"Do you always have to work twelve hours?" His voice cuts through the cool spring morning like a knife.
"Frank," You turn and stare at his battered face as he walks into the glow of the street lamp. "What are you…" You pause, smiling as your heart skips a beat at the sight of him. "What are you doing here?"
"I figured your shift would be over soon." He approaches you slowly, his hands snug in the pockets of his hoodie.
"Do you always stay up at night waiting for nurses to get off work?" You tease.
You can't believe that he's following up on you, that he actually wanted to see you again. He's had to have saved dozens of people on the streets of New York City, stronger people, more important people than you. Someone like Frank doesn't have time to keep up on everyone he's kept out of trouble… does he?
"Only those I need to check up on." His voice drops down an octave, vibrating in his chest as he takes a few steps in your direction. He takes his time staring at you, his eyes soft against the warm lights of the parking lot.
"You think I need checked up on?"
You meet his pace as you inch forward, the two of you meeting directly beneath the flickering lamplight. You tilt your head to see that the bruises on his face are in multiple stages of healing; his cheek is yellow and green, his eye black and purple, his lip red and cracked. He hasn't fought anyone in a few days from the looks of it, but that was only judging from his face. You haven't seen the rest of his body yet.
"You work in a pretty shitty part of town, so yeah." He looks away from you, catching a glimpse of a cab driving by. "I just want to make sure you're okay."
"Are you okay?" You lift a hand to his cheek, barely brushing it with your fingertips.
He looks different in front of you tonight, his hood resting gently against his neck. You think back to when you first saw him, when fear and adrenaline rushed through your veins, making him seem like a wild animal. A wild animal that came out of nowhere, eyes glowing black against the night sky with a white skull painted on his chest. A wild animal that growled as he pulled your assailant off of you and into his fists. A wild animal that beat him so badly, blood and bone flew into the air like liquid hot fireworks, splattering against his face. A wild animal that now stands before you, tamed and calm.
He lets you touch his face, slightly leaning into the warmth of your hand. His heavy eyelids drop once, twice, three times as you graze the apple of his cheek with your thumb. His chest rises and falls, like slow waves on the ocean as your hand slides down his neck and onto his shoulder. You can tell it had been a long time since someone had touched him like this.
"I'm alright." His eyes spring open as you take your hand away, letting it fall to your side. "Figure I owe you a cup of coffee for stitching me up the other night."
"You don't owe me anything, Frank, and it's a little late for coffee." You nod your head toward the clock in the courtyard… 4:15 a.m.
"Nah, it's early." His lips curl into a smirk, flashing a smile for the first time since you've met him. "Let me buy you a cup; walk you home, at least." He pauses and takes his hands out of his pockets, tracing the skin on the back of your arm before gently squeezing your elbow. "Please?"
You can't deny wanting to spend more time with him, or the fact that you couldn't stop thinking about him since that night. You didn't want to admit it, not to yourself, and definitely not to him. You didn't move to New York City to become some helpless damsel in distress, to rely on some man for your protection. You moved here to take care of sick patients who needed your help, though it didn't seem like you were off to a very good start.
"Alright." You answer, trying not to get lost in the sensation of his fingertips. "You can walk me home, but only because I need to look at those stitches again."
His smile widens, threatening to break open the scab that's formed on his upper lip. "Fair enough."
—
Frank enters your kitchen with a lot less blood trailing from his knuckles this time. He isn't clasping at his abdomen or limping onto your bar stool as you chase after him with your first aid kit. He isn't apologizing for getting blood and glass all over your nice clean floor while he chokes down the pain from his wounds.
"Take off your shirt, I want to make sure your wound hasn't dehisced." You place your purse on the other chair and step in front of him.
"Make sure it hasn't what?" He unzips his sweatshirt and winces as he pulls his arms out of his sleeves.
"I want to make sure it hasn't opened up again." You school him, narrowing your brow as he tosses his sweatshirt behind him.
You look up and quickly notice that he isn't wearing a shirt underneath his hoodie. His perfectly toned torso prevents you from looking at anything else in the room. You try your best to keep your composure, but Jesus Christ, is he immaculate! You'd almost forgotten how good he looks in the stress of sewing him up the other night, but you can't think of how you could have forgotten something like that: someone like him. His pecs are perfectly taught, his abs cut precisely into six individual muscle groups, each flexing as you run your palm over them to make your way to his cut.
"You look good… IT looks good… you're stitches look... good." You let out an exasperated breath. "Your wound is healing well." God dammit, get ahold of yourself.
"Thanks, Doc." He chides, watching your hand as it slowly travels up his abdomen. He smiles softly and places a hand on top of yours, squeezing it tenderly as it finally rests on his heart.
"You take care of me… I'll take care of you." You whisper, afraid to lift your head and look at him.
"Yeah," he nods, leaning forward as his grip on your hand gets tighter.
You swallow hard as a knot starts to form in your stomach, forcing you to recognize the electricity shooting up from where his skin meets yours. Something as simple as hand-holding sounds childish, immature, unimportant, even; but it's never felt so good. The harsh calluses on his fingers ghost over the back of your knuckles as you finally look up and meet him.
His crooked nose brushes your cheek before he kisses you. Lips softer than you'd imagined barely press into yours as he rubs the back of your hand. A hint of black coffee reaches your mouth as you stand on your tiptoes to kiss him back, opening your mouth to his soft and patient tongue.
You lift your other hand to his cheek, trying not to press too hard on his healing flesh as you bring him in close. His breath is warm and calm as you take him in, inhaling and exhaling in sync with each other as if you were meant to do so from the very beginning. You want to jump on top of him, to throw him down on your kitchen counter and consume every inch of him, but something… Something slows your thought process down before he pulls away.
"You need to sleep." He whispers in between pecks on your bottom lip.
"So do you." You kiss his cheek and then his lips. "You could stay here tonight."
"I'll take the couch, let you rest." He lifts his hand and brushes your cheek with the back of his knuckle. "Let me take care of you."