often.”
Mel looked at him.
“Have soup?”
Frank laughed.
“No.”
He shook his head.
“I mean, yeah. We can have soup.”
Mel waited.
“I mean this. Hang out outside the hospital. Talk about other things. Or maybe hospital things, just... change the scenery.”
He glanced toward the window.
“Ideally with less rain.”
Mel watched him.
For a moment, neither of them looked away.
“I'd like that,” she said.
Something shifted, almost imperceptibly, in Frank's expression.
Mel smiled.
Then gestured toward the kitchen.
“We just need to stop at the grocery store first so we have more ingredient options.”
Frank dropped his head with a laugh.
“That would probably help.”
Mel picked up her clothes.
“I'm going to change.”
“And I'm driving you.”
This time, Mel didn't argue.
When she came out of the bathroom again, she was back in her own clothes.
She'd pulled her hair back, though she hadn't redone the braids.
Frank already had his keys in his hand.
Mel picked up her bag.
Before reaching the door, she looked around the living room one more time.
The photographs.
The toys.
The books.
The record player.
Two hours earlier, she'd known none of it.
Now she could picture Tanner and Penny playing beside the couch.
Frank's parents complaining that their son lived in a shoebox.
Frank putting on one of those records when he was alone.
It was strange how much a place could change once you'd been inside it.
“Ready?” Frank asked.
Mel looked at him.
“Yeah.”
They left.
Pittsburgh smelled different after the rain.
The air was still cold, but the storm had left the city much quieter. Water continued running along the curbs, and streetlights reflected off the wet pavement.
When they reached the car, Frank opened the passenger door.
Mel looked at the seat.
Still damp.
Then she looked at the Moana blanket in her hands.
She carefully spread it over the seat before getting in.
Frank watched her.
Smiled.
Said nothing.
He closed the door.
For the first few minutes of the drive, neither of them spoke.
Mel looked out the window.
The city was beginning to look like itself again.
Then she looked at Frank.
“Frank.”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you.”
He glanced at her.
“For the ride?”
Mel thought.
“For everything.”
Frank held her gaze for only a moment.
“Anytime, Mel.”
He looked back at the road.
But the truth was, he wasn't sure which of them should be more grateful.
He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a night like this.
He hadn't needed to be Dr. Langdon.
Hadn't needed to prove he could be a good father.
A good son.
A good husband, back when he'd still been trying to be one.
He hadn't needed to prove that he was okay, that he was recovering, that he could fix what he'd broken.
For a few hours, he'd simply been Frank.
And Mel had seemed perfectly comfortable with him that way.
Frank watched the road.
A faint smile crossed his face.
When they reached Mel's building, he pulled up in front of the entrance.
Mel unbuckled her seat belt.
Picked up her bag.
But she didn't open the door right away.
Frank waited.
“Next time, you can come to my place.”
Frank looked at her.
Mel continued.
“I don't have a record player.”
She paused briefly.
“But I don't think that'll be a problem.”
Frank smiled.
“I think we can work around it.”
Mel nodded.
“Good.”
She opened the door.
Before getting out, she looked at him again.
“Good night, Frank.”
“Good night, Mel.”
Mel got out.
Frank waited as she walked toward the entrance.
Before disappearing through the door, she turned around.
He was still there.
Mel raised a hand.
Frank did the same.
Only then did she go inside.
And only then did he pull away.
The apartment was dark when Mel opened the door.
She turned on the light.
Set her bag on a chair and took off her coat.
Silence.
Exactly the same silence she'd imagined hours earlier while she was still finishing her charting at The Pitt.
She stood still for a few seconds.
Nothing had changed.
Becca was still at Adam's.
Mel was still alone.
And yet, that night, those two things didn't seem to mean quite the same thing anymore.
She walked toward her bedroom.
Passing a mirror, she stopped.
Her hair was still loose.
She looked at it.
Then remembered Frank coming out of the shower.
The spoon.
Her burning tongue.
And Frank bumping into that little table earlier.
Mel smiled.
She kept walking.
Before entering her bedroom, she looked back toward the living room.
Next time, it would be here.
She didn't know what they would do.
She didn't need to know yet.
And, to her own surprise, that didn't make her uncomfortable.
She turned off the light.
A few miles away, Frank opened the door to his apartment.
It was quiet, too.
He set down his keys.
Took off his jacket.
When he reached the living room, he found the Sinatra record still beside the turntable.
He picked it up.
Looked at the cover for a few seconds.
Then carefully slid it back into its sleeve.
In the kitchen, the two bowls he'd washed were still drying beside the sink.
The pot was clean.
The towel Mel had used was still draped over a chair.
Frank picked it up.
Held it for a moment.
Then put it with the rest of the laundry.
He looked around.
Same living room.
Same toys.
Same books.
Same shoebox, according to his parents.
And yet, that night, the apartment didn't seem particularly small.
Frank turned off the light.
The storm was over.
The next morning, they would go back to The Pitt.
Back to the patients, the monitors, the interruptions, and doors that never stayed closed for very long.
Frank would find Mel again somewhere in the movement of the ER.
Mel would recognize his voice before she even saw him.
From the outside, probably nothing would seem different.
Maybe it wasn't.
Not yet.
But that night, Mel had discovered something she wanted to do again.
And Frank had remembered what it felt like to simply be Frank.
At some point, there would be another dinner.
This time at Mel's.
No storm.
No excuse.
Because some things didn't change all at once.
They simply started to.