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You had to be at least a little bit insane to work the night shift. Be a little bit special, a little bit out of touch, have something not screwed in all the way that Frank just didn’t have - at least that’s what he’s been telling himself. But, when the push came to shove, maybe that’s where he belonged all along.
It was an entire lifestyle, one he couldn’t quite manage if he wanted to keep a semblance of family life. It wasn’t for someone married with two small kids. Now that it was no longer the case, it started to look more and more appealing. Especially when what he did have was an ex-wife and a custody battle so ugly it made the actual divorce look like a spa retreat. The phrase “emotional instability” had been used in court. So had “substance dependency.” His lawyer smiled sympathetically and told him not to take it personally, which was rich considering it was literally about his personhood.
He tried talking it out with Abby. Then, with her lawyer. Then, have his lawyer talk with hers. She wouldn’t budge. They tried making it work in the beginning. The problem was, he wasn’t ready to come clean, literally and figuratively. They’d been living on different planets for a while by then, orbiting the same house but never quite landing in the same room. And when it came time to be honest, he couldn’t do it. He didn’t. He dragged it out as long as he could, pretending to go to work and spending hours just aimlessly driving around town. It was stupid and childish, and he was an idiot for thinking he could keep it up. But back then, Robby’s conditions had felt harsh, cruel even, and entirely out of proportion, because he wasn’t a fucking addict. That kind of label was for other people. The ones who crashed their cars or lost their licenses, or stole fentanyl from crash carts. Not guys like him. Not someone who was just trying to get through the day.
That, too, didn’t last. Abby had been livid when she found out. He couldn’t blame her - after all, he was the one who threw a grenade into their already crumbling marriage and never gave her a chance to duck for cover before the shrapnel hit. It was stupid how it came out. He’d left his jacket draped over the back of the kitchen chair, same as always. The pill bottle clinked against the wood when Abby yanked it free, her fingers trembling, her face a perfect storm of disbelief and fury.
She didn’t scream. That was the worst part. She didn’t yell, didn’t throw the bottle, didn’t demand an explanation. She just stared at him. Then at the bottle. Then down the hallway toward Tanner’s room.
He didn’t even try to explain. There was nothing left to say.
When she handed him the divorce papers two weeks later, he finally caved. He signed them with shaking hands, then did the only thing that felt remotely like control - he called Robby. Checked himself into rehab. Started going to NA. Played the part.
Except Robby wasn’t done.
“Therapy? Seriously?” Frank’s voice cracked from disbelief, not anger. “How many more hoops do I have to jump through before I can get my fucking life back?”
“This is your fucking life, Frank,” Robby said, crossing his arms like he was bracing for impact. “And I’m not asking this as your attending. I’m asking as your friend. Because I care about you.”
Frank let out a bitter laugh, ran a hand through his hair. “You’ve got a hell of a way of showing it.”
“I’ve seen this play out, man. Too many times. You make it through rehab, come back, think you can just muscle your way into being okay again. That’s not how it works. You need to talk about it with someone.”
“I am talking about it,” Frank snapped. “I did nothing but talk about it for thirty days in that place. I talk about it three goddamn times a week at NA. What more do you want from me?”
“It’s not about what I want,” Robby said, his voice low now. “You’re doing the steps, yeah. You’re showing up. But you’re still carrying it, Frank.”
Frank scoffed. Robby waited. Just stood there with that maddening steadiness, like he’d already decided he wasn’t going to let Frank ruin himself if he could help it.
“Fine,” Frank muttered eventually. “Therapy.” He said it like a curse. Like an admission of defeat.
Robby nodded. “Good.” Then, after a beat, more softly: “You’re not alone in this, Frank.”
What a fucking joke, Frank thought. And right after that: that's rich coming from you. But he didn’t say it. He refused to make the same mistake twice.
Months later, things weren’t exactly trending upward, so maybe this was for the best. Maybe he needed the change.
Everyone told him it was a stupid idea.
Robby didn’t even bother to hide the look when Frank asked for the switch. That tilted-head, slightly-pitying expression, like he was watching a guy attempt a trust fall off a barstool. But he still signed the form. With a tight nod and a muttered, “Your call, man.” Frank snatched the form away from him and walked off without so much as a thank you. He still couldn’t look Robby in the eye. He was the only one he still struggled with making amends to. Forever stuck on step nine.
Dana had raised a skeptical eyebrow so sharp it could’ve drawn blood. “You’ve been ragging on night shift like it’s a cult for years, and now you want in?” she’d asked. “What, the trauma bay doesn’t hum quite right unless it’s 3 a.m. and everyone’s covered in someone else’s blood?”
He didn’t dignify that with a response. Because, yeah. Kinda.
Then there was his therapist. God bless her patience. She didn’t say no. Of course, she didn’t. She just leaned forward in that therapist-y way, hands folded in her lap like she was trying out for a mindfulness app voiceover, and asked what he was trying to run away from. She always asked questions like that. As if the answer wasn’t obvious. As if it wasn’t scrawled all over his face. As if it wasn’t embedded in the tremor he still felt in his hands at the end of every shift, or the way he flinched every time someone said his name with a tone. She tried digging deeper, and he was this close to ending their session early and slamming the door on his way out. He didn’t. He had before, more than once, but he didn’t do that this time. That was progress, right?
It was simple. He couldn’t handle the stares, the whispers, the unspoken agreement that he’d crossed some invisible line and there was no coming back from it. No reset button. No “good guy” badge waiting at the end of the shift. Daylight had too much memory in it. Too much judgment.
So he disappeared into the night shift, where people didn’t look too closely and no one asked too many questions. And if they did, they didn’t really want the answers.
In the end, it was Shen who backed him up.
“Welcome to the tribe of the weird and the weary,” he’d said on Frank’s first night shift, handing him a half-stale donut like it was a rite of passage. “We don’t shine, we glow faintly in fluorescent lighting.”
Frank had rolled his eyes and tried to look like he was grateful. He failed.
Shen didn’t wait long before cutting to the chase. “Hey, man, listen.” His tone was casual, but the look he gave was not. “This isn’t a punishment. And if you’re gonna act like it is, then you and I are gonna have a problem.”
Frank scoffed, shoving his hands into the pockets of his scrubs. “I’m not-”
“You are. Don’t argue with me, I’m your boss now, remember?”
Amazing. Shen, who was just a few months his senior, now technically outranked him. They used to be cool - grab-a-beer-after-shift cool - but now even Amanda the lab tech looked at him like he might crack in half during a consult.
Frank mumbled, “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“Oh, definitely,” Shen said, tossing him a grin. “But seriously - this martyr act? Drop it. You wanted this shift. You asked for it. So if you’re going to mope through the whole twelve hours, save us both the trouble and go home.”
Frank arched an eyebrow. “Didn’t realize you were in the business of motivational speeches.”
Shen’s eyes didn’t flinch. “I’m not. But I also don’t have time for someone who’s gonna spend every shift looking like they’re waiting for the other shoe to drop.”
Frank bit the inside of his cheek, saying nothing.
Shen sighed, tone softening. “Ah, for fuck’s sake. I don’t care about any of it, alright?”
Frank blinked. “Any of what?”
“The whispers. The side-eyes. The ‘ooh, is he stable enough to draw up Dilaudid?’ bullshit. I don’t care.” He leaned in, voice quieter now. “You’ve already proven you’re still a good doctor. That’s all I need. That’s all any of us should need.”
Frank looked away, jaw clenched. “Maybe you should’ve stayed on days if you wanted less drama.”
“Please,” Shen snorted. “Drama’s a day shift problem. Over here, we just try to keep people alive long enough to make it to sunrise. Lower expectations, higher caffeine intake. You’ll learn to love it.”
“Now, come on,” Shen said. “We’ve got a guy in North 20 with a rebar through his thigh, EMS just brought him in. You're up.”
Frank exhaled slowly and followed.
**
All things considered, Frank much preferred working shifts with Shen over Abbot. Shen didn’t hover, didn’t micromanage, didn’t pretend every interaction was part of some low-key wellness check. He gave Frank space - just enough to breathe, but not enough to drown.
Abbot, on the other hand? Frank was almost certain the man was quietly reporting every move he made straight back to Robby.
It was exhausting. And insulting.
Because if Robby actually gave a shit - if he was truly so invested in Frank’s recovery or mental state or whatever label they wanted to slap on it - he could just ask. They still saw each other during handoffs. Robby could open his damn mouth and speak like a normal person instead of outsourcing his concern through a colleague like some passive-aggressive high school principal trying to keep tabs on a problem student.
And, sure, Frank had done the work. Nearly a year of it. He admitted he had a problem. Took accountability. Went to rehab. Stumbled through the steps. Sat in folding chairs and drank burnt coffee and talked about "making amends" until he could recite the script in his sleep. He wasn’t pretending he hadn’t messed up - but for Christ’s sake, Robby wasn’t exactly some paragon of virtue, either. His hands weren’t clean.
No wonder Frank liked working with Shen. Shen didn’t perform empathy like a TED Talk. He didn’t reduce Frank to his lowest moment and then try to build him back up with some inspirational team-building bullshit. He put his money where his mouth was. He was blunt, competent, and just disarmingly chill enough to let Frank pretend, for a few hours at a time, that he was just another senior resident. Not a cautionary tale. Not the guy with the history. Just a doctor, doing the work, trying to make it to the end of the shift without screwing up.
And most nights, that was enough.
***
Frank swore the walls of his new apartment were made of cardboard. Every cough, every creak, every neighbor’s phone call seeped right through, just like back in the dorms at UPenn. Same shitty furniture, same shitty soundproofing. It wasn’t the noise that kept him up, though - that was just the convenient excuse. The truth was, it was his mind that wouldn’t shut up.
He’d toss and turn for a few hours until he'd give up, lace his trainers, and hit the pavement. He’d push himself for a few kilometers, legs screaming, lungs burning, until his body couldn’t take it anymore. That was the goal. Then, maybe, just maybe, he’d get a couple hours of uninterrupted, dreamless sleep.
Other days, he’d swim laps at the community center pool, going back to the only routine that had ever made sense. Long, grueling strokes that pulled him back to those college days when he still thought structure could save him. It was the only time his brain stopped spinning, the only space where the tightness in his chest finally loosened, where the anxiety, the cravings, the endless mental static fell quiet.
He wasn’t doing it for fitness. He was doing it to shut himself up.
So when he spotted Shen jogging up from the opposite side of the trail, dressed in worn-out sneakers and a hoodie with the sleeves pushed up, Frank’s first thought was no fucking way.
Shen slowed when he saw him, grinned like this wasn’t a personal violation, and fell into step beside him without asking.
“Good morning, sunshine,” Shen said between breaths. “Didn’t think you’d still be out here. Shift was brutal.”
Frank grunted. “It’s just a quick run.”
“I see,” Shen said, annoyingly chipper. “Mind if I join?”
Frank didn't say don’t. He thought it, loudly. But his legs didn’t slow, and his mouth didn’t open.
So Shen stayed.
The first few kilometers were quiet, except for the rhythm of their feet and the occasional gust of wind off the river. Frank tried to shake him with pace. Nothing aggressive, just a slow, steady escalation. To his surprise, Shen kept up.
By kilometer eight, Shen had stopped making small talk. Thank God.
By kilometer ten, his breathing had gotten louder, more ragged.
And at kilometer twelve, it finally happened.
Shen staggered to a stop with a muttered “Jesus fuck,” bracing himself on his knees like someone who’d been tricked into a military boot camp. He looked up at Frank through sweat-drenched lashes.
“Yo, man, what the hell?” he wheezed.
Frank didn’t stop. Just slowed enough to throw a smirk over his shoulder.
“I was on an athletic scholarship at UPenn,” he said flatly.
“Right,” Shen panted, standing upright with effort, “what, like a decade ago?”
Frank shrugged, the picture of insufferable calm.
“Still counts.”
Shen made a face like he was re-evaluating every decision that had brought him to this point - including, probably, trying to be nice to Frank.
“You’re actually insane,” he muttered, dragging in air with considerable effort.
“Go home, Shen.”
“And you? You gonna run until you collapse?”
“Maybe,” Frank said, deadpan. In truth, that was exactly the plan, but he wasn’t going to say it out loud.
Shen rolled his eyes, but there was something softer underneath. He started walking, slowly, toward the trail’s edge.
“Next time,” he called over his shoulder, “I’m driving beside you and heckling from the car.”
Frank let out a dry laugh, turned back toward the trail, and picked up his pace, realizing that, while he hadn’t planned on Shen tagging along, he didn’t mind that he had. He didn't mind at all.
***
His therapist asked how his social interactions had been since switching to night shift.
Classic. Textbook. Right on schedule.
He blinked at her. “Social life? Please. I work twelve-hour graveyard shifts and sleep through daylight. What do you expect?"
She gave him that look. The calm, unblinking one, like she was trying to let the silence do the heavy lifting.
He sighed. “I see people at work. And at NA before I go to work. That’s more than enough.”
“Anyone outside of work?”
“Sure. Every day. In my dreams.”
She didn’t say anything, just folded her hands in her lap. That silence, neutral, patient, unnerving, always meant say more.
So he sighed. “I sleep when the rest of the world’s awake. The only people I talk to are covered in blood or asking me if they’re dying. That’s the night shift life. And I chose it. So no, I don’t want to make brunch plans or go to some mutual friend’s shitty birthday party in a brewery with twinkle lights.”
That was the whole point, wasn’t it? To disappear into the kind of schedule that made dinner parties and awkward small talk statistically impossible. To live just left of the real world, blurry around the edges, where nobody had the time or energy to ask how you were doing.
He said as much. “That’s what I wanted. That’s what I needed.”
She didn’t look convinced. She tilted her head with that annoying, serene expression therapists must get trained to use in grad school. The kind that said Interesting deflection, but go on.
So he threw her a bone.
“When I’m not working, I run.”
It came out sharper than he intended. Defensive.
But it was true. He ran. Until his legs felt like jelly and his lungs burned, and the world narrowed down to nothing but breath and pavement. He ran because it shut his brain off. Because it gave him a reason not to sit still long enough to feel anything.
“And?” she prompted.
“And that’s it.”
“How often do you run?”
He shrugged. “As often as I can.”
“Even after twelve-hour shifts?”
He shrugged again. “Especially after twelve-hour shifts.”
She frowned now, brows tightening just a little. “Frank, you do know that’s not healthy, right?”
“Sure it is. Keeps me away from pills, doesn’t it?”
“That doesn’t make it healthy.”
“Tell that to my cardio.”
“Tell that to your knees,” she countered, sharper than usual. “Or your back. Or your adrenal system that’s probably about five minutes away from mutiny.”
He smiled thinly. “At least if I pass out, I’ll do it near a hospital.”
“Frank.”
Her tone pulled him up short. She rarely used it. That calm, anchored warning that meant cut the bullshit.
“You’re using pain as a substitute,” she said. “You’re not running for your health. You’re running to hurt. That’s not a coping mechanism. That’s punishment.”
He scoffed. “It’s better than using.”
“It’s also unsustainable. You’re not managing your pain. You’re trying to outrun it. And eventually, your body will force you to stop. That’s not a matter of if. That’s a matter of when .”
He didn’t say anything. Just looked away, jaw tight.
“You’re allowed to still be in pain,” she said, quieter now. “You’re allowed to be angry about it. But you don’t have to keep proving how much you can take.”
Of course, he knew that. He wasn’t chasing fitness or clarity anymore. He was punishing his body because it was the only thing he still had control over. He ran through injuries, through the pain in his knee and his back. Through fevers. After twelve-hour shifts on no sleep and nothing in his stomach but Red Bull.
Some people cut. Some people drank. Frank ran until everything in him screamed to stop. Once, he’d actually puked at the end. And then he went another mile.
She jotted something down in her little notebook. Probably something along the lines of Red flag, patient engaging in avoidant behavior and compulsive physical exertion as a coping mechanism. Whatever.
***
Frank glanced at the venti cup in Shen’s hand and smirked. “That is an abomination.”
Shen took a dramatic sip, lips pursed around the straw. “You wound me.”
“You deserve it. That much sugar has to be some kind of crime.”
Shen smirked, setting his cup down with a deliberate thud. Pumpkin Swirl. Extra whipped cream. Caramel drizzle. The works. It looked less like coffee and more like a melted ice cream sundae.
“This?” Shen gestured to it. “This is joy, my friend. This is self-care. What you’re drinking is battery acid in a can.”
Frank scoffed. “You’d slip into a diabetic coma before you made it past triage.”
Shen took another slow, exaggerated sip. “And yet, I will thrive for the next twelve hours while you spend the whole night jittering like a chihuahua.”
Frank clicked his tongue, tilting his can in a mock toast. “At least I won’t go into sugar withdrawal by hour four.”
Shen leaned on the counter, studying him. “You ever actually tried something that wasn’t liquid adrenaline?”
Frank paused, then took another sip of his Red Bull. “No.”
Shen shook his head in mock disappointment. “Tragic.”
Frank smirked. “Your teeth are gonna rot out of your skull by the time you hit forty.”
Shen grinned, leaning in just slightly. “And you’ll have a heart attack before thirty-five .”
“We’ll see soon enough.”
**
Frank sat on the bench, half-dressed, scrubs bunched at his ankles and an ice pack balanced haphazardly on his knee. His hair was damp, curling slightly at the edges, one of those little tells he hated, proof he wasn’t quite holding it together. His body ached in that dull, grinding way that didn’t stop even after the shift ended. The post-shift run hadn’t helped. Not that it ever did. Today, he had only made it a few blocks before his knee gave up on him completely.
He wasn’t sure how long he’d been sitting there, zoning out. The locker room was quiet, half-lit by flickering fluorescent tubes, the kind of institutional lighting that made everything feel worse.
He didn’t hear Shen come in until the sound of footsteps broke the silence.
“Jesus,” Shen muttered, seeing him. “Did you just… melt here?”
Frank blinked, barely lifting his head. “Figured I’d try dying somewhere with less foot traffic.”
Shen raised an eyebrow. “So considerate.”
He dropped his bag and crouched in front of Frank, not touching him, just looking. The ice pack was half-warm now. Useless.
“You twisted it again?” Shen asked, nodding at the knee.
“Didn’t twist,” Frank said flatly. “It just quit on me.”
Shen sighed through his nose. “You know, there are easier ways to dissociate than grinding your joints into powder.”
Frank gave a tired smirk. “Yeah? Enlighten me, oh wise one.”
Shen didn’t bite at the sarcasm. Instead, he reached into his bag, pulled out a fresh cold pack - of course he had one - and gently swapped it for the one Frank had been using.
Frank didn’t stop him. That alone said more than he wanted to.
“You gonna ice my ego next?” he muttered.
Shen looked up. “That’s gonna take more than twenty minutes.”
Frank huffed a laugh. “Fuck you.”
“Later,” Shen said, deadpan. “When you’re less grumpy and moderately more upright.”
That actually startled a real laugh out of Frank. Short. Dry. Tired. But real.
“You joke,” Frank said quietly, “but I don’t know what the hell you’re doing here half the time.”
Shen straightened up, still close. “Yeah, you do.”
Frank held his gaze. “Shouldn’t you be running away from this dumpster fire?”
Shen’s voice was quiet. “If I thought you were a fire, maybe. But you’re not.”
Frank opened his mouth, then shut it again. The words didn’t come. He was too tired, and Shen was way too close for him to focus. Then, without warning, he stepped back, breaking the tension just enough to let them both breathe again.
“You okay to walk?” he asked lightly. "Or do I need to admit you?”
Frank stood with a groan. “I can try.”
Shen reached out instinctively to steady him, just a hand at Frank’s elbow, nothing more.
He didn’t pull away.
Shen’s eyes flicked to his. Then he nodded, once. “C’mon. I’ll walk you out.”
Frank didn’t argue. Didn’t crack a joke. He let Shen grab his bag, and when he limped toward the door, he didn’t resist leaning into the steady presence beside him.
***
He didn’t wait to debrief or linger in the locker room. He just changed into his running gear on autopilot and got the hell out, like he could leave the smell of blood and the ringing in his ears behind if he moved fast enough.
But Shen was waiting.
He started inviting himself to Frank’s post-shift runs a few weeks ago, after he had busted his knee. Not every day, but two, three times a week. On these days, Shen was the one who got to decide how far they’d run. He claimed it was because he needed Frank to go easy on him, but Frank knew it was bullshit. It was Shen’s way of making sure he wouldn’t pass out in a ditch somewhere.
Frank tried to breeze past him with a muttered, “Going solo today.”
“Not happening,” Shen said easily, already matching his stride.
Frank didn’t argue. He didn’t have the energy. So they ran. Hard.
Too hard.
Shen kept pace for a while, silent, until he didn’t. Frank noticed the quiet change, the absence of footfalls just behind him. He glanced back. Shen had stopped, standing in the middle of the sidewalk, hands on hips, watching him with narrowed eyes.
Frank jogged in place, irritated. “What?”
“You’re gonna snap something,” Shen said. “Hamstring. Tendon. Spine. Take your pick.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not,” Shen said, and his tone was different now - flat, quiet, cutting through the morning air. “You haven’t been for a while.”
Frank exhaled hard through his nose, turned away, then back. “Don’t start.”
Shen took a step closer. “Frank, you just pulled a twelve-hour shift where you barely stopped moving. You didn’t eat. You didn’t drink. You’ve lost a damn patient. And now you’re trying to break because you don’t know how to sit still with your own brain.”
“So you’re my therapist now?”
Shen didn’t flinch. “God, no. I like myself too much for that.”
Frank huffed, starting to jog in place again, trying to outpace the conversation. “Then stop psychoanalyzing me and let me finish the run.”
“Not happening,” Shen repeated, calm but immovable. “We can do one more kilometer, if that's what you need. You want to go harder, do it when I’m not watching.”
“One isn’t going to cut it,” he muttered.
“It has to,” Shen said
“It’s not enough,” he repeated.
Shen stepped closer, his voice quieter now. “I know.”
Something in Frank’s chest twisted. That familiar weight - the mix of resentment and gratitude that always surfaced when someone actually saw him, no matter how hard he tried to disappear behind sweat and motion and a mile count.
“Just run with me,” Shen said. “One kilometer and that’s it. We’ll see how you feel after.”
Frank hesitated.
Then, finally, he nodded.
They turned and started jogging again. Shen’s pace was easy, steady. Frank hated how gentle it felt. But he followed. He doubted a kilometer would be enough to contain the mess in his head, but he was going to try anyway.
***
Frank stood near the edge, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket, eyes fixed on the drop below like it might answer a question he hadn’t figured out how to ask.
He didn’t want to jump. But still, he was here. Again.
He didn’t hear the door open behind him, but he didn’t need to.
“You might run into Abbot up here,” Shen said, voice casual but low. “And he doesn’t like company. You good?”
Frank shrugged. “Define good.”
Shen stopped a few feet away, giving him space, but not too much. “Not actively planning to swan-dive off the rooftop.”
“Then yeah,” Frank said, voice flat. “Totally fucking thriving.”
“You don’t look like it.”
Frank finally turned, slow, expression unreadable. “What do you want, Shen?”
“To make sure you’re not about to do something stupid.”
“Well, too late,” Frank said. “I stole pills from the hospital, remember? And then did lots of stupid things to cover it up.”
Shen gave him a look. “If you’re trying to push me away, you’re gonna have to do better. I’ve done twelve-hour shifts with Abbot when he was on his raw egg protein phase. I don’t scare easy.”
Frank snorted despite himself. “You’re a menace.”
“And you’re up here for the second time this month,” Shen said, more gently now. “Look, I’m not gonna ask you to unpack it. But if you ever feel like coming up here alone again… call me.”
Frank scoffed. “To what, hold my hand?”
Shen didn’t blink. “Yeah. If that’s what it takes.”
Frank finally glanced over his shoulder, expression tight. “You’re not gonna give me a lecture?”
“Nope.”
“You’re not gonna panic, or call security, or drag me down to psych?”
“Nope.”
There was a beat of silence, and then Frank, arms crossed, scoffed. “You’re serious.”
“Yeah,” Shen said. “I am.”
Frank looked away, jaw tight. “I wasn’t going to jump.”
“I know.”
“I just… I needed the quiet.”
“I get it.”
Frank rubbed a hand over his face, suddenly exhausted. “It’s not even that I...I just don’t want to feel like this anymore. And running’s not cutting it lately.”
“Then we find something else,” Shen said simply.
“Oh sure. Like what, Tai Chi and scented candles?”
Shen shrugged. “If it helps, why the hell not?”
Frank shook his head, but the fight had bled out of his voice. “You’re annoyingly persistent.”
“It’s one of my best qualities.”
***
Frank didn’t mean to say it - not like that, not with his voice already frayed from exhaustion and whatever hellscape of a shift they’d just crawled out of, but it came out anyway, sharp and raw and just a little too loud for the empty hallway they were standing in.
"Why do you care?"
Shen blinked. “What?”
Frank stepped closer, jaw tight, shoulders squared like he was bracing for a punch. “You’ve been tagging along for weeks. You go on runs with me. You check in. You hover. What do you want, Shen?”
Shen looked taken aback, but not surprised. He didn’t say anything right away, just crossed his arms and waited.
Frank scoffed, bitter and breathless. “Do you pick up strays? Is that it? Or are you hoping for a quick blowjob in the supply closet to make all this hand-holding worth it?”
There. He said it. The ugliest possible version of what he’d been spiraling around for days, weeks, maybe longer.
Shen’s expression didn’t change. If he was hurt, he didn’t show it. But his voice dropped low, calm in the way that made Frank feel even more volatile by contrast.
“Is that what you think this is?” he asked. No mockery. No defensiveness. Just a quiet question that hit harder than any accusation.
Frank swallowed hard and looked away, suddenly hyperaware of the tightness in his throat and the pounding in his temples. He hated this. He hated how exposed he felt, how angry he was - not just at Shen, but at himself for letting it get this far.
“I don’t need a babysitter,” he muttered. “And I sure as hell don’t need pity.”
Shen stepped closer then, closing the distance slowly, deliberately. He didn’t touch him, just stood there, steady and infuriatingly patient like always.
“Langdon, I’m not trying to fix you. I’m not trying to save you. And I’m definitely not trying to sleep with you out of pity.” His voice was firm now. “I care because I do. And if you want to push me away, fine, but at least be honest about it. Don’t turn it into something cheap just because you’re scared it might be real.”
The silence stretched until it felt like it might crack open the floor beneath them. Frank still couldn’t look at him. He wanted to. Sort of. But every part of him felt peeled back, raw, nerves exposed like an open wound.
“You don’t get it,” Frank muttered, voice low. “You think you do, but you don’t.”
“Then help me understand,” Shen said. Still calm. Still maddeningly unshaken.
Frank let out a bitter laugh. “What, you want the unfiltered version? The sad, desperate addict monologue?” He finally looked up, and his eyes were glassy - not quite tears, but close enough to piss him off. “I don’t know how to do this anymore. Whatever this is. I don’t know how to accept someone giving a shit without assuming there’s an angle.”
Shen’s expression softened, but he didn’t say anything yet. He gave Frank space to finish.
Frank exhaled through his nose. “I spent a year watching everyone walk out. Wife. Friends. Mentors. You think it’s easy to trust someone who’s not going to do the same the second I make it inconvenient? So, just to lay it out there, in case you didn’t get the memo,” Frank said, tone already bitter, like he was preemptively mocking himself. “I’m an addict. You know that part already.”
Shen didn’t interrupt. He just watched, quietly.
Frank pushed on. “I went through a really fucking ugly divorce. Not the mutual-respect-let’s-still-be-friends kind. No, this one had lawyers publicly questioning if I ever had a soul. And I’m still fighting for custody of my kids, by the way. Tanner’s five, Ellie’s two, and I get to see them twice a month - supervised, because apparently, I’m still a flight risk or some shit.”
He ran a hand through his hair. “I go to therapy. I lie to my therapist. I say I’m working on things. Sometimes I even believe it for like, ten minutes. But mostly, it’s just me trying not to scream in a room for fifty minutes straight.”
Frank’s eyes flicked up, jaw set. “You’ve seen me in some pretty fucking low places, so don’t act like this is a surprise. My life, right now? It’s work, it’s running, it’s pretending to sleep, it’s eating garbage at 3am. That’s it. That’s what’s left of me.”
He exhaled, sharp and final. “You really fucking want that?”
A pause. Shen’s face didn’t change. Not the twitch of a smile, not a flicker of discomfort. Just that maddeningly calm expression, the one that made Frank want to throw something and also maybe sit down and breathe for the first time in years.
“I think I’ve made it quite clear that I do,” Shen said.
Frank blinked. “Jesus Christ, do you have a savior complex or are you just into lost causes?”
Shen smirked. “You think pretty highly of yourself for a lost cause.”
“Don’t do that,” Frank said, too fast, too sharp. “Don’t joke it away.”
“I’m not,” Shen said. “I’m just not scared of you, Frank. You keep listing reasons like you’re trying to talk me out of you.”
“I am,” Frank snapped. “Because I know how this ends. I blow it up. I burn it down. I always do.”
“Okay,” Shen said, shrugging. “Then we’ll deal with it if, or when, it happens.”
Frank stared at him. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“I like you,” Shen said simply. “Even the mess. Especially the mess. And for the record? I don’t need some perfectly put-together version of you. I just want the one who shows up.”
Frank opened his mouth, then closed it. He didn’t have a comeback for that.
Which was, frankly, infuriating.
“Okay,” he muttered finally, glancing away. “But I’m still not drinking that peppermint mocha bullshit you like.”
Shen grinned. “That’s fine. More for me.”
***
Frank didn’t even register it at first. It just sort of… happened. One shift, he was already stopping at the café near the hospital to grab his usual Red Bull, and then he was staring at the menu board, muttering under his breath like an idiot: What the hell was that one Shen liked? The stupid caramel swirl thing? Or was it the toasted almond nightmare?
He ordered both. One for now, one for later. He told himself it was just so Shen wouldn’t waste time in line and slow them both down. Efficiency, not affection.
It became a habit. Muscle memory. The same way he pulled on his compression socks or double-checked the Narcan in his bag. Grab Red Bull. Grab Shen’s sugar-soaked abomination of the week. Walk in together like it was normal.
Shen never made a big deal out of it. Just gave him that crooked little smile, the one that crinkled his eyes and made Frank’s brain short-circuit for a second. Sometimes he’d tease - “You trying to bribe me for better shift assignments?” - but he always took the cup.
They hadn’t talked about whatever this thing was. No declarations. No awkward confessions. No closet supply room trysts with regret hanging heavy in the aftermath. Just this slow, strange orbit around each other.
They still hung out. Ran together. Worked shifts elbow to elbow, working the cases, and sometimes just sitting in exhausted silence during the rare moments the ED didn’t resemble a war zone.
Frank didn’t know if Shen was gay, or bi, or just some kind of emotionally evolved straight guy who didn’t flinch at closeness. He hadn’t asked. Shen hadn’t offered. And Frank didn’t want to ruin whatever this was by naming it too soon.
As for himself? It had been a long time since he’d been with a guy. Not since college, and even then it was a blur of cheap beer and sweaty dorm rooms and late-night hookups with sorority girls to distract himself from the former. Not this. Not quiet check-ins and stolen coffees, and the way Shen sometimes bumped their shoulders together when he was trying to get him to laugh after a rough shift.
This, whatever the hell it was, was new. And terrifying.
So, instead of asking questions or demanding clarity, Frank kept picking up the damn coffee.
***
On one of the few days off, Shen had ended their run in that particular moment that Frank hated - when his legs were still buzzing but his mind had started spinning again. They’d pushed hard, but not long, Shen keeping the pace tight and controlled like always.
It hadn’t been long enough. Not nearly. He needed five more kilometers, maybe ten. Needed his lungs to burn and his body to beg for mercy before his brain shut the hell up. But Shen had called it. As usual. One look, one quiet “we’re done,” and Frank had backed off. That was the agreement they had.
They slowed near the hospital parking lot, their breath fogging in the cold night air. Frank bent slightly, hands on his thighs. “You really gotta stop letting me drag you on these runs if you’re gonna wheeze like that,” he said between gulps of air.
Shen shot him a look. “I’m the one who picked the route. You’re the one who sprinted the last hill like it owed you money.”
Frank huffed a laugh. “Well. It did.”
They stood there a moment, the streetlamp above casting long shadows on the sidewalk.
Shen shifted. “You wanna come back to mine?”
Frank’s head snapped up.
“I’ve got beer,” Shen added. “Non-alcoholic, too. And leftovers. Real food. Not the vending machine crap you survive on.”
Frank opened his mouth, then closed it. Because, yeah, he’d thought about asking Shen the same thing a dozen times now. The walk home was always the worst part, energy still buzzing through his system from a half-finished run, his brain refusing to power down. And sometimes, he’d picture Shen there, picture all the ways they could burn off whatever the run hadn’t touched.
But then he’d remember his apartment. The paper-thin walls, the peeling laminate in the kitchen, the fact that it still smelled vaguely like the last tenant’s dog. It was barely one step above “crash pad,” and definitely not the kind of place you invited someone to. Especially not someone like Shen.
“Uh,” he said, eloquently. “Sure.”
Shen raised an eyebrow. “That didn’t sound like a hell yes.”
“It’s just-” Frank scrubbed a hand through his hair. “You live in that new building off Lexington, right? With the security codes and the fancy in-unit washer?”
“That’s the one. Attending money buys exactly one shoebox of luxury these days. You’ll find out for yourself soon enough, now that you’re almost done with residency.”
Frank snorted. “PTMC’s not hiring me as an attending.”
Shen gave him a sidelong look but didn’t press. Instead: “We could go to yours, if that’s what you prefer?”
Frank shifted awkwardly. “It’s, uh… close to the hospital.”
Shen nodded. “That code for ‘a bit shit’?”
“It’s code for ‘I found it on Craigslist during a depressive episode.’”
Shen laughed, warm and unexpected. “Nice. My place, then. If you still want to come over?”
Frank hesitated. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”
They walked in silence for a block before Shen bumped his shoulder lightly. “For the record, I didn’t invite you over because I think your place sucks.”
“I didn’t say you did.”
“You didn’t have to,” Shen said. “I just figured you might want something that feels… different. For a night.”
The silence that followed stretched out, heavier than it should’ve been. Then Frank spoke, low and honest.
“I don’t sleep through the night.”
“That’s fine.”
“I might get up. Go for a run. Or just... pace.”
“There’s an extra set of keys by the hanger,” Shen said, like it was the simplest thing in the world.
Frank raised an eyebrow. “You let all your charity cases come and go like that?”
Shen didn’t miss a beat. “Only the ones who pretend they don’t need it.”
Frank huffed a laugh, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “I haven’t-” he stopped, tried again. “It’s been a while. Since I’ve… been with someone.”
Shen slowed his pace just slightly, glancing over. “Okay.”
“I don’t mean emotionally. I mean-physically. I don’t even know what I’m saying.”
“You’re saying you’re out of practice,” Shen said, tone easy, unbothered. “So what? You think I came out here tonight expecting a flawless performance?”
Frank gave him a dry look. “You literally just invited a guy with a bad knee and impulse control issues to your apartment at midnight.”
“Exactly,” Shen said. “Which means I already know what I’m signing up for.”
Frank rolled his eyes but didn’t argue.
“And for the record,” Shen added, quieter now, “there’s no pressure. We eat. You sit. Maybe sleep. That’s it. Anything else? That’s up to you.”
Frank looked at him for a beat, brow furrowed, like he wanted to push back but couldn’t quite find the fight for it. Instead, he exhaled and nodded once.
“Okay,” he said. “Yeah. That works.”
Shen bumped their shoulders again, just lightly. “Good. Let’s get you off that leg before you try to hero your way up three flights of stairs.”
Frank snorted. “I’m not that bad.”
“You are,” Shen said, with a grin. “But it’s kind of endearing.”
***
Frank figured he should probably start arranging to work under Abbot instead. Rotate shifts. Pull some strings. Anything to avoid being on Shen’s watch while also sleeping in his bed.
He wasn’t naïve. He knew exactly how it looked. Knew what people would whisper behind half-closed doors. Resident sleeping with his attending? Messy. Unprofessional. Predictable. It didn’t matter that he was almost done with residency, that he was an R4 who overstayed.
And Abbot? Yeah, he’d definitely notice. Probably already had. The man had the personality of a surveillance camera. He’d be halfway to Robby with the news before Frank even got through sign-out.
The thing was... Frank wasn’t sure Robby would actually be mad about it. Not anymore.
Maybe a few months ago, back when Robby still looked at him like a ticking time bomb. But lately, there was something different in those brief, awkward handoffs. Less suspicion. More... relief? As if Frank staying upright, functioning, showing up on time, and getting through his shifts was a minor miracle Robby hadn’t dared to expect.
So maybe if he did find out, he’d just... nod. Shrug. Say something annoyingly vague like “Good for you.” Because Robby was smart, and for all his disappointment and moral superiority, he probably understood that Shen being in the picture was good for Frank. That someone like Shen, steady, calm, quietly stubborn, might be the thing keeping him from crushing.
Frank didn’t need a therapist to spell it out - he knew his pattern. Burn bright, crash hard, shut everyone out.
But this, whatever it was with Shen, didn’t feel like a warning sign. It didn’t feel like another bad decision waiting to detonate.
It felt like a pause. A breath.
So yeah. Let Abbot gossip. Let Robby frown. Frank had already burned the house down once - what was a little smoke now?