Hi, I’m Berry and I accidentally built an entire emotional universe around one very broken man. Watch me make things unnecessarily poetic on default. This masterlist is mostly Frankie Morales: soft chaos and smut with feelings. Sometimes healing, sometimes heartbreak. Always lingering.
If you're into longing, slow burns, and love that refuses to be quiet you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟
new? confused? here’s your starter pack:
⋆ Reader-favorite: “Slow Motion” —Best friends. Always there, never quite enough. He broke your heart without ever knowing he held it—until everything fell apart, and the only person he wanted was the one he pushed away. (one-shot)
⋆ My personal fav: “Like A Song Stuck In My Head” — This story isn't about happy endings. It’s about almosts. About the kind of love that brands you and ruins you and lives in you even long after. (finished series)
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟
⤷ ゛find me here as well : Ao3 , sideblog „berryshapedache“ & ko-fi ˎˊ˗
emoji key: 💔 Angst 🔥Smut ☁️ Fluff 🩹 Hurt/Comfort
Francisco Morales
𓂃⋆.˚ Series 𓂃⋆.˚
⟢ Like A Song Stuck In My Head (rockstar! Frankie) (finished) 💔☁️ Main Navigation
⟢ Grace & Gravitas (regency!AU) (ongoing) Main Navigation
⟢ Burned Between Us x (brothers best friend x ofc) (hiatus) 💔 🩹 Series Masterlist
⟢ Complete Mess (xf! reader) (finished) ☁️💔🔥
I Stole Your Heart, You Stole My Life
You Make Me A Complete Mess **
She Keeps His Shirt, He Keeps His Word **
⟢ Rain Down on Me (xofc reader) (finished) 💔🔥☁️ Series Masterlist
𓂃⋆.˚ One Shots 𓂃⋆.˚ (newest to oldest)
weathering 💔
no matter the distance 🔥 ☁️
tacos at midnight ☁️
damage control ☁️
Neon Ghosts 🔥
A Home for the Holidays ☁️ 🩹
More Than Enough 🔥 ☁️ 🩹
Earned. ☁️ 🩹 🔥 (2/2)
The Warmest Kind of Shelter 🩹 ☁️
Watching the Weather 💔 🔥🩹
—> (Sequel „Between Departures“) 💔 🩹
after the vows ☁️ 🔥
The Color of Peace ☁️
Swipe Right for Fate ☁️
I only bought this dress so you can take it off 🔥 💔
Public Use 🔥
In the Woods (I Knew Your Eyes) 💔 🩹
the prison of your own skin 🩹
call me friend but keep me closer 🩹
A Kitchen Kind of Love ☁️
they say if it’s right you know 💔☁️
The Wrong Side of Forever 🩹 💔
Wreck Me Gently 🔥
Denim 🔥
i am not who i was ☁️ 🩹
Made of Us 🔥
Every Way That Counts ☁️💔
Brat Tax 🔥 ☁️
The Day I Met Your Mom ☁️
Carved Into Me 🔥 💔
Your Hands On Me 🔥
Midnight Miles 🔥
Borrowed Time 🔥💔
Heatwave 🔥
Don‘t Let You Go ☁️
Did You Have Fun? 🔥
More Than This 🔥
Counting Sheep ☁️🩹
Thunder 🩹💔
Just For The Record ☁️
Chicken Soup ☁️🩹
The Way You See Me (1/2) & The Way I See You (2/2) ☁️ 💔🩹
Stars Above, Us Below ☁️🔥
Insatiable 🔥
In The Wake of Our Ruins 🔥💔
Poetry in a Room Full of Noise (1/2) & Serendipity (2/2) ☁️
Where You Left Me 💔
All In ☁️
What It Feels Like 🔥
Slow Motion 💔🩹☁️
Haunted by You (1/2) & What Lingers (2/2) 💔
Everything But Us 🔥💔
When Words Fail, Let Me Stay 🩹
Just for Now 🩹
What’s Left 🩹 💔
A Little Extra Care 🔥
Your Home’s Only a Town You’re a Guest In 🔥🩹 💔
Insomniacs 🩹
What I Didn't Say 🩹
Eres Mi Vida 💔
Love Cracks Through Tiny Spaces 🔥💔
10 Minutes 🩹💔
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟
Drabble Challenge 11/24 (finished) - to find under the tag #glimpsesofus
𓂃⋆.˚ Other works 𓂃⋆.˚
Navigation
Other Pedro Characters
Ted Garcia - Soft ☁️
Kermit - Late Nights 🔥 ⟡ Cream and Sugar, Baby ☁️🔥
tags: friends to???, (mutual) pining, idiots in love, fluff, hurt/comfort, protective!Frankie
summary: The only thing worse than a terrible first date is realizing you'd rather have spent the evening with your best friend.
word count: ~ 1,6k
read on ao3 ⟡
It had been a horrible date.
You should’ve known the second the guy, Mark, only talked about crypto and how his parents had inherited money from some fucking oil empire. It became painfully obvious within the first ten minutes that he'd never had to worry about paying rent for his absurdly overpriced downtown apartment with its skyline view.
Unlike you.
Some months you stretched every single penny until it practically begged for mercy, just to make sure you made it to the next paycheck without surviving on instant noodles. There was no trust fund waiting in the wings. No wealthy parents. No safety net.
So it was safe to say your realities couldn't have been more different.
You tried to be polite, carrying the conversation where you could, but when he started talking about tennis lessons and the private coach he'd hired to improve his serve, your mind quietly checked out.
Instead, it wandered somewhere infinitely more familiar.
To Frankie.
You could picture him so vividly it almost hurt. His strong arm draped over the back of your chair, rolling those warm brown eyes so dramatically they'd practically disappear into his skull while muttering something about rich dudes being all talk and no action.
"Bet I could beat him at arm wrestling."
You'd ugly-snort into laughter, hiding your face against the broad shoulder straining beneath his well-worn denim shirt.
Frankie would grin. That crooked, impossibly boyish grin you loved so much. The one that somehow made you forget the man pushing forty. The one that softened the hard edges years of war, grief, and bad decisions had carved into him.
With terrifying clarity, it hit you just how much you missed him. He'd been away for weeks on another flying contract, and his absence had lodged itself somewhere uncomfortable between your ribs.
While Mark rambled on about God knew what, you reached for your phone beneath the table. Your last message still sat there.
You: Text me when you're back on homeland. Take care. ❤️
—
At least Mark paid.
Outside the restaurant, you exchanged an awkward hug before climbing into your ancient Honda Civic.
The second the driver's door shut, you sent him a polite text thanking him for the evening, telling him you didn't think you were compatible and blocked his number.
With a tired sigh, you pulled onto the road. Taylor Swift filled the car as The Prophecy echoed through the speakers. You really didn't know how you kept picking the wrong men. None of them ever sparked the kindling you kept hoping for. Most of them only managed to light every warning sign imaginable.
Your thoughts drifted aimlessly until your car answered with a horrible metallic groan.
"...No."
A plume of white smoke burst from beneath the hood.
"No, no, no—"
The engine sputtered violently as you barely managed to wrestle the Civic onto the gravel shoulder before it gave one final, pitiful cough and died.
"Shit!"
Your palm slammed against the steering wheel before the horn blared into the empty night and your head fell back against the seat.
Perfect.
It was pitch black. Nothing but distant city lights behind you. No road signs. No passing traffic. No anything.
Your eyes drifted toward the dashboard.
11:57 p.m.
Great.
Tow services weren't exactly eager to rescue people in the middle of nowhere after midnight. Even if they were you couldn't afford one. Your mind raced through every person you could possibly call when your phone suddenly lit up.
Francisco 💙 calling...
A laugh escaped you before you even answered.
"Heyyy, preciosa."
God, you'd missed that voice.
"How are you doing?"
Despite everything, you smiled. The real smile. The one that only ever seemed to belong to him.
"Hi, how was your flight back?"
He exhaled dramatically. "Had some turbulence. Sucked. But I landed in one piece, so..."
"Thank God."
A comfortable silence settled between you.
Then—
"You home?"
You shook your head before remembering he couldn't see it. "No, sir."
A sheepish pause. "Actually... I was on a date."
"...A date?" His voice flattened immediately. "With who?"
"His name's Mark. Rich crypto guy."
A sharp inhale crackled through the speaker. "Damn."
You couldn't help laughing.
"One of those again?"
"Don't get me started. It was horrible. You would've hated him. He even smelled expensive."
Frankie let out a low whistle. "One of those, huh? I really gotta start questioning your taste in men, preciosa."
You snorted. "Fair."
Silence lingered another moment.
"I..." You sighed. "Actually, my car broke down on the way home. I'm stranded."
Another beat.
"...You are what?"
"My Honda died somewhere off Highway 65."
"I managed to get onto the shoulder, but it just…quit."
"You in the car?"
"Yeah. But it won't start. And there's no point in calling a tow truck now."
"Why the hell would you call a tow truck?"
His answer came so quickly it almost overlapped yours.
"You call me."
"You literally just got home, Frankie."
"So what ?"
You heard keys jangling. A door opening. His footsteps already moving.
"Send me your location."
"Frankie...it's almost midnight."
"Exactly. And you're sitting alone on the side of a highway. I'll come get you and tomorrow morning Will and I'll come back for your Honda."
"No, it's okay. I don't want to cause any—"
"—unpleasantness?" Frankie actually scoffed. "The only unpleasant thing right now is you sitting alone in the dark."
His voice changed, dropped lower. Got firmer. It was his military tone. The one that left absolutely no room for negotiation.
"Send.Me.Your.Location."
You sank farther into your seat. "...Okay."
Your phone had, naturally, chosen tonight to hover at one percent. You hurriedly shared your location. The screen blinked once and then the call died.
"...Fuck."
The silence that followed somehow felt louder than before.
—
Without the distraction of your phone, the minutes crawled by. You tried not to think about every horror movie you'd ever seen that started with a broken-down car. Nervously, you nibbled at your thumb until finally a pair of familiar headlights cut through the darkness.
The engine had barely fallen silent before Frankie climbed out of his old truck—Betsy, as he lovingly called her.
With far more flourish than necessary, your car door swung open, letting in the cold night air. He leaned one arm against the frame, pointing at you.
"You okay?"
You nodded, only for your eyes to unexpectedly fill with tears of relief that blurred your vision.
"Did somebody stop?"
You shook your head. Only then did he visibly exhale.
"Dios mío... you scared me."
You let out a watery laugh. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"
He immediately shook his head. "None of that."
His voice softened. "C'mon. Let's get you warm, hm?"
He helped you out of your car, walked around to grab your bag from the passenger seat and slung it over his shoulder with zero fucks given before tossing it onto the backseat of his truck.
Without really thinking, you folded into him while he held the passenger door open for you.
He was warm. Smelling faintly of sweat, gasoline, and the aftershave he always wore. His arms came around you without hesitation, secure and intimate, before he pressed a kiss into your hair. Your heart squeezed painfully inside your chest at that.
"Thank you," you could only murmur against his broad chest, the words muffled by his Henley.
"For what exactly?"
"For rescuing me. For..." You smiled to yourself. "Being you. For everything, I guess."
He huffed a quiet laugh. "You're gonna have to be a little more specific than that."
You only shook your head against him, letting his warmth seep into every part of you.
It was the first time all day, honestly, the first time since he'd left that you felt completely at ease.
"Missed you," you admitted.
You felt him smile against your hair. "That so?"
"Mhm."
A beat passed.
"Missed you too."
His arms tightened just a little, and you could've sworn his heartbeat picked up beneath your cheek.
—
Once you were settled in Betsy and the heater had begun chasing the chill from your bones, Frankie handed you a charging cable.
"So your phone doesn't die on me again."
Then a bottle of water, of course. Frankie the caretaker.
"I brought you something from the trip," he said after a few miles, eyes never leaving the road. "It's in the glove compartment."
You blinked at him. "You... brought me something?"
He shrugged.
"My birthday isn't until summer."
"Oh, I know."
Another shrug. "But I saw it and thought of you."
You smiled despite yourself before opening the compartment. A small bracelet slipped into your palm, decorated with tiny shells and beautiful blue stones that caught the dashboard lights. It was gorgeous.
"Frankie..."
You immediately fastened it around your wrist.
"I love it."
"Really?"
He finally glanced over for half a second.
"I wasn't sure. But the lady in the shop said it'd make a nice gift for someone special."
You looked up. "Someone special?"
He groaned. "Oh, please. Don't start."
A grin tugged at your lips. "Sorry, sorry. I'll behave."
He snorted, shaking his head as he looked back at the road.
You absentmindedly turned the bracelet around your wrist with your thumb, watching the little blue stones catch the passing streetlights.
He'd seen it. Thought of you. Bought it without needing a reason or an occasion.
Your date hadn't even remembered that you didn’t like coffee. Frankie had crossed half the county in the middle of the night and somehow still found the time to bring you home a piece of the ocean.
tags: friends to???, (mutual) pining, idiots in love, fluff, hurt/comfort, protective!Frankie
summary: The only thing worse than a terrible first date is realizing you'd rather have spent the evening with your best friend.
word count: ~ 1,6k
read on ao3 ⟡
It had been a horrible date.
You should’ve known the second the guy, Mark, only talked about crypto and how his parents had inherited money from some fucking oil empire. It became painfully obvious within the first ten minutes that he'd never had to worry about paying rent for his absurdly overpriced downtown apartment with its skyline view.
Unlike you.
Some months you stretched every single penny until it practically begged for mercy, just to make sure you made it to the next paycheck without surviving on instant noodles. There was no trust fund waiting in the wings. No wealthy parents. No safety net.
So it was safe to say your realities couldn't have been more different.
You tried to be polite, carrying the conversation where you could, but when he started talking about tennis lessons and the private coach he'd hired to improve his serve, your mind quietly checked out.
Instead, it wandered somewhere infinitely more familiar.
To Frankie.
You could picture him so vividly it almost hurt. His strong arm draped over the back of your chair, rolling those warm brown eyes so dramatically they'd practically disappear into his skull while muttering something about rich dudes being all talk and no action.
"Bet I could beat him at arm wrestling."
You'd ugly-snort into laughter, hiding your face against the broad shoulder straining beneath his well-worn denim shirt.
Frankie would grin. That crooked, impossibly boyish grin you loved so much. The one that somehow made you forget the man pushing forty. The one that softened the hard edges years of war, grief, and bad decisions had carved into him.
With terrifying clarity, it hit you just how much you missed him. He'd been away for weeks on another flying contract, and his absence had lodged itself somewhere uncomfortable between your ribs.
While Mark rambled on about God knew what, you reached for your phone beneath the table. Your last message still sat there.
You: Text me when you're back on homeland. Take care. ❤️
—
At least Mark paid.
Outside the restaurant, you exchanged an awkward hug before climbing into your ancient Honda Civic.
The second the driver's door shut, you sent him a polite text thanking him for the evening, telling him you didn't think you were compatible and blocked his number.
With a tired sigh, you pulled onto the road. Taylor Swift filled the car as The Prophecy echoed through the speakers. You really didn't know how you kept picking the wrong men. None of them ever sparked the kindling you kept hoping for. Most of them only managed to light every warning sign imaginable.
Your thoughts drifted aimlessly until your car answered with a horrible metallic groan.
"...No."
A plume of white smoke burst from beneath the hood.
"No, no, no—"
The engine sputtered violently as you barely managed to wrestle the Civic onto the gravel shoulder before it gave one final, pitiful cough and died.
"Shit!"
Your palm slammed against the steering wheel before the horn blared into the empty night and your head fell back against the seat.
Perfect.
It was pitch black. Nothing but distant city lights behind you. No road signs. No passing traffic. No anything.
Your eyes drifted toward the dashboard.
11:57 p.m.
Great.
Tow services weren't exactly eager to rescue people in the middle of nowhere after midnight. Even if they were you couldn't afford one. Your mind raced through every person you could possibly call when your phone suddenly lit up.
Francisco 💙 calling...
A laugh escaped you before you even answered.
"Heyyy, preciosa."
God, you'd missed that voice.
"How are you doing?"
Despite everything, you smiled. The real smile. The one that only ever seemed to belong to him.
"Hi, how was your flight back?"
He exhaled dramatically. "Had some turbulence. Sucked. But I landed in one piece, so..."
"Thank God."
A comfortable silence settled between you.
Then—
"You home?"
You shook your head before remembering he couldn't see it. "No, sir."
A sheepish pause. "Actually... I was on a date."
"...A date?" His voice flattened immediately. "With who?"
"His name's Mark. Rich crypto guy."
A sharp inhale crackled through the speaker. "Damn."
You couldn't help laughing.
"One of those again?"
"Don't get me started. It was horrible. You would've hated him. He even smelled expensive."
Frankie let out a low whistle. "One of those, huh? I really gotta start questioning your taste in men, preciosa."
You snorted. "Fair."
Silence lingered another moment.
"I..." You sighed. "Actually, my car broke down on the way home. I'm stranded."
Another beat.
"...You are what?"
"My Honda died somewhere off Highway 65."
"I managed to get onto the shoulder, but it just…quit."
"You in the car?"
"Yeah. But it won't start. And there's no point in calling a tow truck now."
"Why the hell would you call a tow truck?"
His answer came so quickly it almost overlapped yours.
"You call me."
"You literally just got home, Frankie."
"So what ?"
You heard keys jangling. A door opening. His footsteps already moving.
"Send me your location."
"Frankie...it's almost midnight."
"Exactly. And you're sitting alone on the side of a highway. I'll come get you and tomorrow morning Will and I'll come back for your Honda."
"No, it's okay. I don't want to cause any—"
"—unpleasantness?" Frankie actually scoffed. "The only unpleasant thing right now is you sitting alone in the dark."
His voice changed, dropped lower. Got firmer. It was his military tone. The one that left absolutely no room for negotiation.
"Send.Me.Your.Location."
You sank farther into your seat. "...Okay."
Your phone had, naturally, chosen tonight to hover at one percent. You hurriedly shared your location. The screen blinked once and then the call died.
"...Fuck."
The silence that followed somehow felt louder than before.
—
Without the distraction of your phone, the minutes crawled by. You tried not to think about every horror movie you'd ever seen that started with a broken-down car. Nervously, you nibbled at your thumb until finally a pair of familiar headlights cut through the darkness.
The engine had barely fallen silent before Frankie climbed out of his old truck—Betsy, as he lovingly called her.
With far more flourish than necessary, your car door swung open, letting in the cold night air. He leaned one arm against the frame, pointing at you.
"You okay?"
You nodded, only for your eyes to unexpectedly fill with tears of relief that blurred your vision.
"Did somebody stop?"
You shook your head. Only then did he visibly exhale.
"Dios mío... you scared me."
You let out a watery laugh. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"
He immediately shook his head. "None of that."
His voice softened. "C'mon. Let's get you warm, hm?"
He helped you out of your car, walked around to grab your bag from the passenger seat and slung it over his shoulder with zero fucks given before tossing it onto the backseat of his truck.
Without really thinking, you folded into him while he held the passenger door open for you.
He was warm. Smelling faintly of sweat, gasoline, and the aftershave he always wore. His arms came around you without hesitation, secure and intimate, before he pressed a kiss into your hair. Your heart squeezed painfully inside your chest at that.
"Thank you," you could only murmur against his broad chest, the words muffled by his Henley.
"For what exactly?"
"For rescuing me. For..." You smiled to yourself. "Being you. For everything, I guess."
He huffed a quiet laugh. "You're gonna have to be a little more specific than that."
You only shook your head against him, letting his warmth seep into every part of you.
It was the first time all day, honestly, the first time since he'd left that you felt completely at ease.
"Missed you," you admitted.
You felt him smile against your hair. "That so?"
"Mhm."
A beat passed.
"Missed you too."
His arms tightened just a little, and you could've sworn his heartbeat picked up beneath your cheek.
—
Once you were settled in Betsy and the heater had begun chasing the chill from your bones, Frankie handed you a charging cable.
"So your phone doesn't die on me again."
Then a bottle of water, of course. Frankie the caretaker.
"I brought you something from the trip," he said after a few miles, eyes never leaving the road. "It's in the glove compartment."
You blinked at him. "You... brought me something?"
He shrugged.
"My birthday isn't until summer."
"Oh, I know."
Another shrug. "But I saw it and thought of you."
You smiled despite yourself before opening the compartment. A small bracelet slipped into your palm, decorated with tiny shells and beautiful blue stones that caught the dashboard lights. It was gorgeous.
"Frankie..."
You immediately fastened it around your wrist.
"I love it."
"Really?"
He finally glanced over for half a second.
"I wasn't sure. But the lady in the shop said it'd make a nice gift for someone special."
You looked up. "Someone special?"
He groaned. "Oh, please. Don't start."
A grin tugged at your lips. "Sorry, sorry. I'll behave."
He snorted, shaking his head as he looked back at the road.
You absentmindedly turned the bracelet around your wrist with your thumb, watching the little blue stones catch the passing streetlights.
He'd seen it. Thought of you. Bought it without needing a reason or an occasion.
Your date hadn't even remembered that you didn’t like coffee. Frankie had crossed half the county in the middle of the night and somehow still found the time to bring you home a piece of the ocean.
tags: friends to???, (mutual) pining, idiots in love, fluff, hurt/comfort, protective!Frankie
summary: The only thing worse than a terrible first date is realizing you'd rather have spent the evening with your best friend.
word count: ~ 1,6k
read on ao3 ⟡
It had been a horrible date.
You should’ve known the second the guy, Mark, only talked about crypto and how his parents had inherited money from some fucking oil empire. It became painfully obvious within the first ten minutes that he'd never had to worry about paying rent for his absurdly overpriced downtown apartment with its skyline view.
Unlike you.
Some months you stretched every single penny until it practically begged for mercy, just to make sure you made it to the next paycheck without surviving on instant noodles. There was no trust fund waiting in the wings. No wealthy parents. No safety net.
So it was safe to say your realities couldn't have been more different.
You tried to be polite, carrying the conversation where you could, but when he started talking about tennis lessons and the private coach he'd hired to improve his serve, your mind quietly checked out.
Instead, it wandered somewhere infinitely more familiar.
To Frankie.
You could picture him so vividly it almost hurt. His strong arm draped over the back of your chair, rolling those warm brown eyes so dramatically they'd practically disappear into his skull while muttering something about rich dudes being all talk and no action.
"Bet I could beat him at arm wrestling."
You'd ugly-snort into laughter, hiding your face against the broad shoulder straining beneath his well-worn denim shirt.
Frankie would grin. That crooked, impossibly boyish grin you loved so much. The one that somehow made you forget the man pushing forty. The one that softened the hard edges years of war, grief, and bad decisions had carved into him.
With terrifying clarity, it hit you just how much you missed him. He'd been away for weeks on another flying contract, and his absence had lodged itself somewhere uncomfortable between your ribs.
While Mark rambled on about God knew what, you reached for your phone beneath the table. Your last message still sat there.
You: Text me when you're back on homeland. Take care. ❤️
—
At least Mark paid.
Outside the restaurant, you exchanged an awkward hug before climbing into your ancient Honda Civic.
The second the driver's door shut, you sent him a polite text thanking him for the evening, telling him you didn't think you were compatible and blocked his number.
With a tired sigh, you pulled onto the road. Taylor Swift filled the car as The Prophecy echoed through the speakers. You really didn't know how you kept picking the wrong men. None of them ever sparked the kindling you kept hoping for. Most of them only managed to light every warning sign imaginable.
Your thoughts drifted aimlessly until your car answered with a horrible metallic groan.
"...No."
A plume of white smoke burst from beneath the hood.
"No, no, no—"
The engine sputtered violently as you barely managed to wrestle the Civic onto the gravel shoulder before it gave one final, pitiful cough and died.
"Shit!"
Your palm slammed against the steering wheel before the horn blared into the empty night and your head fell back against the seat.
Perfect.
It was pitch black. Nothing but distant city lights behind you. No road signs. No passing traffic. No anything.
Your eyes drifted toward the dashboard.
11:57 p.m.
Great.
Tow services weren't exactly eager to rescue people in the middle of nowhere after midnight. Even if they were you couldn't afford one. Your mind raced through every person you could possibly call when your phone suddenly lit up.
Francisco 💙 calling...
A laugh escaped you before you even answered.
"Heyyy, preciosa."
God, you'd missed that voice.
"How are you doing?"
Despite everything, you smiled. The real smile. The one that only ever seemed to belong to him.
"Hi, how was your flight back?"
He exhaled dramatically. "Had some turbulence. Sucked. But I landed in one piece, so..."
"Thank God."
A comfortable silence settled between you.
Then—
"You home?"
You shook your head before remembering he couldn't see it. "No, sir."
A sheepish pause. "Actually... I was on a date."
"...A date?" His voice flattened immediately. "With who?"
"His name's Mark. Rich crypto guy."
A sharp inhale crackled through the speaker. "Damn."
You couldn't help laughing.
"One of those again?"
"Don't get me started. It was horrible. You would've hated him. He even smelled expensive."
Frankie let out a low whistle. "One of those, huh? I really gotta start questioning your taste in men, preciosa."
You snorted. "Fair."
Silence lingered another moment.
"I..." You sighed. "Actually, my car broke down on the way home. I'm stranded."
Another beat.
"...You are what?"
"My Honda died somewhere off Highway 65."
"I managed to get onto the shoulder, but it just…quit."
"You in the car?"
"Yeah. But it won't start. And there's no point in calling a tow truck now."
"Why the hell would you call a tow truck?"
His answer came so quickly it almost overlapped yours.
"You call me."
"You literally just got home, Frankie."
"So what ?"
You heard keys jangling. A door opening. His footsteps already moving.
"Send me your location."
"Frankie...it's almost midnight."
"Exactly. And you're sitting alone on the side of a highway. I'll come get you and tomorrow morning Will and I'll come back for your Honda."
"No, it's okay. I don't want to cause any—"
"—unpleasantness?" Frankie actually scoffed. "The only unpleasant thing right now is you sitting alone in the dark."
His voice changed, dropped lower. Got firmer. It was his military tone. The one that left absolutely no room for negotiation.
"Send.Me.Your.Location."
You sank farther into your seat. "...Okay."
Your phone had, naturally, chosen tonight to hover at one percent. You hurriedly shared your location. The screen blinked once and then the call died.
"...Fuck."
The silence that followed somehow felt louder than before.
—
Without the distraction of your phone, the minutes crawled by. You tried not to think about every horror movie you'd ever seen that started with a broken-down car. Nervously, you nibbled at your thumb until finally a pair of familiar headlights cut through the darkness.
The engine had barely fallen silent before Frankie climbed out of his old truck—Betsy, as he lovingly called her.
With far more flourish than necessary, your car door swung open, letting in the cold night air. He leaned one arm against the frame, pointing at you.
"You okay?"
You nodded, only for your eyes to unexpectedly fill with tears of relief that blurred your vision.
"Did somebody stop?"
You shook your head. Only then did he visibly exhale.
"Dios mío... you scared me."
You let out a watery laugh. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"
He immediately shook his head. "None of that."
His voice softened. "C'mon. Let's get you warm, hm?"
He helped you out of your car, walked around to grab your bag from the passenger seat and slung it over his shoulder with zero fucks given before tossing it onto the backseat of his truck.
Without really thinking, you folded into him while he held the passenger door open for you.
He was warm. Smelling faintly of sweat, gasoline, and the aftershave he always wore. His arms came around you without hesitation, secure and intimate, before he pressed a kiss into your hair. Your heart squeezed painfully inside your chest at that.
"Thank you," you could only murmur against his broad chest, the words muffled by his Henley.
"For what exactly?"
"For rescuing me. For..." You smiled to yourself. "Being you. For everything, I guess."
He huffed a quiet laugh. "You're gonna have to be a little more specific than that."
You only shook your head against him, letting his warmth seep into every part of you.
It was the first time all day, honestly, the first time since he'd left that you felt completely at ease.
"Missed you," you admitted.
You felt him smile against your hair. "That so?"
"Mhm."
A beat passed.
"Missed you too."
His arms tightened just a little, and you could've sworn his heartbeat picked up beneath your cheek.
—
Once you were settled in Betsy and the heater had begun chasing the chill from your bones, Frankie handed you a charging cable.
"So your phone doesn't die on me again."
Then a bottle of water, of course. Frankie the caretaker.
"I brought you something from the trip," he said after a few miles, eyes never leaving the road. "It's in the glove compartment."
You blinked at him. "You... brought me something?"
He shrugged.
"My birthday isn't until summer."
"Oh, I know."
Another shrug. "But I saw it and thought of you."
You smiled despite yourself before opening the compartment. A small bracelet slipped into your palm, decorated with tiny shells and beautiful blue stones that caught the dashboard lights. It was gorgeous.
"Frankie..."
You immediately fastened it around your wrist.
"I love it."
"Really?"
He finally glanced over for half a second.
"I wasn't sure. But the lady in the shop said it'd make a nice gift for someone special."
You looked up. "Someone special?"
He groaned. "Oh, please. Don't start."
A grin tugged at your lips. "Sorry, sorry. I'll behave."
He snorted, shaking his head as he looked back at the road.
You absentmindedly turned the bracelet around your wrist with your thumb, watching the little blue stones catch the passing streetlights.
He'd seen it. Thought of you. Bought it without needing a reason or an occasion.
Your date hadn't even remembered that you didn’t like coffee. Frankie had crossed half the county in the middle of the night and somehow still found the time to bring you home a piece of the ocean.
No big deal or anything but I just signed my first professional licensing agreement for one of my stories. I’m trying very hard to act normal right now.
The mechanic had said it would take at least four days.
Four days to replace a part that hadn't been manufactured in years and apparently had to be sourced from somewhere halfway across the country. Santi had nodded, accepted the explanation, and immediately assumed it would take at least a week.
His truck seemed to operate under the same laws as the rest of his life. Nothing was ever simple. Nothing was ever quick. Which was how he found himself sitting on a crowded subway train on a rainy Tuesday afternoon, surrounded by strangers and stale recycled air, wondering for perhaps the hundredth time if Frankie was right.
Maybe it was time.
Not for retirement. He wasn't sure men like him ever truly retired. But maybe it was time to stop pretending he could keep doing this forever.
Frankie had been on his case for months.
You should quit while you're still breathing.
You should find something normal.
You know, something where people don't shoot at you.
The suggestions changed every time they talked. Security work. A mechanic's garage. Construction. Anything that involved a predictable paycheck and significantly fewer bullets.
And maybe Frankie wasn't wrong.
The thought had been following him around lately, lingering in the quiet moments. During sleepless nights. During long drives. During those strange hours before dawn when the world felt suspended between yesterday and tomorrow.
The problem was that Santi had never been particularly good at imagining a future. Not a real one. Not one that stretched years ahead. His life had always existed in smaller increments. One job. One week. One mission. One day at a time.
Every time he tried to picture himself settling somewhere permanently, putting down roots, building something stable, the ghosts showed up.
Some belonged to him.
Some belonged to people he'd lost.
All of them followed him anyway.
The train slowed as it approached another station, pulling him from his thoughts. The familiar announcement crackled overhead. Around him, people gathered their bags, shifted toward the doors, prepared to leave.
Santi barely looked up. The doors slid open. Passengers stepped out. Others stepped in.
And somewhere in that ordinary exchange of bodies moving in opposite directions, his eyes landed on her.
At first, he wasn't entirely sure why. She wasn't doing anything remarkable. She simply stepped into the carriage and stopped near one of the poles, wrapping her fingers around the metal bar as the train lurched forward again. A backpack rested against one shoulder. A few loose strands of copper hair had escaped whatever attempt she'd made to keep them in place that morning.
Nothing unusual. Nothing that should have caught his attention. Yet a few seconds later he found himself looking again.
And then again.
The realization annoyed him immediately. He turned his gaze toward the window. A few seconds passed. When he looked back, she was still there. Of course she was. Where else would she be?
Santi suppressed a sigh.
It wasn't just that she was pretty, what she undeniably was. It was something harder to define. Something he couldn't quite put into words. There was a sadness about her. Not the dramatic kind, not the kind that demanded attention, but a quieter thing. Something soft and worn smooth around the edges.
The kind of sadness that had learned how to coexist with laughter. The kind that lived in a person's eyes even when they smiled.
For a brief moment she glanced up. Their eyes met.
Santi looked away immediately.
Dios mío.
Smooth.
He focused very intently on the subway map above the doors, studying it as though he had suddenly developed a passionate interest in public transportation.
A minute later, curiosity got the better of him.
When he risked another glance, he discovered she was looking at him again. This time she looked away first. Something unexpectedly warm settled in his chest, not because it meant anything, it probably didn't. But after that, it kept happening. A glance. Then another. A few seconds stretched between stations.
Neither of them smiled. Neither of them spoke.
Yet the awareness remained, like a thread neither of them acknowledged but both could feel.
Santi caught himself wondering if he should say something. Offer her his seat, maybe. Ask if she needed one. Ask literally anything.
He was still trying to come up with a sentence that didn't sound completely ridiculous when the train began slowing once more. Another station. The doors opened. She stepped off.
And just like that, she was gone.
The crowd swallowed her before he could even properly register that she was leaving.
For a moment, Santi found himself staring through the window as the platform drifted away behind them. Waiting. For what, he wasn't entirely sure.
He wasn't sure of what he felt either. Relief, perhaps. Embarrassment, maybe. Or the certainty that whatever strange spell had briefly taken hold of him would disappear now that she was gone.
Instead, he spent the rest of the journey wondering why he could still picture her eyes.
***
By the fifth day, Santi was officially annoyed with himself. Not because he missed her, that would have implied there had been something to miss.
A conversation.
A name.
A memory worth holding onto.
He had none of those things. He knew nothing about her. Not her name. Not her voice. He wasn't even entirely sure he would recognize her if he passed her on a crowded street.
Yet somehow he kept thinking about her.
The more he tried to push the memory aside, the worse it became. A glimpse of copper hair in a crowd would make him look twice. A familiar posture would catch his attention from across a station platform. Every afternoon, without meaning to, his eyes searched the subway carriage before he could stop them.
It was ridiculous.
Embarrassing.
The behaviour of a man twenty years younger than him.
The behaviour of someone who still believed in things like fate.
One afternoon, while waiting for the train, he caught his reflection in the station window and actually laughed at himself.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" he muttered.
The reflection offered no answers. The train arrived. He boarded. And despite everything, his gaze immediately drifted toward the place where she had been standing that first day.
Empty. Of course.
The truck was fixed by then. He'd picked it up two days earlier. The sensible thing would have been to drive. Instead, every afternoon he found himself descending the station stairs and boarding the same train at the same time.
He told himself it has become a habit.
Convenience.
Curiosity.
Anything except the truth. Because the truth sounded pathetic even inside his own head. The truth was that a small, stubborn part of him hoped she might be there.
Some days he almost convinced himself he had imagined her. That perhaps she hadn't looked at him nearly as often as he remembered. That perhaps the entire thing had grown larger in his mind simply because he had nothing else to occupy the space.
Then he would remember her eyes, and the certainty would return.
Beautiful eyes.
Sad eyes.
The kind that seemed to carry entire stories behind them.
Maybe melancholy souls recognized one another.
The thought slipped into his mind before he could stop it.
Santi immediately grimaced.
Jesus Christ.
Now he really was losing his mind.
If he had been the sort of man who knew what to do with words, he was fairly certain he would have been writing poetry by now.
Bad poetry.
The kind Frankie would never let him live down.
Poetry about a girl whose name he didn't know and whose kind, world-weary eyes had somehow taken up permanent residence in his thoughts.
Fortunately for everyone involved, he wasn't that kind of man.
Unfortunately, that didn't stop him from thinking about her.
Somehow she remained lodged somewhere in the back of his mind, refusing to leave. He would catch himself thinking about her at random moments. While waiting for his coffee. While walking home. While standing in line at a grocery store.
Always the same brief memory. A pair of quiet and haunting eyes looking back at him across a crowded subway carriage.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
It was ridiculous. He knew it was ridiculous. Which was precisely why he didn't mention it to anyone.
Unfortunately, Frankie was Frankie.
That meant he noticed things. Far more things than he had any right to.
The realization came some days later. Santi was leaning against a workbench at Frankie's garage, absentmindedly turning a wrench over in his hands while Frankie explained something about an engine neither of them particularly cared about.
"... so if we replace the belt now, we won't have to deal with it again next month."
Silence. Frankie frowned.
"Santi."
No response.
"Santiago."
Still nothing. Frankie followed his gaze. The man wasn't even looking at anything. Just staring into space. Thinking.
Frankie immediately smiled. It was the kind of smile that should have been classified as a weapon.
"Oh."
Santi blinked, finally reacting.
"What?"
"Oh, this is good."
"What is?"
Frankie's grin widened.
"Who's she?"
The wrench nearly slipped from Santi's fingers.
"What do you mean? There isn't a she."
"Sure."
"There isn't."
"Of course."
Santi rolled his eyes.
"Frankie."
"Santi."
The familiarity of the response made him groan. Frankie folded his arms.
"You've been distracted all week."
"I've been tired."
"You spent ten minutes staring at a wrench yesterday."
"I was thinking."
"Exactly."
Santi pointed at him.
"That's a completely normal thing for people to do."
Frankie barked out a laugh.
"Not you."
"Thanks."
"You hate thinking."
"I don't hate thinking."
"You absolutely hate thinking."
"I don't."
"You literally spent most of your twenties solving problems by throwing yourself through them."
"That's not true."
Frankie raised an eyebrow. Santi considered it.
"...Okay, sometimes."
"Who's the girl?"
"There is no girl."
Frankie waited. Santi waited. Neither moved.
The silence stretched.
Eventually Santi sighed. Frankie immediately looked victorious.
The bastard.
"I saw someone on the subway."
Frankie stared. Then blinked. Then stared some more.
"That's it?"
"What do you mean, that's it?"
"You saw someone?"
"Yes."
"A stranger?"
"Yes."
"You are like that because of a complete stranger?"
"Frankie."
Frankie looked genuinely amused.
"Santi, you survived Colombia and now you're getting emotionally compromised by public transportation."
"Nobody is emotionally compromised."
"And now you're gonna take the same train every afternoon until you find her again."
Santi froze. Frankie's grin became insufferable.
"You've been taking the same train every afternoon."
"You don't know that."
"I absolutely know that."
"Damn it, Morales."
Frankie laughed so hard he nearly dropped the rag in his hand. For the next five minutes he refused to let it go. Santi endured every joke. Every comment. Every exaggerated prediction about wedding invitations and future godchildren.
By the time he finally escaped, he was seriously considering finding a new best friend.
Unfortunately, Frankie was right about one thing: he had been taking the same train. Every day. At the same time.
Not because he expected anything.
Not because he believed in fate.
And certainly not because he was hoping to see her again.
At least that was what he told himself.
The lie became harder to maintain with each passing day.
A week went by. Then another. Nothing. No sign of her. No familiar face among the crowds.
No glimpse of sad eyes across the carriage.
Nothing.
Eventually even Santi began to feel stupid. The entire thing had become embarrassing. A grown man rearranging part of his routine because of a woman he had never even spoken to.
The realization settled heavily in his chest as he boarded the train one Thursday afternoon. This was the last time. Seriously. No more. After today he would drive his old truck everywhere, as he had always done. He would stop looking. Stop wondering. Stop acting like some lovesick teenager.
Shaking his head at himself, he dropped into one of the seats and rested his elbows on his knees. The train pulled away from the station. People entered. People left. The familiar rhythm continued around him.
Santi kept his gaze fixed on the floor. One stop.
Then another. And another. The train slowed again. The doors opened. More passengers climbed aboard. Someone settled into the empty seat beside him. He barely noticed. Until a voice spoke.
"Good afternoon."
Soft. Warm. Unexplainably familiar.
His heart stumbled. Just once, hard enough to hurt. Slowly, Santi lifted his head… and there she was. Looking at him with a small, shy smile, as though she wasn't entirely sure she should have spoken either.
For a second neither of them said anything else. The noise of the train faded into the background. The crowd disappeared, everything narrowing to her eyes.
The same eyes he had spent more than two weeks trying and failing to forget.
"Hi," he answered softly.
Her smile widened.
And suddenly, impossibly, Santi found himself wondering if maybe he hadn't been the only idiot taking the same train every day.
His hair sticks up in every direction, sleep still clinging to him. He smells like home—like himself, warm skin, fresh sheets, and just the faintest trace of sleep-sweat—as he pads barefoot into the kitchen, yawning, rubbing at his eyes.
He’s wearing nothing but his boxers, which do absolutely nothing to hide the generous package underneath. (😏)
Still half asleep, he reaches blindly into the cabinet for his favorite mug while you chirp from the little diner table, “Good morning, baby.”
Frankie doesn’t even look at you. He just lifts a hand.
“Shh, mi amor. Please… let me have my coffee first before you ambush me with your alarmingly positive energy this early in the morning.”
You laugh, stand, and slip your arms around his soft middle before pressing a kiss between his broad shoulders.
“If you’re done being grumpy and blind, find me in the bathroom. We could shower together.”
Frankie pauses. Then he promptly starts chugging his coffee with the determination of a man on a mission before following you down the hallway like a hopelessly lovesick puppy.
Sorry, I had a small delulu moment and had to share this with y‘all
tags: broken!Frankie, angst, addiction, relapse, established relationship, hurt/comfort
summary: Loving him was never the hard part. Letting him go was.
word count: ~ 1,1k
Your whole relationship with Frankie had been like chasing a storm from the beginning. Despite living in Florida, the sunniest place either of you had ever known, the rain always found you faster than you could prepare for it.
Some storms arrived quietly.
Others kicked the front door off its hinges.
This one had come in the shape of a tiny plastic bag tucked inside the pocket of his jeans.
***
Frankie was dead silent the whole drive. While the first traces of sunrise bled orange into the sky, turning it into something that looked like a watercolor painting, you couldn't bring yourself to appreciate it today. His knee bounced the entire drive, his foot tapping relentlessly against the floorboard. His shirt clung to his back, damp with sweat despite the air conditioning blasting at full volume.
"You know, you don't need to do this. You could just... drive home."
You shook your head immediately. "And then what?"
"I can do the rehab at home."
"Like the last time?"
He flinched at the memory, just a little.
"I don't do this to punish you, Francisco."
He scoffed, thumb rubbing over his bottom lip as he stared out the window, watching the landscape blur by.
"I don't see what's gonna be different there than when I lay in my own vomit at home."
"They're professionals, Frankie. You can talk to someone who can really hold you through this without falling apart alongside you."
"Mhm."
"Frankie..."
He shook his head. "Don't use that tone on me."
"Which tone?"
"The pity one."
"I don't—" You exhaled. "I'm sorry."
"'s okay." And he sounded honest. "I'm the one who should be sorry."
"You're sick, Frankie. You didn't choose this."
"I am a fuck up, cariño."
Your eyebrows furrowed. You bit your lip before blindly reaching for his sweaty hand, squeezing it while keeping your eyes fixed on the road—even as your vision began to blur with uninvited tears.
"No, you're not. You survived things most people couldn't even imagine surviving. Somewhere along the way your brain found something that quieted all that noise, even if only for a little while. It may have chosen the wrong thing but that doesn't make you wrong. You're still you."
"What if this is all I'm gonna be now?" His voice barely rose above a whisper. "This washed-out version of me. I'm farther away from the man you fell in love with than ever..."
"Hey, hey," you reined him in gently. "No, that's not true. He's still in there. He just needs a little help finding his way back to shore, hm?"
You squeezed his hand again. "And there's nothing wrong with needing help sometimes. The strongest people do. And you, Frankie Morales, are one of the strongest people I've ever known. I'm so so proud of you."
You weren't able to look at him as the sun climbed higher, promising another day of scorching heat. But you heard a small, broken sound that sounded suspiciously close to a sob. Without thinking, you took the next exit, still twenty minutes away from the rehab center. Gravel crunched beneath the tires as you pulled onto the shoulder and finally looked at your boyfriend.
Despite his broad frame, he suddenly looked so unbearably small in the passenger seat of his own truck. He looked hollowed out by the weight he carried. By the guilt clawing at him for failing you. He looked lost.
You unbuckled your seatbelt and leaned toward him, still holding his hand before pressing a kiss against his knuckles.
"Look at me," you pleaded.
He shook his head stubbornly. So you cupped his cheek with your free hand, gently guiding his face toward yours. His soulful dark eyes shimmered with tears, red-rimmed and exhausted. The sight hit you straight in the chest.
"How can you..." His voice cracked. "How can you still stay? Why didn't you just leave already?"
A watery smile tugged at your lips. "Because, unfortunately, I love you a shit ton."
A weak laugh escaped him before his face crumpled again. He took your hand between both of his and kissed it with all the devotion only he had ever shown you.
"I'm scared."
"I know you are."
You brushed your thumb across his cheek. "I am too."
Silence settled between you for a moment. "But I think we just need to do it anyway. Even if we do it scared."
He closed his eyes. "I can't do this for you. God, I wish I could." Your voice wavered. "But this is something you need to do for yourself. For the man you've always told me you want to be. Not only the one scarred by war and loss."
You rested your forehead against his. "And I believe in you."
A tear slipped down his cheek.
"I'll always be here, rooting for you."
"You're truly too good for me, mi amor."
You smiled—a real one this time—and shrugged. "Maybe."
Another shrug. "Guess you're just a lucky bastard then."
"The luckiest on this fucking planet," he murmured.
Like magnets finding their opposite, you drifted toward one another. Your hand rested against the back of his neck, your thumb brushing behind his ear, tracing the small letter tattooed there for you. Matching the one you wore in the same place, even if you'd gotten yours weeks later. Your foreheads touched in a grounding gesture.
He let out one long, shaky breath. "I love you."
And you knew he meant it. God, he meant it with every bruised piece of his heart.
"I love you more," you whispered. "Always more."
You smiled through tears. "And now I'll drop you off for your very expensive extended holiday."
That earned you the smallest huff of laughter.
"I'll be right here picking you up when you're ready, okay?"
You felt his nod more than you saw it.
***
A few minutes later, you watched him disappear through the doors of the rehab center. Only then did you realize your hands were still gripping the steering wheel so tightly they hurt.
For a long moment, you couldn't make yourself put the truck into gear. Watching the biggest part of your heart walk away was hard. Trusting that he was walking toward himself again was harder.
The whole drive home you cried, singing along to your shared playlist between shaky breaths, selfishly wishing that, when all of this was over, you'd get the love of your life back whole instead of only living with the fragments addiction had left behind.
tags: broken!Frankie, angst, addiction, relapse, established relationship, hurt/comfort
summary: Loving him was never the hard part. Letting him go was.
word count: ~ 1,1k
Your whole relationship with Frankie had been like chasing a storm from the beginning. Despite living in Florida, the sunniest place either of you had ever known, the rain always found you faster than you could prepare for it.
Some storms arrived quietly.
Others kicked the front door off its hinges.
This one had come in the shape of a tiny plastic bag tucked inside the pocket of his jeans.
***
Frankie was dead silent the whole drive. While the first traces of sunrise bled orange into the sky, turning it into something that looked like a watercolor painting, you couldn't bring yourself to appreciate it today. His knee bounced the entire drive, his foot tapping relentlessly against the floorboard. His shirt clung to his back, damp with sweat despite the air conditioning blasting at full volume.
"You know, you don't need to do this. You could just... drive home."
You shook your head immediately. "And then what?"
"I can do the rehab at home."
"Like the last time?"
He flinched at the memory, just a little.
"I don't do this to punish you, Francisco."
He scoffed, thumb rubbing over his bottom lip as he stared out the window, watching the landscape blur by.
"I don't see what's gonna be different there than when I lay in my own vomit at home."
"They're professionals, Frankie. You can talk to someone who can really hold you through this without falling apart alongside you."
"Mhm."
"Frankie..."
He shook his head. "Don't use that tone on me."
"Which tone?"
"The pity one."
"I don't—" You exhaled. "I'm sorry."
"'s okay." And he sounded honest. "I'm the one who should be sorry."
"You're sick, Frankie. You didn't choose this."
"I am a fuck up, cariño."
Your eyebrows furrowed. You bit your lip before blindly reaching for his sweaty hand, squeezing it while keeping your eyes fixed on the road—even as your vision began to blur with uninvited tears.
"No, you're not. You survived things most people couldn't even imagine surviving. Somewhere along the way your brain found something that quieted all that noise, even if only for a little while. It may have chosen the wrong thing but that doesn't make you wrong. You're still you."
"What if this is all I'm gonna be now?" His voice barely rose above a whisper. "This washed-out version of me. I'm farther away from the man you fell in love with than ever..."
"Hey, hey," you reined him in gently. "No, that's not true. He's still in there. He just needs a little help finding his way back to shore, hm?"
You squeezed his hand again. "And there's nothing wrong with needing help sometimes. The strongest people do. And you, Frankie Morales, are one of the strongest people I've ever known. I'm so so proud of you."
You weren't able to look at him as the sun climbed higher, promising another day of scorching heat. But you heard a small, broken sound that sounded suspiciously close to a sob. Without thinking, you took the next exit, still twenty minutes away from the rehab center. Gravel crunched beneath the tires as you pulled onto the shoulder and finally looked at your boyfriend.
Despite his broad frame, he suddenly looked so unbearably small in the passenger seat of his own truck. He looked hollowed out by the weight he carried. By the guilt clawing at him for failing you. He looked lost.
You unbuckled your seatbelt and leaned toward him, still holding his hand before pressing a kiss against his knuckles.
"Look at me," you pleaded.
He shook his head stubbornly. So you cupped his cheek with your free hand, gently guiding his face toward yours. His soulful dark eyes shimmered with tears, red-rimmed and exhausted. The sight hit you straight in the chest.
"How can you..." His voice cracked. "How can you still stay? Why didn't you just leave already?"
A watery smile tugged at your lips. "Because, unfortunately, I love you a shit ton."
A weak laugh escaped him before his face crumpled again. He took your hand between both of his and kissed it with all the devotion only he had ever shown you.
"I'm scared."
"I know you are."
You brushed your thumb across his cheek. "I am too."
Silence settled between you for a moment. "But I think we just need to do it anyway. Even if we do it scared."
He closed his eyes. "I can't do this for you. God, I wish I could." Your voice wavered. "But this is something you need to do for yourself. For the man you've always told me you want to be. Not only the one scarred by war and loss."
You rested your forehead against his. "And I believe in you."
A tear slipped down his cheek.
"I'll always be here, rooting for you."
"You're truly too good for me, mi amor."
You smiled—a real one this time—and shrugged. "Maybe."
Another shrug. "Guess you're just a lucky bastard then."
"The luckiest on this fucking planet," he murmured.
Like magnets finding their opposite, you drifted toward one another. Your hand rested against the back of his neck, your thumb brushing behind his ear, tracing the small letter tattooed there for you. Matching the one you wore in the same place, even if you'd gotten yours weeks later. Your foreheads touched in a grounding gesture.
He let out one long, shaky breath. "I love you."
And you knew he meant it. God, he meant it with every bruised piece of his heart.
"I love you more," you whispered. "Always more."
You smiled through tears. "And now I'll drop you off for your very expensive extended holiday."
That earned you the smallest huff of laughter.
"I'll be right here picking you up when you're ready, okay?"
You felt his nod more than you saw it.
***
A few minutes later, you watched him disappear through the doors of the rehab center. Only then did you realize your hands were still gripping the steering wheel so tightly they hurt.
For a long moment, you couldn't make yourself put the truck into gear. Watching the biggest part of your heart walk away was hard. Trusting that he was walking toward himself again was harder.
The whole drive home you cried, singing along to your shared playlist between shaky breaths, selfishly wishing that, when all of this was over, you'd get the love of your life back whole instead of only living with the fragments addiction had left behind.
tags: broken!Frankie, angst, addiction, relapse, established relationship, hurt/comfort
summary: Loving him was never the hard part. Letting him go was.
word count: ~ 1,1k
Your whole relationship with Frankie had been like chasing a storm from the beginning. Despite living in Florida, the sunniest place either of you had ever known, the rain always found you faster than you could prepare for it.
Some storms arrived quietly.
Others kicked the front door off its hinges.
This one had come in the shape of a tiny plastic bag tucked inside the pocket of his jeans.
***
Frankie was dead silent the whole drive. While the first traces of sunrise bled orange into the sky, turning it into something that looked like a watercolor painting, you couldn't bring yourself to appreciate it today. His knee bounced the entire drive, his foot tapping relentlessly against the floorboard. His shirt clung to his back, damp with sweat despite the air conditioning blasting at full volume.
"You know, you don't need to do this. You could just... drive home."
You shook your head immediately. "And then what?"
"I can do the rehab at home."
"Like the last time?"
He flinched at the memory, just a little.
"I don't do this to punish you, Francisco."
He scoffed, thumb rubbing over his bottom lip as he stared out the window, watching the landscape blur by.
"I don't see what's gonna be different there than when I lay in my own vomit at home."
"They're professionals, Frankie. You can talk to someone who can really hold you through this without falling apart alongside you."
"Mhm."
"Frankie..."
He shook his head. "Don't use that tone on me."
"Which tone?"
"The pity one."
"I don't—" You exhaled. "I'm sorry."
"'s okay." And he sounded honest. "I'm the one who should be sorry."
"You're sick, Frankie. You didn't choose this."
"I am a fuck up, cariño."
Your eyebrows furrowed. You bit your lip before blindly reaching for his sweaty hand, squeezing it while keeping your eyes fixed on the road—even as your vision began to blur with uninvited tears.
"No, you're not. You survived things most people couldn't even imagine surviving. Somewhere along the way your brain found something that quieted all that noise, even if only for a little while. It may have chosen the wrong thing but that doesn't make you wrong. You're still you."
"What if this is all I'm gonna be now?" His voice barely rose above a whisper. "This washed-out version of me. I'm farther away from the man you fell in love with than ever..."
"Hey, hey," you reined him in gently. "No, that's not true. He's still in there. He just needs a little help finding his way back to shore, hm?"
You squeezed his hand again. "And there's nothing wrong with needing help sometimes. The strongest people do. And you, Frankie Morales, are one of the strongest people I've ever known. I'm so so proud of you."
You weren't able to look at him as the sun climbed higher, promising another day of scorching heat. But you heard a small, broken sound that sounded suspiciously close to a sob. Without thinking, you took the next exit, still twenty minutes away from the rehab center. Gravel crunched beneath the tires as you pulled onto the shoulder and finally looked at your boyfriend.
Despite his broad frame, he suddenly looked so unbearably small in the passenger seat of his own truck. He looked hollowed out by the weight he carried. By the guilt clawing at him for failing you. He looked lost.
You unbuckled your seatbelt and leaned toward him, still holding his hand before pressing a kiss against his knuckles.
"Look at me," you pleaded.
He shook his head stubbornly. So you cupped his cheek with your free hand, gently guiding his face toward yours. His soulful dark eyes shimmered with tears, red-rimmed and exhausted. The sight hit you straight in the chest.
"How can you..." His voice cracked. "How can you still stay? Why didn't you just leave already?"
A watery smile tugged at your lips. "Because, unfortunately, I love you a shit ton."
A weak laugh escaped him before his face crumpled again. He took your hand between both of his and kissed it with all the devotion only he had ever shown you.
"I'm scared."
"I know you are."
You brushed your thumb across his cheek. "I am too."
Silence settled between you for a moment. "But I think we just need to do it anyway. Even if we do it scared."
He closed his eyes. "I can't do this for you. God, I wish I could." Your voice wavered. "But this is something you need to do for yourself. For the man you've always told me you want to be. Not only the one scarred by war and loss."
You rested your forehead against his. "And I believe in you."
A tear slipped down his cheek.
"I'll always be here, rooting for you."
"You're truly too good for me, mi amor."
You smiled—a real one this time—and shrugged. "Maybe."
Another shrug. "Guess you're just a lucky bastard then."
"The luckiest on this fucking planet," he murmured.
Like magnets finding their opposite, you drifted toward one another. Your hand rested against the back of his neck, your thumb brushing behind his ear, tracing the small letter tattooed there for you. Matching the one you wore in the same place, even if you'd gotten yours weeks later. Your foreheads touched in a grounding gesture.
He let out one long, shaky breath. "I love you."
And you knew he meant it. God, he meant it with every bruised piece of his heart.
"I love you more," you whispered. "Always more."
You smiled through tears. "And now I'll drop you off for your very expensive extended holiday."
That earned you the smallest huff of laughter.
"I'll be right here picking you up when you're ready, okay?"
You felt his nod more than you saw it.
***
A few minutes later, you watched him disappear through the doors of the rehab center. Only then did you realize your hands were still gripping the steering wheel so tightly they hurt.
For a long moment, you couldn't make yourself put the truck into gear. Watching the biggest part of your heart walk away was hard. Trusting that he was walking toward himself again was harder.
The whole drive home you cried, singing along to your shared playlist between shaky breaths, selfishly wishing that, when all of this was over, you'd get the love of your life back whole instead of only living with the fragments addiction had left behind.
Thinking about dad!Frankie letting his kid serve him elaborate imaginary meals from their play kitchen and treating every single one like it’s five-star dining. He takes an invisible bite, hums thoughtfully, and then says with complete sincerity, “That was absolutely delicious, pequeña/o.” As if he isn’t currently eating a plastic banana and a handful of toy blocks. 🥹🤍
-`♡´- tags: soft!Frankie, safe love, a lot of feelings, fluffiest fluff
summary: While a storm rages outside Frankie recognizes the saftest place is in your arms.
word count: ~ 460
a/n: Happy Frankie Friday from the sidelines! I hope this little fluff warms your heart just as much as it did mine writing it. Btw, I am working on something bigger behind the scenes involving our favorite pilot. Hopefully I can tell you more about it soon. 😉
The storm was raging outside, throwing itself against the windows hard enough to make the glass shudder in its frame. There had been a time, not even that long ago, when sounds like that made Frankie tense instinctively. Sweat gathered at the small of his back while ugly memories flickered behind his eyelids like lightning. A life carved open by violence had a way of following a man home, even years later. It never mattered much that the things he had done were in the name of a country. That kind of reasoning didn’t quiet the ghosts. Didn’t help him sleep either.
The only thing that ever truly silenced the noise in his head was you.
Your body tucked against his, his arms wrapped around you tight enough to feel real. Face buried into your hair while he inhaled the familiar scent of vanilla and something warmer underneath it. Something impossible to bottle up into words because it was simply you. Home in a way Frankie had never allowed himself to believe existed for men like him.
In all the years Frankie Morales had spent dragging himself across this godforsaken earth, he had become terrifyingly good at running. Never staying anywhere long enough for roots to catch around his ankles. Movement was easier. Easier than explaining himself. Easier than letting anyone look too closely at the wreckage. “No strings attached” had become less of a preference and more of a survival tactic he wore like armor. Or at least that was what he told himself.
Then somewhere along the way, there was you.
You made him pause long enough to wonder if the life he’d been living was actually freedom or just another kind of prison. Frankie had been buried so deep inside himself for so long that some days he couldn’t even see the sky anymore. Days blurred together. Time passed without him noticing. Survival became muscle memory.
But you came into his life like sunlight through storm clouds, soft and stubborn and impossible to ignore. And for the first time in years, he realized he would move mountains just to keep that warmth close to him.
Now peace looked like this: the two of you tangled together in bed while rain battered the world outside. You complaining sleepily about him taking up too much space while simultaneously stealing the blanket for yourself. Frankie smiling quietly against the curve of your shoulder blades anyway, because somehow this became his favorite thing in the world.
To be loved gently.
To be held without expectation.
To learn, little by little, that not every touch had to hurt.
Wrapped up in your softness, Frankie was finally beginning to understand that staying still wasn’t weakness after all. Sometimes it was the bravest thing a person could do.
