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Langdon isn’t expecting a huge entourage for his first day back, which is good because he doesn’t get one. Robby corners him in the parking lot just as Langdon is locking his ancient Mazda and sweeps him into PTMC through the side entrance. Then he sits him down in his office to lay down the ground rules.
He can’t tell if Robby is happy to see him. He doesn’t look upset, at least, and Langdon hopes that the fact that getting his shit together only took eight months reflects well on his drive to be here. He wants to be here. He honestly hadn’t been sure he’d survive if he’d had to spend another month at rehab. It hadn’t been hard to quit, exactly, but it had taken a long time. Too long. But still—eight months. Langdon is almost impressed by himself.
“Random drug tests,” Robby says, “twice a week. First one is right now.” He pushes a plastic container across the table and raises an eyebrow when Langdon just stares at him. “Frank?”
“Yes, yup.” He grabs the container before getting to his feet. Robby is looking at him with something that might be sympathy, but he can’t let himself lean into it. “Team meeting at seven?”
“You got it.” Robby nods at him.
Langdon goes through the motions. He pisses, screws the container shut, drops it off at the testing hub. Perlah must have already been told about it because she doesn’t look surprised when she takes it from him. “Morning, Langdon,” she says gently.
“Perlah,” says Langdon and tries to grin.
He can feel her eyes on him as he heads to the lockers to drop off his stuff. Whitaker is shoving his backpack into one when Langdon gets there, and he looks up at him with those owl-wide eyes Langdon remembers from their only shift together. His hair is longer, long enough for Whitaker to tuck a piece of it behind his ear as he murmurs, “Dr. Langdon.”
“Nice to see you, Whitaker,” Langdon says.
“Dennis,” someone calls from the hallway, “what are you—oh.”
Trinity Santos looks exactly the same as he remembers her. Her hair is pulled back in a severe half up-down; the camisole under her plain scrubs is dark green and low enough that he can make out a golden ‘J’ on her necklace. She stares at him with those same eyes—bright green, too green for a normal person’s eyes—and sucks in her cheeks. “Langdon,” she says tightly.
“Santos,” he says, throat dry.
“Robby’s starting soon,” she mutters, “so you two better hurry up.”
“Trin,” says Whitaker, almost desperately, but she just shakes her head.
“See you out there,” she says, then vanishes around the corner. Langdon comes back to awareness slowly. It’s only as he’s taking off his cap that he notices his hands are shaking.
Robby barely looks at him when he enters the huddle around Dana’s desk, but Langdon is too hyperaware of Santos’s watching him to feel anything about it. He glances at her, and she looks away too quickly for her to have been doing anything other than staring at him. The reel badge hanging from her hip says R2 now; he’s really not getting rid of her anytime soon. Not that he needs to anymore—he’d only wanted her gone because somehow she’d figured him out within an hour of knowing him. She’d won, too. Langdon did the whole rehab thing, Santos was right, but she doesn’t look the least bit happy about it now.
“Langdon!” someone whispers in his ear, and he turns to find Mel beside him, bouncing on her toes. “Morning, want some coffee?” God bless Mel, really. He’d figured he’d probably never talk to her again after Robby kicked him out when the MCI was over, but then she’d found his number and texted him. Hi Langdon! Robby says you’re on leave. Is everything ok? And Langdon had almost cried because someone was checking on him, not everyone had left him, and then Mel was coming over almost every night with Becca, meeting Tanner and Bella. She’d wriggled her way into his shitty life to pick him up from NA meetings, to sit beside him on his couch as he leafed through the divorce papers Abby had served him. Langdon wasn’t a complete dickhead, though—when Becca was struggling, he was there to help Mel handle it. When Mel was struggling, he was combing his fingers through her golden hair while she sniffled into his neck. Platonic, platonic, platonic. It had to be, because he’d never survive otherwise.
“Coffee would be great,” he murmurs back, and Mel grins before shoving a cup into his hand.
“Good luck today,” she manages to say before Robby starts speaking.
“Rough day today,” Robby starts (which, very encouraging). “Fourth of July. Hand amputations, burns. We need to be checking for BAC even if you’re the least bit concerned. If you need anything, any help, ask for it. Mohan, Shen, and I are running point. Come find one of us.” Shen tips his coffee cup towards them and takes a noisy sip. Robby looks about five seconds from finding a scalpel to use on his head; Langdon can see the moment he remembers his sabbatical is starting tomorrow. He straightens up, rubs a hand down his face, and says, “Go. Langdon, Santos—stay.”
He hadn’t not expected it, is the thing. Santos shoots him a venomous look as she sidles up to the desk. The hoops on her ears shimmer as she turns her head towards Robby. “You two,” says Robby, like they’re misbehaving toddlers, “keep it together today. If I have to separate you, I will. But right now I’m trusting that you can work together. Go take North Eleven.”
“Together?” Santos sputters. Robby’s head swivels so hard Langdon swears he hears his neck crack. “Okay,” she says, putting her hands up, “I got it. We got it.”
“Then go.”
Santos is halfway down the corridor when Langdon’s brain catches up. Her hair swings violently behind her as he jogs to her side. She glances at him out the corner of her eye, mouth twisting unpleasantly, and reaches up to tuck her necklace into her camisole. “I’m not in the mood to do this,” she snaps.
“Good,” says Langdon, equally as sharp. She scoffs and slams into North Eleven before Langdon can tell her to calm down. Which is maybe for the best, because he’d probably only make her more upset.
“Morning,” Santos chirps. The man on the bed looks up in surprise. He’s maybe forty, with the beginnings of gray hair speckled across his beard. “I’m Dr. Santos, and this is Dr. Langdon. He’ll be assisting me today.” Langdon opens his mouth to argue that he is certainly not assisting, not when he’s two years of residency ahead of her, but Santos kicks his leg and stalks forward to take the man’s vitals. “How’s your burn doing?”
“Better,” says the man, hesitantly, and holds out his arm so Langdon can look. The skin of his forearm is bright pink and slathered with some ointment. “The nurse put some neosporin on it.”
“Looks second degree,” says Langdon, peering down at it. “It’ll heal on its own.”
“Good job, Dr. Langdon,” Santos mutters. He looks up just in time to catch the gauze roll she throws at him. “Wrap him up while I chart, would you?”
The man frowns at him. “Are you two… good?”
“Dr. Langdon is having a very bad, no good day today,” says Santos without stopping her typing, “so you’ll have to give him a break. He just got divorced.”
“I’m not divorced yet,” says Langdon.
“The state of heterosexual marriage these days,” sighs Santos. She shoots their patient an empathetic look. “Am I right?”
“I’m not divorced,” says Langdon again. Both of them ignore him.
Santos finishes up as Langdon stews. She opens the door and ducks under Langdon’s arm as he tries to hold it open for himself. She’s a piece of work. He remembers the first few hours of their only shift together where she’d almost respected him—if one could call her behavior respectful, anyways. He’d never bothered to learn more about her, and he figured she couldn’t fault him for that. She stays in front of him the entire walk back to the board; she keeps scrubbing at the back of her neck. There’s a thin tattoo on her left wrist. When she puts her arms on the desk he looks at it more closely. It’s a conch shell.
It’s unsettling to think of Santos as someone other than the annoying intern he remembers her as. Any of his early interactions with her have blurred together in a haze, but that’s not exactly fair. Santos had made good use of those few hours to pinpoint his addiction—so he makes good of their time now to watch her. The shell on her wrist. Her ‘J’ necklace. Her nails, bitten down to the quick. How had she known? How had this woman seen him, really seen him, when no one else had?
“First amputation,” says Dana, leaning against the other side of the desk. “ETA two minutes. Saved ‘im for you.”
“God bless you,” sighs Santos. Dana grins. “Can we take him in Trauma One?”
“Yeah, just cleaned. Go crazy.”
“Hey,” says Langdon once Dana’s shuffled away. Then he stops, because he doesn’t really know what to say. Santos is looking at him. She’s caught off guard, he knows; her eyes are wide and open, her mouth fully slack, free from any irritation. He’s spent enough time thinking about her, but now that she’s here, he doesn’t know what he wants. To thank her, maybe. Or maybe to launch himself at her and knock her nose out of its alignment. He’d have to do that after their shift, though. Mel is friends with Santos, and he’d rather not dislodge the only solid thing in his life.
“Snap out of it,” says Santos. She turns her head away. “I don’t want to talk about anything that isn’t a patient.”
Langdon sighs. It’s going to be a long shift.
He notices the lights starting to go out about three hours in, and only because Robby keeps glaring up at the ceiling. “Goddamnit,” mutters Robby. He turns to look at Dana. “Can you send—”
“Already done,” says Dana. He and Santos are fresh from a CO2 inhalation case, and both of them are peering at the board to find something that won’t require CPR. His arms are jelly. Santos absently feels around for her earrings as her eyes dance across the screen. “Central Fourteen?” Dana asks her.
“What’s that?” Santos says absently.
“Cast removal.”
“The fuck are they in the ED for?” mutters Santos. Langdon startles. He’d almost said the exact same thing but had wisely kept his mouth shut in front of Robby. Robby just snorts. She rolls her eyes. “C’mon, let’s do it.”
“You’re an R2,” says Langdon, nonsensically, as they make their way towards Central.
“Great job,” says Santos, “you can count.”
Langdon grunts. “Do you have a problem with me?”
Santos stops walking. Langdon flushes, hands closing into fists at his sides, as she turns towards him. She shuts her eyes. It’s hot in the ED and they’re both sweating from the CPR, but Santos’s flush hasn’t faded yet. She’s pale despite it. “Do you,” she says, and Langdon chews on his cheek as her green eyes swivel to him, “have a problem with me?”
“Not right now,” says Langdon, but it’s unconvincing. He wishes he knew what to say to her, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t even know what to say to himself, and he’s spent two months in therapy talking about Santos, trying to parse through everything. She fucked up his entire life. He’s not grateful for it. He’d fucking hated rehab with every fiber of his being, but he’d recognized it as necessary. He might hate her forever. But there’s a person under there, under all the baggage he’s shoved onto her in his mind, and he’s curious despite himself. He wants to know how she knew. He wants to dig through her until he finds something that stings just as bad as she’d stung him.
Santos is much shorter than him. At least half a foot, probably more. Her head barely comes up to his chin. She’s such a force of nature that he’d never noticed it before, and he sort of hates himself for noticing it now. She tips her chin up and glares. “Well, I don’t have a problem with you yet, so let’s stop chatting and get to work. Neither of us want this—” she gestures between them, “but we’ve got to deal. I’m not getting on Robby’s bad side again.” Then she stomps off down the hall, leaving Langdon to wonder when she’d been on Robby’s bad side the first time.
The AC shudders as Langdon pushes into the room. Santos is already sitting down, quietly peering at the cast. Their patient is a young girl, maybe nine. “Can you check if OR gave the okay to take it off?” Santos asks him. Langdon nods and goes to start the computer. Santos wriggles her stool closer to the bed, but they’re still right next to each other, their backs nearly touching.
“OR says go for it,” says Langdon, strangled.
“Okay,” says Santos softly, so softly, and he almost thinks she’s talking to him, but then she says, “we’re gonna grab a saw and get this off of you, ‘kay?” The patient nods, brown curls bouncing, and Santos turns to talk to the parent Langdon hadn’t noticed in the corner.
“Where’s the saw?” he asks.
“OR has them,” says Santos. She stands and dusts off her pants. There’s a hole in the toe of her sneaker. “We’ve gotta get them from there.”
“Great,” Langdon mutters. He follows her out of the room and towards the elevator. She’s a good doctor, he thinks. It shouldn’t surprise him. Santos stops in front of the elevator doors and jabs her finger into the up button. The lights flicker again. “Gentle,” he can’t help but hiss.
Santos looks at him as though she’s never heard that word in her life, which—yeah, that tracks.
The doors open; they get inside, pointedly looking away from each other.
He can hear her breathing beside him. The elevator is ridiculously large, but it seems tiny with her inside it as well. She tucks her hands in her pants, chips the side of her shoe against the ground. She’s not sweating anymore but her hair is frizzed out around her forehead.
They grab the saw from the OR and head back to the elevator. They’re waiting in the hallway when the lights do actually go out. Santos startles a bit, then sighs. “Crap.”
The doors to the elevator open and she slides in. Langdon follows her in. Despite his warning about being gentle, she jams the basement level button three times before the doors close, then leans up against the side of the elevator as the floors go past. It’s awkward. He hadn’t expected it to be a good day, really, and it isn’t bad, but Santos is the last person he’d expected to be paired up with. He knows it’s necessary—he isn’t going to be working by himself for at least another six months. But he’d expected Cassie or Mohan, not—not Santos. Anyone but her.
He squeezes his eyes shut. What the fuck is he even supposed to do? She hates him, clearly, and he’s not overly fond of her either. There’s so much resentment in this elevator that it’s suffocating. He wishes it would move faster.
Of course, because the universe hates him, the elevator jerks to a stop. The entire box goes dark as the lights turn off, replaced with bright red hazards.
“Oh my god,” mutters Santos, “you’re shitting me.”
Langdon watches as she hits the call button. “Hey,” she says sharply, “we’re fucking stuck here.” There’s no response. She rolls her eyes and pulls her phone out of her back pocket, then frowns. “No service.” They’re both quiet for a moment before she turns back to him, eyes flashing. “We’re stuck.”
“Excellet deduction,” says Langdon darkly. She moves aside as he goes to press the call button and snorts when there’s no response again. She’s too close to him. He can smell her shampoo or body wash or something. It’s citrus-scented, he thinks. She skitters away from him a moment later, eyes wide, and squeezes herself into the corner furthest from him. Langdon stares at her. He’s never seen her look scared, really. He thinks the closest he’s ever seen had been when he yelled at her about the seizure patient. Out of everything he remembers about that day, he remembers that the clearest. He’d startled awake halfway through his tirade; everything after that moment is crystal clear. She’d looked close to tears, eyes red at the corners, shivering, small. She hadn’t yelled back at him. Just took it. That was the worst part.
She’s worse now. Sunk on her knees, arms wrapped around her chest, staring at him. “I didn’t know you were claustrophobic,” he says, and it comes out teasing.
“I’m not,” says Santos. It doesn’t sound like she’s lying. “Sit down.”
Langdon blinks.
“Sit down,” she says again, “please.”
Something is very wrong. He sits, mostly because he doesn’t know what else to do, and laces his fingers together in his lap. Santos’s gaze darts to them and she relaxes minutely. “Santos,” he says hesitantly, “what’s going on?”
Santos just shakes her head. She’s starting to breathe a little faster, almost like she’s close to hyperventilating, and he realizes that he needs to calm her down before she goes tachycardic. “Hey,” he murmurs, “calm down. Calm down. I’m staying right here. I’m not going to touch you.” Langdon isn’t sure why he says it, but it’s the right thing to do; Santos lets out a shuddering breath before relaxing into her corner. He feels sick. She’s so tiny shoved into herself, knees tucked to her chest, staring at him from across the elevator. He watches as she wets her lips.
“Pass me the saw,” she whispers. Langdon unlaces his fingers and grabs the saw from beside him, then pushes it across the floor. Santos waits for his hands to be back in his lap before she reaches out and grabs it. She tucks it next to her.
He doesn’t want to ask, not really. He’s still feeling sick. “Santos,” he says softly.
“Don’t,” she hisses.
“I’m not going to touch you,” he says again.
Santos glares at him. “I’m not scared of you,” she says, but the way her hand tightens around the saw says otherwise.
What happened, he wants to ask. He’s used to being gentle—not with Santos, but he can do it. He isn’t even thinking about how irritating she is anymore. Langdon just wants her to stop looking at him like that, like he’s some wild, rabid animal. It reminds him too much of how Robby had looked at him by the lockers eight months ago. “I’m scared of you,” he says, stupidly.
“You… are?”
“Yeah. It scared me how well you figured me out that first day. Like you were constantly watching me or something.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” Santos says with a snort. “I worked in pain management before I switched to ED. I knew what I was looking for, ‘s all.”
He thinks she might have mentioned that before, but he doesn’t remember. The ED is tough, but pain management is tough too. It’s the kind of specialty that requires a certain level of empathy, a level Langdon hadn’t thought Santos had. But he’s not surprised to hear it. Whatever version of Santos that lives in his head is horribly warped by his addiction. He’d heard from Mel that Santos and Whitaker were roommates; she’d offered her spare room to him that first day. That’s not something someone without empathy would do.
“Surprised?” she asks.
“No,” says Langdon, “I just… I don’t know much about you.”
“There’s nothing to know,” says Santos.
He stares down at his sneakers. “I know I shouldn’t ask.”
“Then don’t.”
“I won’t,” says Langdon gently, “but I think I know.”
Santos bares her teeth and curls up tighter. “You don’t know jackshit about me.”
“We’re going to be working together for at least another year. Might as well start now.”
She seems to consider that for a moment. Her eyes dart around the elevator, more black than green under the red hazards, before she finally looks at him. “Just shut up,” she says, sounding so tired, and Langdon does.
Ten minutes pass in dead silence. Langdon is getting antsy, antsy enough to start fiddling with the elevator buttons again, and Santos is still just staring at him like he’s going to bite. He’s getting hungry, too. The granola bar in his pocket crunches a bit when he takes it out. Santos perks up.
“Want some?” he asks.
Santos sighs. “If you’re offering.”
“Come here,” says Langdon. He holds out half of the bar.
“I’m not an animal,” she spits. But she doesn’t move.
“C’mon,” he says, “I’m not gonna touch you. But I’m not passing this across the floor. I’m a doctor, Santos. It’s unsanitary.”
“Some doctor,” she mutters, but she untangles herself to scoot over to him. Langdon’s hand is shaking a bit. Santos reaches out and grabs the bar, then hesitates, as if she expects him to drag her towards him. Langdon just shrugs, takes a bite out of his half. She takes a hesitant bite of hers. “These are shit,” she announces.
“Be grateful,” Langdon says. “I could have eaten your half, too.”
“Thanks,” mutters Santos. She doesn’t scoot away when she’s finished. Langdon tries not to feel too pleased about it. “How long do you think we’ll be stuck here?”
“Until they get the generators working.”
“How long is that?”
“I dunno. They might not even get the elevators working until they’ve stabilized anyone who needs a machine to breathe.”
“Fucking great.” Santos leans back on her hands and stares at him. “Jesus. I can’t believe you’re here.”
“Yeah?” says Langdon.
“I didn’t have much faith in you,” she admits.
“I’d rather die than stop working here,” he says.
“I’m getting that now.”
They’re both quiet for a long time. Langdon tries not to look at her, but it’s hard, especially with the way she keeps looking at him. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever stop resenting her. It would be easier, he thinks, if she’d just stayed the one dimensional annoyance he remembers her as. But she’s a good doctor and Whitaker’s roommate and she’d almost cried when he’d yelled at her. He’s spent months trying to view her as anything other than a person, but she’s so person-shaped in front of him, mouth quivering. He’s not stupid; she’s obviously been hurt by someone before. She wouldn’t react the way she did otherwise. It scares him a bit. That someone can hurt Trinity Santos. She’s always seemed so untouchable.
“You can’t tell anyone about this,” she says. “About how I acted in here.”
“I wouldn’t.”
“I’m just saying. I told Robby about your pills. It would be fair if you wanted to get back at me.”
Langdon leans back against the wall. He doesn’t say something like don’t be stupid, because she’s not being stupid. She’s making too much sense. This is how they operate. “I won’t,” he says finally.
“Good,” Santos murmurs. Then, “I wish you came back sooner.”
“Are you fucking high right now?” he asks.
“Ha, ha.” She frowns at him, fingers reaching up to tangle in her necklace. “I wish. Robby was such an asshole without you here. Totally resented me for getting you booted, by the way. If that makes you feel better.”
It does, in a messed up kind of way. He should feel bad about it. But he’s glad to hear that Robby missed him, in whatever strange way that manifested itself. It wasn’t really Santos’s fault that he’d gotten kicked out. It’s nice that Robby had held it over her head, though—it makes Langdon feel pretty good about his chances at getting back in Robby’s good graces. “Sorry,” he says.
“Don’t even,” says Santos irritably, “I can tell how happy you are. It’s gross.”
“I’m sorry Robby was a dick about it, at least.”
“He’s always a dick about everything. I get it.”
They’re both quiet for another moment. Santos finishes twisting her necklace around her neck and folds her hands together. “If I tell you,” she says quietly, “you can’t tell anyone else. Not even Mel.”
“Why would I tell Mel?” The look she gives him is so scathing that he can’t help but wince. “Okay, okay. Why are you—”
“I think we understand each other.” Santos looks away from him. “In a weird way. I think you would understand it. And you said that you wanted to know more about me, so.”
“I was thinking more like your favorite color,” says Langdon wryly, “not your deepest trauma.”
“It’s green, obviously. And I’m telling you whether you like it or not. As punishment.”
“As punishment,” Langdon repeats. “Okay.”
She bites the edge of her thumb, scooting away from him. Langdon puts his hands back in his lap; she flushes but doesn’t complain. They stare at each other for a second. Santos keeps chewing on her thumb, and he’s about to insist that she shouldn’t tell him. That maybe he’s not the right person for this. But then in a rush she gets it out: “I used to be a gymnast.”
“Abby wanted Bella to do that,” says Langdon, “but I think she’s too young.”
Santos laughs sourly. “You’re not gonna want to put her in it after my story.” She sniffs. “My coach was a real piece of work. Asshole guy. He was molesting me and my best friend.”
“Jesus.” For a second, Langdon can’t breathe. He knows—of course he knows—how horrible the world can be, how horrible people can be. Working in the ED has made that hard to ignore. But here everything is heightened. Someone mentions something and all the puzzle pieces snap together, and Langdon can’t think about how horrible it all is, not when he can help them in this infinitesimal way. He doesn’t get to help Santos. He has to sit here and listen to her talk about awful things with the sort of blaséness that most people use to chat about the weather. It makes him sick.
“My friend killed herself because of it,” Santos is saying.
“I’m… really sorry.”
“Ew,” she grimaces, “don’t do that.”
“Do what? Have empathy?”
Santos doesn’t bother to respond to that. She rubs at her wrist as she continues, “It’s not that I’m afraid of men. I’m not. But there are other ways to hurt people, and I’m tragically aware of them.” With a shrug, she leans back on her hands. “That’s it.”
A few months into rehab, Mel had come over with coffee the morning before his first NA meeting. “You and Santos have the same order,” she’d said, watching as he guzzled down his cup. “You know, you two are more alike than you’d believe.” Langdon had fixed her with a look of disgust and said, “Don’t ever say that again.” He grinned afterwards, to make sure Mel knew he was joking, but she was already laughing.
He can taste acid in the back of his throat. God, he’d hated her so much—some part of him hasn’t stopped hating her. But she’s just a girl, really. She’d done what she’d thought was right. He watches as she swallows thickly.
“I know men,” Santos begins, “who seem cool. Nice. They take care of you. Then they do sick things to you, and you let it happen. Because they’re supposed to know better.” She looks up at him. “I know you know better, Langdon. I’m supposed to report to you, I know—I’m trying. Ask Robby. I’ve gotten better at it. I’m trying so hard.”
“I wouldn’t do any of that to you,” Langdon says gently.
“I know that!” she bursts out. “I know, and that’s what makes it so shitty. Robby gave you a second chance. So why—” she looks away furiously. “Don’t feel bad for me. Just don’t get in my way. I’m finishing this residency if it kills me.”
“Okay,” he whispers, “yeah. I won’t get in your way.”
“Thanks, dickhead,” says Santos, and he pretends he doesn’t see her swipe under her eyes.
“You’re a good doctor, Santos,” he says.
“Better than you, that’s for sure.” She stands and wanders over to the panel behind him. She isn’t shaking anymore, and Langdon lets out a breath as her sneaker nudges against his heel. “Do you think we can try the call button again?”
The call button works the third time and by the seventh hour of their shift, they’re back on the floor. Santos splits off from him, and he ends up with Mel. “Did Robby separate you two?” she asks. Langdon hums, leaning over her to watch her stitch up a knife gash.
“Nah,” he says, “I think we’re okay.”
“Oh, good!” says Mel.
They have to work overtime, because of course they do. He keeps seeing Santos rushing past him, and he can tell she’s maybe not looking at him on purpose. It’s fine. But at the end of the shift he manages to catch her. “Santos,” he says, stepping in front of her. She looks up at him with frantic eyes; her hair is yanked back into a tight bun, though a few strands have started to fall around her face, and her necklace is back under her shirt. “Do you wanna get dinner with me and Mel?”
“Uh,” says Santos. She looks at him for another moment. “Dennis and I take the bus home together.”
“He can come. I’ll drive you both home.”
“Oh-kay,” she frowns. “Yeah, sure. But—” she points at him, glaring, “don’t think we’re friends.”
“I would never,” says Langdon sweetly.
“Good,” says Santos, all huffy, and turns down the hallway. Langdon watches her go, trying not to laugh.
“Told you,” Mel chirps from behind him. She puts one of her warm hands on his shoulder and he forces himself to not melt into it. “I knew you two would get along.”