Welcome to my dusty and unloved little corner of Tumblr. Thank you for accidentally stumbling in here- i hope you stay a while or come back again soon.
I love Pedro and Star Wars, so obviously, I'm infatuated with the man in a can.
My motto in life is: treat others with the same respect that you would expect in return.
No take backs. Let's be good to each other.
Coming August/September...
Mistaken for You - Joel Miller x f!reader
Finding yourself in one of Austin's busiest downtown bakeries, you encounter Tommy Miller. He's tall, handsome, and exudes Southern charm. His early morning visits to pick up coffee for himself and his brother Joel become a bright spot in your meagre existence.
But, one day, everything you thought you knew gets literally and figuratively flipped upside down and you find yourself entangled with the Miller family.
Welcome to a rather angsty version of “While You Were Sleeping”, starring Joel Miller.
Well, This Is Awkward - Clint Flood x f!reader
A fun night out with your BFFs was all you wanted. Things take an interesting turn when the thick set bouncer at the back catches your eye. But it's all okay, it was a mistake and you can put it all behind you, right?
In Progress...
Crickets....
Completed Multi-Chapter stories
Din Djarin x OFC- Mistakes Were Made also on AO3.
A chain code, also known as a chaincode or, in the time of the Empire, an Imperial I.D., was a type of identification marker that contained biographical information on an individual. Attuned to a subject's specific bio-metrics, these markers cataloged certain features of a person and their history.
What if a chain code is tied into DNA?How would it distinguish between identical twins?
A story of mistaken identity, miscommunication, and misinformation. Din Djarin gets a lot more than he bargained for when he does a favor for the New Republic and captures a former Imperial sympathizer.Is everything as it seems when his bounty claims not to be his intended target?
Lives tangle, feelings become confused, and lines blur, leaving a trail of chaos across the galaxy.
Jack Daniels x OFC – Like A Fish Out Of Water (only on AO3).
Looking for a fresh start, Lisa Jones packs up her life and moves with her teenage daughter to the Statesman Ranch in Kentucky to help with the owner's burgeoning bourbon distillery business. She has to learn and adapt to life in another country and negotiate the perils of the emotionally closed-off cowboss, Jack Daniels.
The tale of two people coping with loss; one trying to establish herself and prove her worth, the other bogged down by an inability to express his grief, both finding a common ground, friendship and ultimately, each other.
Frankie Morales x f!reader - It Smolders, Then It Burns also on AO3.
Frankie Morales drives the ladder truck and fights fires for a living. Along with his colleagues—Santi, Will, and Benny—he is part of Delta Company, based in downtown Tampa.
Frankie is passionate about his job and deeply loves his six-year-old daughter, Mia. However, he carries the burden of his work with him, wherever he goes.
A simple call out becomes something more and his life gets turned around when he meets you. You make him want to commit and move forward, but you have your own issues and insecurities to deal with, along with single-parenting your own teenage daughter and errant cat.
Two people, whose lives collide in the most unexpected way. Can they find a way through together?
Frankie Morales x OFC- Frontier Hearts also on AO3.
Libby Green leaves the damp gray skies of England in early 1849 for the golden promise of California. Not to pan for gold, but for something far more simple — for to teach.
The trail West is more dangerous than she could ever have imagined. Fraught with danger and the unknown.
But what she finds is far more deadly than disease, storms, or hunger, when she is kidnapped by a band of outlaws — a group of men who will change her fate forever. Among them is Catfish: a quiet man, with blood on his hands and something she can’t quite name in his eyes.
Joel Miller x f!reader - Best Man For The Job (only on AO3).
You've been living in Jackson for a year when a routine patrol takes a tragic turn. Everything that you've built up is suddenly ripped from you, and you find yourself toe to toe with the man you hold responsible - Joel Miller.
Joel, for his part, feels the guilt as keenly as you, as old memories resurface.
Set shortly after Season one.
All graphics courtesy of @/saradika-graphics
Pedro's 50th Birthday anthogy
For Pedro's 50th Birthday - eight birthdays celebrated in different ways by different characters.
Read them here.
Din Djarin
Never Have I Ever... (gn!reader)
The Long Way Round (f!reader)
The Lie I Wear Well (gn!reader)
Lucky You (gn!reader)
The Truth, The Whole Truth,And Nothing But The Truth (gn!reader)
Within Reach (gn!reader)
By His Side
Francisco Morales
Small Steps (f!reader)
My Morning Fix (gn!reader)
Same Time, Same Place (f!reader)
Remember To Drink Water (f!reader)
Joel Miller
Trick Or Treat? (f!reader)
Green Plaid Shirt (gn!reader)
Remember Me (f!reader)
You're A Real Headache, Joel Miller (gn!reader)
Where The Music Waited (f!reader)
Marcus Moreno
Like Oil And Water (gn!reader)
A Rose By Any Other Name (ofc)
Something Tender In The Wreckage (gn!reader)
Marcus Acacius
The Healer And The General (ofc)
Maxwell Lord
Under The Cover Of Darkness (f!reader)
Pero Tovar
Secret Santa (f!reader)
The Diner
If you are hungry, why not visit my diner?
The menu has just been expanded to include some new items.
Thank you for the tag @isabellaboo2025. It's also going to have to be a paragraph from me!
I'm currently working behind the scenes on my sequel to It Smolders, Then It Burns, creatively titled, It Smolders, Then It Burns (A Bit More), or in my drafts it's titled Delta Fire 2. I estimate that it might see the light of day next year (yes, I am that slow).
And here's a snippet of Frankie's thoughts on elevators as he navigates around a hospital.
Frankie realized that they were going to have to use the elevator. Mia's short legs were not going to cope with all of those flights of stairs, and Frankie was a stairs man. A cold prickle ran down his spine and he shivered. He'd had too many call outs to broken down elevators over the years. A lot of rescues for desperate people incarcerated in those tiny, cramped spaces, suspended just by a metal cable. It didn't help that his own accident had made him feel like he was suffocating in small or crowded spaces.
Thank you for the tags @queenofslowburn and @simpingforjoel.
the last book I read: The Handmaid's Tale by Margaret Attwood.
a book I'd recommend: I'd always recommend Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen. Elizabeth Bennett is a wonderfully charismatic and strong leading lady in a time when women were really not to be seen or heard. (I took her name for Libby in Frontier Hearts).
But I am also a sucker for crime thrillers and police detective stories.
a book I couldn't put down: almost any book. When I read, I am lost to the world.
a book I've read twice or more: an endless list. Here are a few. The Lion, The Witch, And The Wardrobe by C.S. Lewis. Alice in Wonderland by Lewis Caroll, The Lord Of The Rings by J.R.R. Tolkein. Pride And Prejudice, Emma, Sense and Sensibility by Jane Austen.
a book on my tbr list: One Hundred Years Of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez.
a book I've put down: War And Peace by Leo Tolstoy. I was only an overly ambitious teen when I tried to read it, it was probably too advanced for me at the time. I don't usually put books down, but this defeated me.
a book of poetry that I own: I don't own any poetry.
a book on my wishlist: ooh, it would have to East Of Eden (see my next read list)
a favorite book from childhood: again an endless list, but I loved Enid Blyton's The Famous Five. I had all 21 books in the series as a child. Read and re-read them over and over.
a non-fiction book that I own: a self-help book on peri-menopause 😬
what I'm currently reading: a thriller called Lost Child by D.S. Butler.
what I'm planning on reading next: either East Of Eden by John Steinbeck or The Color Purple by Alice Walker.
Npts: @isabellaboo2025, @avastrasposts, @lady-bess, @pedroscurls and anyone else who wants to play.
(Ok, yes this is a thinly veiled psyop to get you to write a Take a Sip sequel...)
Oh. MAHGAWD. 🤍
I love you for this. I cannot EXPRESS how much I love you for this, because yes! This is peak Max in New Orleans. You, my muse, kissed me. And I had to write it immediately!
Wanted it to be a short drabble... turns out I cannot do short and it is a 2.5k peek into the new life of Max & Ashley. I thought, maybe all you "Take a Sip"-consumers would be interested too, so... without further ado...
Learning the Rhythm
“You know I hate jazz, right?” you called from the living room, still searching for the damn clutch you could have sworn had been on the coffee table five minutes ago.
“You just haven't listened to the right kind yet,” Max answered from somewhere near the front hall, his voice carrying through the old house with that effortless confidence even though you highly doubted that.
Still, despite yourself, the corner of your mouth twitched upward.
Eventually you found the missing bag tucked beneath one of the cushions - courtesy of Oreo, no doubt - and straightened, turning toward the large antique mirror leaning against the wall for one final inspection.
The woman staring back looked strangely unfamiliar.
Months ago, you would have laughed if someone had told you this would become your life. That you'd be living in a creaking New Orleans townhouse flat with a centuries-old vampire, owning more designer sunglasses than practical shoes, and getting ready for a proper date night because your undead boyfriend had declared that eternity required active maintenance.
“Otherwise we'll end up one of those miserable immortal couples that communicate exclusively through passive aggression and hate fucks.”
His exact words.
You had agreed before asking for details.
Only afterward had he mentioned the jazz bar.
So here you were.
The dress was simple - black silk, cut just low enough to feel elegant without crossing into intimidating. You didn't actually own many dresses, and if someone had offered you betting odds a year ago on wearing one voluntarily, they would've made a fortune. The heels still felt foreign after years of living in combat boots, and you'd spent an embarrassing amount of time deciding whether eyeliner counted as trying too hard.
Apparently it didn't. At least that's what you decided after one final adjustment of your lipstick.
Oreo barely acknowledged your existence as you knelt to scratch behind his ears. The black-and-white-menace remained sprawled across his favorite chair beside the doorway, accepting the affection with the detached dignity of someone convinced the house existed solely for his comfort.
“You've got food,” you informed him. He blinked slowly. “Ungrateful little freeloader.” His tail flicked once.
Chuckling quietly to yourself, you slipped your clutch beneath your arm before stepping out into the hallway.
The laughter died somewhere in your chest.
Max was waiting exactly where the old staircase curved toward the front entrance, sitting on one of the lower steps as though he'd wandered out of another decade entirely.
Or another century.
You had seen him in suits before.
You had seen him in sweats.
You had even seen him wear a leather jacket so painfully nineties that you'd briefly considered staging an intervention.
None of those prepared you for white.
The suit fit him as though it had been tailored around him, the crisp jacket contrasting beautifully with his warm skin. His dark curls had been combed back just enough to tame their usual chaos, his beard was neatly trimmed and the gold in his eyes caught the soft glow of the hallway lights the moment they found you.
He looked...
Ridiculous.
Ridiculously handsome.
And he knew it.
His expression shifted almost immediately as his gaze wandered over you with no attempt whatsoever to hide his admiration.
“Well,” he breathed.
You raised an eyebrow.
“Well?”
“I'm suddenly very grateful neither of us actually needs oxygen anymore.”
You laughed.
“Oh, it's nothing, I just -”
He lifted one finger, stopping you before you could finish your sentence, then slowly extended his hand toward you instead.
You found yourself stepping forward without thinking, as though there had never really been another option. The old wooden floor creaked softly beneath your steps while he remained seated, waiting for you to close the last bit of distance.
When you came to a stop between his knees, his hands settled lightly against your thighs, warm even through the silk of your dress. He didn't rush to stand. Instead, he simply looked up at you.
His golden eyes wandered over your face with quiet admiration before settling on yours again, and for a long moment he said nothing at all. The expression on his face was so utterly unguarded that it stole the teasing remark right off your tongue.
Finally, a slow smile spread across his lips.
“You are a sight for gold eyes, Ashley Vale.” His voice had softened into something almost reverent. “May I have the honor of taking you out tonight?”
A quiet, almost relieved laugh escaped you. Your fingers drifted to his jaw on instinct, brushing over his stubble before coming to rest beneath his chin. You tilted his face up just a fraction farther, making him meet your gaze completely.
“Depends.”
One dark eyebrow lifted.
“On what?”
You smiled, unable to stop yourself.
“How willing you are to pay for dessert afterward…”
Okay... maybe jazz - the right kind, apparently - wasn't nearly as bad as you had expected.
The little club Max had picked looked exactly like what you imagined when someone said New Orleans without trying too hard. The walls were lined with dark, weathered wood polished smooth by decades of elbows and laughter. Brass lamps and candles cast pools of amber light over cramped little tables, while old black-and-white photographs of musicians covered nearly every inch of exposed wall. Somewhere behind the bar, glasses clinked in easy rhythm with the music, and conversations rose and fell like another instrument folded into the melody.
The band occupied nothing more than a slightly raised corner of the room. An elderly trumpet player stood at the center, eyes closed as if every note came from somewhere far older than himself. Beside him, a clarinet danced effortlessly through the melody while an upright bass kept everything grounded with lazy, rolling pulses. A drummer brushed soft circles over his snare instead of striking it outright, and somewhere in the background a piano stitched the whole thing together with playful little runs that made the room feel alive.
Max returned to the table just as the trumpet slipped into another solo, setting down two Bloody Marys with an exaggerated flourish even though you both knew neither of you would be drinking it.
Everything tasted muted now. Food had become texture more than flavor, cocktails little more than colorful decorations with the occasional nostalgic memory attached to them. Blood remained the only thing that truly carried taste anymore - a realization that was still unsettling enough for you to avoid dwelling on it.
Max slipped into the seat opposite of you, and wrapped long fingers around his untouched drink before his attention shifted toward your leg beneath the table.
One corner of his mouth lifted.
“Ashley Vale…” You froze. “Do I detect someone's knee bouncing to the beat?”
You glanced down. “Nervous tic at best.”
“Nervous?” His grin became positively insufferable. “Because of the devastatingly handsome man you agreed to spend your night with?”
“Oh, don't flatter yourself.” You leaned back in your chair, taking another look around the room. “I'm just... getting used to the rhythm.”
“I certainly hope so.” Before you could ask what that meant, Max leaned across the small table until his lips brushed lightly against the shell of your ear. “Because that's exactly what I hope you'll be saying again later tonight.”
The ghost of a kiss followed along your jaw before he leaned back again as though he'd done absolutely nothing. Goosebumps erupted over your arms.
Instead of rewarding him with the eye roll he clearly expected and deserved, you caught his gaze, held it for a lingering second, then closed the remaining distance yourself.
Your kiss was brief.
When you pulled back, your forehead lingered against his for just a heartbeat.
“Thank you,” you murmured. "For this."
The grin he answered with lost every ounce of its cockiness.
“Always.”
Max watched you watch the band.
Or rather, he tried to.
It should have been easy. The candlelight softened your features beautifully, the silk dress caught the warm glow every time you shifted in your seat, and the trumpet's melody wrapped around the room like smoke. It was almost offensively romantic.
Except...
Your eyes never stayed on the musicians for long.
They drifted to the entrance.
Then to the bartender.
A couple arguing quietly in the far corner, the waiter weaving between tables, the emergency exit and the windows, the man who had ordered whiskey but hadn't touched it.
Years of police work had carved patterns into you that not even death had managed to erase.
“You already solving a case over there, Detective?” Max asked eventually, lazily stirring the celery stalk through his drink.
You blinked.
“What?”
He nodded subtly toward the room. “You've profiled half the bar.”
A guilty smile appeared almost immediately. “I…” You sighed. “Sorry.”
“You don't have to apologize.”
“It's just…” You searched for the right words before giving up. “Old habits.”
He quietly pushed both drinks toward the side of the table until there was nothing separating you anymore.
Then he reached across the wood and simply held out both hands.
No words.
Just the invitation.
You slipped yours into them.
His fingers folded around yours with practiced familiarity, thumbs absentmindedly tracing slow circles across your knuckles.
“You miss it,” he said softly.
It wasn't really a question. You looked down at your joined hands, buying yourself a few seconds. Max could almost see the lie forming.
Then, your shoulders sagged.
“Yeah.” The single syllable carried more weight than a paragraph ever could. “I do.”
He nodded.
No surprise or disappointment in that.
He'd caught you enough times over the past months lingering in the true crime aisle of the library or listening a little too carefully whenever a police scanner crackled from somewhere nearby.
You opened your mouth, clearly preparing to soften the confession with an apology.
His thumbs squeezed your hands ever so slightly.
“It's okay.” Your eyes lifted again. “It was the same for me.” A faint smile crossed his face, touched with something bittersweet. “Sometimes…” He glanced toward the trumpet player before looking back at you. “It still is.”
Something shifted in your expression.
“I've... never actually asked.” Your thumb brushed absentmindedly across the back of his hand. “What did you do before…?”
Max considered you with theatrical seriousness.
“Would you believe me if I said dolphin trainer?”
A laugh escaped you so suddenly that a few nearby heads turned.
“Oh, absolutely not.”
“No?”
“Your hair would've been ruined by the salt water.”
He gasped dramatically.
“The detective still lives.” He chuckled before resting back against the booth. “I wanted to be an actor.”
You studied him for a moment. “...Actually, that tracks. You lived in Los Angeles. And you're charming enough to convince strangers to follow you into dark alleys." You shrugged. “The signs were there.”
He laughed. “I even got into acting school.”
Your eyebrows rose. “So what happened? Didn't make it big?”
His smile lingered, though it grew quieter. “I wasn't serious enough.” His tongue brushed absentmindedly over one canine. “I preferred parties.”
You followed the tiny gesture without needing another explanation.
Silence settled comfortably between you as the trumpet climbed into another soaring phrase. Around you, people laughed, toasted, danced between crowded tables, living entirely inside the present.
“How did you…” you began before stopping yourself. “Why photography?”
Instead of answering, Max simply let go of your hands.
Only for a second though, then he rose from his chair and, with a small bow dramatic enough to earn himself an amused look from the elderly couple at the next table, held one hand out toward you.
“I believe this answer deserves a dance.”
Now you rolled your eyes, but the smile gave you away long before your fingers slipped into his. With effortless ease he guided you away from the table and onto the small patch of floor the guests here had collectively decided qualified as a dance floor.
The music had changed while you'd been talking. The lively brass from earlier had softened into something slower, richer.
Max drew you close, one hand enclosing yours while the other settling gently against your waist, warm through the thin silk of your dress. You let yourself melt into the rhythm almost immediately, following without having to think.
You rested your head lightly against his shoulder.
After a moment, you felt his chin settle atop your hair.
“I tried a lot of things,” he said quietly, his voice nearly disappearing beneath the music. “After... everything.”
You nodded against his chest, waiting.
“Photography was the closest I found to acting without actually standing on a stage.” His thumb traced absent circles against your side as he guided you through another slow turn. “You're still telling stories. You're still making people feel something. Just... differently.”
“And you are good at it.”
A quiet chuckle vibrated beneath your cheek.
“Yeah. Turns out I wasn't half bad.”
Silence settled comfortably between you for another few steps before he continued.
“I don't think the longing ever disappears.” His voice had grown softer, more thoughtful than sad. “You just find something that scratches the same itch.”
You lifted your head, searching his face.
“It's enough?”
His smile was small but genuine. “It's like Oreos.” You blinked. “The memory is still there,” he said with complete conviction. “The taste is just... muted.”
A laugh escaped you despite yourself.
He rewarded it with a gentle kiss against your forehead before guiding you through another slow sway.
“So.” His golden eyes met yours. “What's your itch, Ashley? Besides being incapable of walking into a room without profiling everyone in it.”
You opened your mouth.
Nothing came out.
Working for the NYPD had never been just a career. It had been the plan. The goal. The thing you'd chased since you were old enough to understand that justice wasn't guaranteed unless someone fought for it.
You had spent so many years making that dream happen that you'd never stopped to imagine another one.
“I…” You let out a quiet breath. “I honestly don't know. I have to think about it.”
Max smiled with a tenderness that made something inside your chest loosen. He spun you gently beneath his arm before pulling you back against him, closer than before.
“Then don't rush it.”
You huffed a laugh. “I suppose we've got time.”
That earned a warm laugh from him too, and eventually the dancing slowed until you were barely moving at all, simply swaying together while the band carried the night around you.
“Whatever you decide,” he murmured, cupping your cheek, “we'll figure it out.”
His thumb brushed softly across your skin before stopping just short of your lips.
“Together.”
You both knew neither of you could simply conjure a new future into existence.
But standing there in his arms, wrapped in warm jazz and a city that somehow already felt a little like home, you realized something.
For the first time since your life had been turned upside down...
coupling: joel miller x female reader x tommy miller
wc: 7.6k
summary: you find a safe place to put your physical want. lets see what your step-brothers think about that.
warnings: no explicit content in this chapter but full story is 18+ MDNI ~ coming of age, characters are minors ~ step-sibling attraction ~ possessive/protective step-brothers ~ jealousy ~ emotional manipulation ~ coercive control/controlling behavior ~ subtle gaslighting ~ implied domestic abuse ~ class differences/wealth disparity ~ threats of violence ~ NEW WARNINGS WILL BE ADDED TO EACH CHAPTER.
authors notes: BABES! I know this be slow burning like a mofo right now, but stick with me, I promise I will make it up to you later! Also! Thank you all for the continued love and support you have shown this fic! It literally makes my day when one of you likes, comments and/or reblogs it. Enjoy!<3
spotify playlist for this fic -Chapter title from guns 'n roses song, welcome to the jungle-
previous chapter ~ AO3 ~ series masterlist ~ main masterlist
~ if you got a hunger for what you see, you’ll take it eventually… you can have anything you want, but you better not take it from me ~
Anna has dragged you to a party in her town –Palomino Hills– about 20 minutes from yours. It’s some senior’s house, parents gone and a keg on the back lawn. It's not a rager by any means, 30… 40 people at most. Drinking. Dancing. Talking. You know, the same old shit people have been doing at parties since the dawn of time. Except the house is the size of your old apartment building, and the driveway's got cars in it that cost more than your mom makes in a year – little foreign things, shiny and low to the ground, parked at angles that make them look more relaxed here than you. Inside, the girls have the kind of hair that is on a strict, 4 to 6 week schedule for touch ups, and the boys love wearing their daddies wealth on their wrists. Seriously, you haven’t seen a dude up in here that isn’t wearing a big shiny watch. Some of the scrawnier boys can barely fill them out, and you can’t help but chuckle to yourself, watching one slide up a kid's forearm every time he lifts his cup. But you have no room to laugh, no doubt sticking out like a sore thumb here.
You're standing in the kitchen holding a Solo cup, mostly using as a prop when a voice beside you says, "You look like you're plotting your escape."
You turn and look up. Finding a tall fella with slicked back, shoulder length sandy blonde hair and blue-gray eyes. Very much resembling Brad Pitt in Legends of the Fall.
Ay Caramba.
His style suggests a mix of preppy and effortlessly cool. That doesn’t surprise you, knowing Palomino Hills contains a heft of wealthier families. He looks nothing like the boys at your school and nothing like the boys in your basement.
"That obvious?" you say.
"Little bit." He smiles, purely whites on full display. “I’m Tate.”
He's a senior at the high school here which gives him a sheen of mystery. He asks you questions and then actually listens to the answers. Doesn't look over your shoulder for someone better the way boys have done with you at other parties. By the end of the night he's asked for your number, and Anna is mouthing OH MY GOD at you from across the crowded living room.
2 days later you stand in the kitchen swinging the long coiled phone cord around and around, then wrap it around your finger as you talk with Tate. He called you when he told you he would. That becomes one of the things you really like about him. He does what he says he's going to do and shows up when he says he'll show up. The complete opposite of your dad. So he gets an A+ for that. When you tell him early on that you want to take things slow physically –you brace for the face boys have made at you in the past, the one that clues you in they aren’t too pleased with your request– he just nods and says, "Whatever you need, I want you to feel comfortable, I'm not like other guys."
It’s not that you want to take all physical things slow, just the full monty, if you catch my drift. So far he seems to be quite alright with all the other things you’re doing together. Plus you feel like you can finally breathe, having a safe place for all your physical wants that you can’t aim at either of your step-brothers without ruining it all.
You keep Tate to yourself for close to a month. Just wanting to see how things play out between you. But you notice how the secret starts to make you feel. You come in from a date still tasting Tate’s chapstick on your lips and slide into Tommy's or Joel’s bed 20 minutes later, and you lie there feeling like you’re doing something wrong. It's not cheating. Tommy's your friend. Joel's your friend. And you and Tate aren’t even official, so there is no line anywhere for you to be on the wrong side of.
So why does it feel like there is?
~~
You know it's kinda soon. You haven't been seeing Tate that long — you're not even his girlfriend. But when he invited you to dinner with his parents, there was something in the way he looked at you that made saying no feel impossible. So you’ve spent the last 3 days losing your mind on what the hell you’re gonna wear. Since the dinner is at their country club.
Well la-tee-fuckin-da.
You don't have country club clothes. Closest thing is a church dress from two Easters ago, and that just won’t do. But you have Anna, thank God. You go to her place where she has a shit-ton of options waiting for you. You settle on a simple dress and her lowest pair of wedges – so you have a fighting chance of not falling or rolling an ankle.
Standing in front of the mirror and tugging at the hem, you try to see what a rich woman would see.
Horse shit.
That's what you keep thinking. That his mother is going to take one look at you and see the horse shit under her overpriced equestrian riding boots. People like that can smell an apartment kid from a mile away. Can smell the sad existence of hamburger helper and secondhand everything from across a dining room, you're sure of it.
You're still tugging at the dress when Anna appears behind you in the mirror, arms crossed, head tilted.
"Okay, staaaahp." She smacks your hand away from the hem. “You look perfect!”
"I look like I'm playing dress-up." Even though you’ve gained copious amounts of confidence in your body since coming back from camp, you’ve never felt comfortable in a dress. They've just never been your thing. The tom-boy inside you is kicking and screaming.
"Don’t be such a turd in the punch bowl! You look like a total knockout!” She spins you by the shoulders to face her, hands staying there, giving you the serious Anna eyes. “Walk in there like you own the place. Fake it till you make it – that's what most rich people do anyhow.” She reaches up, fixing a piece of your hair. "You survived moving into a basement with two feral teenage boys. A country club is nothing."
You chuckle with a wary smile.
The rumble of Tate's car comes up the street right on time. Anna's eyebrows shoot up. "That's your ride, Cinderella!"
You mumble something about turning back into a pumpkin at midnight, she just scoffs at you and walks you to the door. Tate steps out of the car, making his way up her driveway. When he looks up and sees you, he stops dead in his tracks. Continuing to make your way towards him.
"Wow… look at you, babycakes."
"Don't be weird about it,” you tell him, feeling more self-conscious now that you’re out in the light of the late afternoon.
"I'm being nice about it. You look really pretty." He takes your hand in his and leads you to his car, opening the door for you. "Relax. They're gonna love you."
"Have her home by a reasonable hour!" Anna calls from the doorway, with a big smile on her face.
"No promises," Tate shouts back, grinning.
You slide into the seat, smooth the dress over your knees one more time, and off you go.
~~
The car pulls around the circle drive up to the clubhouse. Coming to a stop under an awning held up by giant white columns. A man other than Tate opens your door for you. “Miss,” he offers you his hand, and you oblige. Tate makes his way around the car, just in time to take you off the man's hand. “Thank you, Reginald.”
Reginald… Jesus. You really aren’t in Kansas anymore.
Inside the place smells like lemon furniture polish and whatevers on the menu they’re whippin’ up for dinner. Dark green carpet, gold brass fixtures, oil paintings of men who look like they've never once laughed. Ah the lap of luxury. Not a lap you’d ever want to sit in – too uptight, too cold, too stiff. And not in the good way. You keep your elbows close to your body, afraid you might knock over something worth more than your mom's car.
You make your way through the dining room, weaving through the tables of other snooty patrons. His parents are already at the table. His mother rises first – slim, ash blonde with a touch of silver that blends in well, dainty gold jewelry, the exact woman you feared – you brace for the up-and-down look, the polite frost. Instead she reaches out, taking both your hands. "Oh, there she is! Tate, you didn't tell me she was this lovely – sit by me, honey, come sit by me!"
Well fuck.
Now you're more nervous, for a completely different reason. You actually want her to like you now. You didn’t care so much before when you thought she’d be a cold-hearted bitch.
His father stands next, and the first word that comes to mind is gigantor. This dudes frickin’ huge! Muscular and broad. He reaches out to shake your hand, squeezing your delicate phalanges a little too hard – gigantor doesn’t know his own strength it seems. He orders you a Shirley Temple without making it feel like a kid's drink. Then tells you to get what you want, but gives you his opinion that the filet mignon is the only thing worth eating here, ever since they hired a new head chef and changed the menu.
Orders are placed and the conversation starts ramping up. You're waiting for the, what do your parents do? So they can discuss and laugh about it together later tonight when they're alone, but it never comes. His mother asks about you, about school and she listens, hand on your arm, smiling kindly at you. When you mention the animal shelter you volunteer at sometimes, she gets all the more excited. Telling you about all the charity work she does, one even being with a different animal shelter. Isn't that something, the two of you have to compare notes.
Somewhere between the main course and dessert, you realize you've stopped faking it, till you make it, and you're just… talking freely. Tate's got his arm across the back of your chair and his father is telling stories about his Polo playing days. Not the most riveting, but it doesn’t bore you to tears.
You excuse yourself to the bathroom at one point just to take a breath and stand at the marble sink to look at yourself. These people, who have every reason to look down their noses at you, don't. And you've spent so long feeling like the odd one out. The girl who doesn't quite fit even at her own dinner table, that you figured tonight was going to be a carbon copy of that – except 100 times worse. But tonight, here, surrounded by old money and the upper crust of society, you just slid into place. How fucking bizarre… It shouldn’t mean so much to you but it does.
Goodbyes happen out front under the awning, valet pulling the cars around. His mother hugs you. It’s warm and comforting, and she smells like gardenias. When she pulls back, her hands slide down your arms and her sleeve rides up. There's a bruise on her forearm. A big one.
You almost ask, Are you okay? But you swallow it down. Because it's none of your business, and this night has gone too perfectly to go making it weird at the finish line. She's a thin woman – thin women bruise easily, right? Probably caught her arm on a car door. A cabinet corner. Something of that nature. Her sleeve slips back down, and from the bright smile on her face you don’t think she noticed that you saw it. She says she hopes to see more of you soon. You return the smile and pleasantries, saying you hope the same.
Tate’s parents are the first to drive off. But before leaving the manicured grounds of the country club, he pulls his car to a side parking lot and kills the engine. Then turns to look at you.
Shifting to meet his gaze you ask, “What’s going on?”
“You know what my mom said to me when you went to the bathroom?” He’s smiling, clearly delighted at whatever he’s about to tell you, as you answer by shaking your head at him. “She said, don’t you mess this up Tate.”
Unable to speak, all you feel is shock. His mom likes you… and you weren’t anyone but yourself.
"So I'm not gonna," Tate puts his hands out for you to take. When you do, his face turns serious. "I want you to be my girlfriend. No more keeping it quiet.” His thumbs brush over your hands. "And I wanna meet your family. Since you met mine.”
"Yeah," you say, smiling before you can stop it. "Okay."
It's only later, lying in bed that night in Anna’s guest room, staring at a bare ceiling with no glowing stars on it, that the nerves show up. All your mind can think about are the 2 boys back in the basement, and what happens when they find out.
~~
Your mom, upon hearing the word boyfriend, reacts like you've cured cancer. There is squealing and a hand pressed to her chest. And okay, it's not like he's your first boyfriend. It's that you've never brought one home – never handed one over to her to be fed and fussed at. Dinner is proposed, planned, and by Saturday she's got Ric's favorite going on the stove, carne guisada that's been simmering half the day, homemade flour tortillas, rice, the whole spread. She's trying so hard, and you feel grateful for it. The house smells incredible.
Tate shows up at six on the dot. You hear the loud exhaust announcing his arrival. When you open the door he's standing there in a Ralph Lauren button-down with flowers for you and your mom.
Your mom melts. "Come in, come in! Oh, aren't you just so sweet,” She says, taking both bouquets of flowers from him. His hands now empty, she gets a good look at him. “Myyyyy goodness, look at you!" Might you say it seems like your mom is surprised that you lassoed this strapping young man.
Ric rolls his eyes at your mother with a smile on his face. He moves to greet Tate, one hand settling on your mom's shoulder as he leans past her, the other extended. "Tate. Heard a lot about you." Which is a generous framing of the 48 hours he's known you had a boyfriend.
"All good things, I hope, sir."
Sir. Well, well he seems to be pulling out all the stops. You watch Ric's face but you can’t tell if he’s impressed or suspish.
You all shuffle your way to the dining room and you hear the boys coming up from the basement. “What’s all the commotion?” Tommy asks, rounding the corner, Joel behind him.
Sooooo, here’s the thing. As far as you know, nobody’s told them you had a guest coming over. Let alone that the guest just so happens to be your new boyfriend. You had your chance to tell them both last night when you were all chillin’, and you chickened out. Could have told Tommy when you fell asleep next to him. But guess what… bockkkkk bock bock bock. Told yourself you’d do it in the morning. Then morning came and went. So here you are now staring down the barrel of the gun, wishing you’d done it sooner.
"Boys, this is Tate," your mom chirps. "Your sister’s new boyfriend."
You squeeze your eyes closed for a moment. Please don't be mad, you think at both of them, uselessly. Please. To your astonishment, their faces don’t give much away. They seem fine with it. Odd. They both introduce themselves to Tate. Tommy giving a grin you know all too well, the performance one.
"Great to meet you guys," Tate says warmly. "She talks about you all the time."
She does? You don't remember doing that.
Everyone moves towards the table to sit and that's when you catch Tommy’s eyes. His face, now giving everything away. He’s no longer grinning. He’s just looking at you – hurt, plain as day, and betrayed. You were in my bed last night… and I'm finding out like this?
You hold his gaze hoping the look your face says, I’m so sorry.
Then you look at Joel. He won’t meet your eyes at all. His are fixed on the middle of the table, and he looks upset. Not mad, upset. Sad, upset. And you just want to hug him, tell him you’re sorry too. It's like you can see the gears turning behind all his stillness. How long? Why didn’t she tell me?
You take your seat next to Tate with your stomach in a knot. Counting down the minutes till you get to speak with them alone later tonight.
~~
Dinner, honestly, goes well.
Tate is good at this. He compliments your moms cooking and asks for the story behind the recipe. She tells him it’s Ric’s mom’s recipe, so she can’t take all the credit and Ric reaches over squeezing her hand at some point as she babbles on. Tate watches them with an expression of such warmth that you feel proud of him. Another A+ on the books.
Tate asks Ric about himself, while he keeps a light hand on the back of your chair, not on you – respectful, claiming adjacent.
"So how'd you two meet, exactly?" Tommy asks, tearing a piece of tortilla. His tone is friendly. His eyes… not so much.
"A little get-together at my buddy's place. She was standing in the kitchen looking like she wanted to leave." Tate smiles at you. "Figured I'd give her a reason to stay."
"Hm, how thoughtful of you." Tommy says, unimpressed, words laced with sarcasm.
You try to give Tommy the stink eye, but he won’t look at you, so you let it go.
A little later, Tate's telling a story about his car – the Cobra, how his dad helped him get into cars – and you happen to look at Joel then. He isn't eating. The fork in his hand rests against his plate while Tate talks. He's watching him, studying him.
"You should hear this thing run," Tate says, pulling your eyes away from Joel. "’93 SVT Cobra. Nothing like it."
"Boys are building a Mustang too out in the garage actually," Ric offers, with a note of pride in it. "'67 Fastback. Been at it a few years now."
"No kidding." Tate turns to the brothers, showing interest. "That's awesome. Old ones are cool!”
By dessert, your mom's telling the story about you falling in the toilet at 2 am your first month here. “She never checked the seat, these 2 heathens never put it down." Tate is laughing, and Tommy pipes in, “In our defense, we never had to worry about putting the lid down.” And for a moment the whole table is laughing together. You look around at all of them mid-laugh and think, maybe this will all be just fine.
~~
You walk him out after dinner. The Mustang sittin’ pretty at the curb under the streetlight. Tate takes your hand on the way down the driveway, swinging it a little.
"Well," you say. "I think that went really good! My mom likes you. Like, really likes you. Ric'll come around more, think he just doesn’t really know how to handle all this." You laugh, bumping his shoulder. "But I'm really glad you met them. All of them."
"Me too." He stops at the car, turns, takes both your hands. "Your mom's great! Ric seems solid, but I get what you're saying, him never having a daughter before you." Tate pauses for a moment, then continues. "Your step-brothers, though...."
"What about them?" You quickly respond, a little defensive.
"Nothing, nothing. They just seemed kind of… cold, I guess? To me." He shrugs. "The younger one with the little comments, and the older one barely said two words the whole night. I don't know." He looks at you, blue eyes a little wounded. "Do they always act like that with you? Or is it just me?"
"They're—" You laugh a little, wanting to set the record straight. "That's just them. Tommy's got a smart mouth and Joel's quiet with everybody. That's not – they weren't being cold."
"Okay." He says it fast, hands up, retreating smoothly from the conversation. "Forget I said anything. You know them better than I do." He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear and smiles. For a second the act of Joel doing the same that first night in his room flashes in your mind, before Tate speaks again. "I just care about you. I notice stuff, that's all."
He kisses you goodnight, soft and unhurried. The Cobra roars away down the street. You stand in the driveway a minute after he's gone.
Do they always act like that with you?
Not any more they don’t. Sure, when you first moved in. But they weren't cold to him. Were they? Tommy asked questions. Joel's always quiet. That's just them, you know them, you live with them.
When you come in, you have a feeling the boys are gonna be waiting on you. And you should be walking down there annoyed. You didn't do anything wrong. You didn't lie. You just… didn't tell them. Therein lies the problem, because they know you pretty much tell them everything, and you chose to omit this and say nada. Then drop the bomb on them in front of everyone, where they couldn’t do or say anything about it, aside from smile and take it. You did do something wrong, and you can’t feel annoyed. All you feel is upset with yourself, for treating them this way.
You stand at the bottom of the stairs and take a deep breath, not knowing how this will go. You haven't given yourself a moment to play it out, aware your brain will only concoct up the worst outcomes. Rounding the corner, there they sit on the couch, waiting up for you as you anticipated – Tommy at one end, Joel at the other, the middle cushion empty. Your cushion. You don't sit. You stand in front of the couch with the coffee table behind you, hands clasped, eyes on the floor. Ready for your scolding like a kid in the principal's office.
Tommy finally breaks the silence. “So,” he says, stretching the word out. “Tate.” He says the name like someone just handed him a baby he didn't ask to hold – arms straight out, wanting no part of it, waiting for somebody to come take it back. "Real nice car."
"Tommy—" you start, looking over at him.
He cuts you off, putting his hand up. "No, no. Cobra. ‘93. Nothing like it, I hear.”
Your eyes start to burn, feeling the pain you caused them. “I’m sorry,” you drop to your knees in front of them, head hanging with shame while the tears build.
They could let you sit in it. They could make you feel it, could return an ounce of what got dealt to them at the table, and it'd be fair. But as they look down at you like this – small and wrecked, kneeling at their feet – neither one of them has it in them. Because there is nothing you could do that would make them want to watch you hurt. Not one thing. They'd take the ambush a 100 times over before they'd take this.
"Hey. Hey, c'mon, don’t do that.” Tommy's voice has lost all its bite from before. "Come up here with us.” You don't get up. You just shake your head, the first tear falling, hitting the carpet, and you watch as it darkens the fibers. You're about to say sorry again, but there is a hand on your jaw. Joel’s. Two fingers under your chin, gently tipping your face up until you have no choice but to meet his eyes. He's leaned all the way forward off the couch to reach you, forearm on his knee, and his face isn't cold or closed off. It's just Joel, but he’s looking at you the way he looked at you the night he said you’ve got a place here with us.
"Stop," he says, quietly. His thumb catches the tear on your cheek before it can get far. "None of this."
"I should've told you," you get out, wobbly. "I should've told both of you and I didn't and then you had to find out like that…”
“Yeah, you should’ve.” Joel says, not letting you off the hook.
“But hey—” Tommy says, and you turn to look at him, Joel’s hand dropping from your face. "You didn't do it to hurt us. You did it 'cause you were scared of how we'd take it. Right?” He shrugs, mouth tugging sideways.
You nod.
Joel extends his arm out to you, hand open, palm up. “C’mere. Get up here with us.” You take his hand and he pulls you up off your knees, and Tommy pats the middle cushion. You fold down into the space between them. They both scooch in close to you, not giving you the difficult choice of who to lean towards. All 3 of your heads leaning back against the couch.
There is a little bit of comfortable silence before Joel says, "You know we don’t want you to be afraid of us… you can always come to us, tell us anything. No matter what it is.” Tommy finishes his brother's thought. “And will always be here for you.”
Oh great, here comes the water works again.
What have you done to deserve these sweet boys? You shut your eyes tight, a tear or two escaping down your cheek. You clear your throat before speaking, “I know, and I will from now on. I promise.”
On either side of you, the brothers are thinking the same thing. That you're not the problem. The problem drives a cherry red Mustang. And the problem, they both suspect, is just getting started.
For the next couple weeks you can tell their disdain for Tate is growing by the day, though you're unsure as to why, all their short interactions that you’ve seen between them have been friendly. You still end up in one of their rooms most nights. Even on the nights you've been out with Tate, even when his cologne is still on your neck and in your hair. You come home and slip out of the new version of yourself you wore for him, and let yourself be held by boys who still know you better than your boyfriend does, and they continue to hold you like nothing has changed, thankfully. Because you don't know what you'd do if they stopped.
You keep this from Tate, having a feeling he wouldn't be too keen on the whole set up – his girlfriend sleeping in another guy's bed, two other guys' beds actually, step-brothers or not. ‘Cause you don't know the right words to say to explain it in a way that sounds innocent. Because it is innocent.
Isn’t it?
~~
You're not ready. You're supposed to be ready. Tate said seven and it's seven when you hear the Cobra rumble up the street. You’ve been running behind more and more recently. Always trying to make sure you’re at your most presentable for Tate.
You hustle through the kitchen and pop your head out the door to the garage. The big door's rolled up, both brothers puttsing around – Tommy bending over the engine bay of the Fastback, Joel sitting at the workbench with a part in his hand – and beyond them, Tate coming up the driveway, looking like a guy straight outta the Polo Ralph Lauren catalogue.
"Hey! I'm almost ready, just a few more minutes, I swear." You shout, waving him toward the garage. "Just hang out here, talk cars with the guys." You know he hates when you're late, hates waiting on you. So when you see his smile fall, you know you have to get your ass in gear.
“Sure thing, babycakes.” Tate says with a flat tone.
You glance at your step-brothers. Who are still focused on their tasks. “Be nice,” you whisper to them with Tate still out of ear shot. Then duck back inside.
Joel hears the door shut, sets the carburetor down, and takes a deep breath before he swivels around on the stool. He really doesn’t wanna interact with this jackwagon, but knows it’ll make you happy.
Tate stands at the edge of the garage. Joel figures it ‘cause he doesn’t wanna get his ritzy outfit dirty.
Privileged little cocksucker.
Be nice. That’s what you asked of him. So fine. Joel can do a few minutes of nice.
"So this is the project, huh?" Tate asks, finally taking a few steps into the garage. Both boys know he’s looking at the car like it's a hunk-of-junk, their poverty hobby.
"Yep." Tommy straightens up out of the engine bay, and pats the fender. “Pulled the motor over the winter, rebuilding her top to bottom."
"Cool, cool." Tate nods along. "What's it got in it?"
"Right now? A 289. Might stroke it though, we haven't decided." Tommy tosses out. "You know, might just keep it period-correct. How ‘bout ‘ur?"
"Nice. Yeah, mine's got the – it's the Cobra motor." Tate hooks a thumb back toward the street where the red car sits. "Two-forty horse. You should hear it open up."
Joel leans back against the bench, arms crossing. He’s got a suspicion that his car has never seen a wrench that wasn’t wearing a dealership shirt. "Pushrod or dual overhead cam?"
Tate’s eyes widen. "It's the… I mean, it's the SVT setup. They only make so many of 'em a year."
"Huh," Joel says. Tommy's got a rag going through his hands, and Joel can feel his brother arriving at the same place he just arrived at without either of them looking at each other.
Bought. Not built.
This trust fund Ken doll doesn’t know a thing about that car aside from what he read off the brochure. He knows the badge, the number the salesman told his daddy, but he’s never had that hood up a day in his life. He’s the kind of guy who’ll rev that Cobra at every stoplight in town and never know all the small details that go into making that noise.
Just then your laugh comes though the other side of the door. Loud and spilling out from somewhere in the house. All 3 of the boys look at the door. A smile finding both Joel and Tommy’s face – a reflex your laugh now pulls out of them.
"She laughs really loud sometimes." Tate says. "You guys ever noticed that? Can hear it clear across a restaurant." He shakes his head, a little indulgent. "Told her we gotta work on her inside-voice. Now I just give her a little look and she stops."
And just like that the smile dies on Joel's face.
A little look.
Joel thinks about the thrift store. How loud your laugh was when you doubled over in that aisle when he stepped out from the dressing room, asking him to give you a little twirl in those ridiculous JNCOs. Never once has Joel heard that sound and wanted to silence it or wished it quieter. Your laugh has always made him want to laugh right along with you. And the idea that Tate has trained a look that shuts it off –that there's a signal you’re already obeying– makes him feel ill.
Tate stands there and checks his watch. "She always run late like this? Seems like I'm always waiting on her."
Agitated as hell now with this entire conversation, Tommy chucks the rag onto the fender. "You know what, maybe she's just tryin' to look nice for you."
Tate huffs a laugh. “Yeah, I guess. I do have her wearing her hair down more – she looks way better like that."
Joel can feel his few minutes of nice coming to a close. At first he was just annoyed by this silver-spoon-sucking little shit. Spent this whole conversation deciding Tate’s just a harmless idiot. But after both remarks about you, Joel’s starting to see red. Tommy pipes up, trying to keep his cool, searching through the tools next to his brother. "Funny. I’ve always thought she looked nice, however she wants to wear it.”
“We all have our preferences. I just voiced mine to her.” Tate says, before plastering a devious grin on his face. “She’s so eager to please.”
In that moment, Joel thinks back to you kneeling before him and his brother. And the restraint Joel typically holds is nowhere to be found, when the stool screeches back across the concrete as he flies off of it. Two steps of bad intentions already in motion. He’s gonna strangle this polo wearing prick. But Tommy's hand clamps around his brother's upper arm. Hard. He doesn't yank, doesn't make a scene of it – just locks on and holds, planting himself half a step in front of his big brother. Not here. Not now. Joel feels from his brother's action, as the door to the house flies open.
"Okay, okay, I'm ready!" You come out in a rush of vanilla and flowing hair, grabbing Tate's hand and hauling him down the driveway before anybody can say another word. “Bye guys!” You toss over your shoulder, bright and happy and completely clueless as to what all was just said and what was about to happen.
Tommy lets go of Joel's arm. The Cobra fires up at the curb, Tate revs the engine like a deliberate middle finger he couldn’t resist throwing, and pulls away with the sound of his car echoing off every house on the street. The taillights swing around the corner, and everything goes quiet except the radio on the workbench, where Axl's opening scream is just starting in Welcome to the Jungle.
Neither of them says anything. Joel stands there staring out at the road, hands flex at his sides. This country club cum stain has no idea who territory he’s stumbled into. If he keeps fuckin’ around, he’s gonna find out real fast what kind of animals he’s messed with. They both know the version of you Tate gets, a polished up princess, who has an apology on her lips because she’s already been trained to think making him wait is some kinda unforgivable sin. But they know the real you.
They know this preppy parasite has spent his whole life taking, taking, taking. He probably sees you as nothing more than another object to add to his collection of pretty things. A girl he’ll try to shape and mold into what he wants, a girl he’ll teach to obey him. Tate can have the Cobra. The trust fund. The country-club future where he can continue to take everything that’s handed to him – where his mommy still, pretty much, wipes his ass and coddles him. He can have the whole fucking world if he wants it.
But he can’t have you. Not your laugh. Not your messy hair when you can’t be bothered. Not your soft skin. Not your happiness or your sadness. Those things don’t belong to Tate, he doesn’t appreciate them like your step brothers do.
Joel & Tommy know the world is full of men who’d love to hurt you –not just Tate– and having you in their lives has given them a reason to stand guard again. Has given something back to both of them that they lost the morning their mother was wheeled out of the house – someone to look after, someone to keep safe. They couldn't save their mom. They were kids, they were too small, they didn't have the power or the knowledge. But they aren't kids anymore.
Guys like Tate always trip over their own act eventually. The mask will slip where you can see it. And until then if he frightens you, hurts you, puts his hands on you in a way you haven't asked for, or makes you feel any other way than good.
They’ll kill him.
~~
Couple nights later, Tate pulls up in front of the driveway, exhaust rumbling. He gets out and leans his back on the car next to the passenger door, waiting for you there. Tate sees Joel and Tommy in the garage once again, fiddling with the project car. You open the front door, stepping out of the house even more dolled up than normal. As you reach the car Tate gives you a grin. He grabs your face and pulls you in for a kiss. “Damn babycakes,” he says, pulling out of the kiss to look down at you. “Looking so fine and on time.”
Your brothers don’t even try to hide the way they watch. Stepping out, around the car, walking towards the opening of the garage. Both of them with a heavy wrench in their hands. Joel slaps one end of his against the palm of his opposite hand as they come to a stop. Tommy’s wrench loose in his hand at his side, mirrors Joel’s stance half a second later – the way he often mirrors Joel. Two boys who learned the same body language growing up in the same den.
Tate glances over at them, then back at you with a small, dismissive laugh. “Your guard dogs on duty tonight?”
Stealing a look over your shoulder at the pair of them, and yeah, they do look defensive standing there, squared up, shoulder to shoulder, every line of their bodies communicating something protective. But even with their rigid posture you swear you see a flash of dismay in their eyes. You’ve been so busy lately with school, friends and now Tate, that you haven’t had much time to hang out or talk with them. You push down the panicked feeling threatening to overwhelm you. The feeling of this new person in your life is going to really start to change things between you and them. That every step you take toward Tate is a step you take away from them. You give Joel and Tommy a worried smile, hoping it conveys, please don't let this change us and slide into the passenger seat.
It’s gotta be just classic territorial step-brother shit, right? Instinctive. Just brothers not wanting to see their sister get hurt. The kind of thing Ric would be proud of if he saw. That's all this is. You repeat this to yourself on the drive, while Tate’s hand finds your thigh.
~~
Joel crosses the basement to your room. Finding the door open and bed empty, he heads towards Tommy's room. Some part of him hoping to find you already curled up in his brother's sheets, back from wherever Tate took you, safe and done with the night. But when he knocks and opens the door, the only person in Tommy's bed is Tommy, sitting up against the headboard with a magazine.
He looks up when Joel comes in, the question already answered by the lack of your presents, but he asks anyway. "She's not back?"
"No." Tommy tosses the magazine aside.
Joel stays standing, one hand braced on the doorframe. The clock on Tommy's nightstand reads 11:47. You left at 7:00.
"Where the hell did he take her?" Tommy asks.
"I don't know."
"It's almost midnight, Joel."
"I'm aware." Joel pushes off the frame, shuts the door and starts pacing – 2 steps toward the desk, 2 steps back, the room too small for the restlessness running through him.
Tommy swings his legs off the bed, plants both feet on the floor, his leg bouncing with nervous energy. "That guy's phoney as fuck,” he says looking towards his big brother. “I really don't fuckin' like him.”
“I don’t either, Tommy.”
"And the way he talked about us tonight. Guard dogs… fuckin’ guard dogs, Joel. Can you believe that shit?!”
“I heard him.” Joel stops pacing. “He's tryin' to make her think we're the problem. So when we do say somethin', she's already been primed to brush it off."
Tommy's quiet for a second, processing. “So manipulative."
Joel doesn't argue. Tommy's right, and the fact that Tommy can see it so clearly when Tommy usually charges through life headfirst without pausing to read the room tells Joel everything he needs to know about how wrong this feels.
Joel drops into the desk chair, elbows coming to rest on his knees, hands holding the side of his face. "Somethin's really off about him. I feel it in my gut. Somethin' ain't right – aside from the things he says about her."
Tommy leans forward, picking at the fraying knee of his jeans. "I feel it too. Thought maybe I was just bein'—" He waves a hand. "I dunno. Jealous or whatever."
"Are you?" Joel’s head quickly lifts to see his brother.
Tommy looks at him, and in his face Joel can see the honesty Tommy has never been good at hiding. "Yeah. I am. But that's not what this is. This is somethin' else."
Joel nods. Because he's jealous too – in a way that has nothing to do with Tate's Mustang or his looks and everything to do with the fact that you chose someone else's passenger seat and Joel had to stand in a garage and watch you go. But Tommy's right. The jealousy is just an overtone. What's underneath the jealousy is a gut feeling.
"We need to talk to her," Joel says. “We sit her down and we tell her what we see."
"You think she’s gonna get upset with us?”
"Maybe."
"What if she pulls away from us even more than she already has..." Tommy shakes his head and falls back on the bed. "What if she stops comin' to our rooms? We just lose her to this sweater vest wearing twat?"
"No." Joel says it hard enough that Tommy lifts his head from the bed. "Listen to me. We’re gonna be nice, just tell her what we see. We say our piece and regardless of how that goes – whether she listens or tells us to go to hell – we treat her the exact same as we have been. No pulling back. We don't get cold with her. If she still wants to come into one of our rooms at night, we let her. We don't shut her out."
Tommy stares at his brother with uncertainty. He was already halfway to considering exactly what Joel just forbade. Because pulling back is what he does when something scares him.
"I'm serious. Her fuckin’ dad walked away from her, Tommy. You think I'm gonna be the next guy who makes her feel like she's not wanted? You think I'm gonna let you be that? We're not gonna be the guys who disappear because she's doing somethin' we don't like or who make her feel like she’s only worth keepin' around when she does what we want."
The frustration drains out of Tommy’s face, understanding taking its place as Joel continues.
“She needs to know she can always come to us. No matter what. Like we told her. Because she's gonna need us. Maybe not tonight. Maybe not tomorrow. But something is up with that guy, we both know it, and sooner or later, she’s gonna know it too and we gotta be there for her when she does. Got it?"
"Yeah." Tommy sits back up, nodding. "Yeah, I got it."
"Good."
At 12:14, headlights sweep across the basement window and they hear the all too familiar sound dipshit’s exhaust. Then a car door, followed by the basement side door opening and closing, carefully and quietly. Tommy lets out a long breath, Joel stands up from the chair.
“We talk to her soon.” Joel says in a hushed voice.
Tommy nods in agreement as they listen to you move through the basement, getting ready for bed – shoes off, bathroom, water running. Your footsteps come towards their bedrooms. You pause outside of the younger brother's door. Then they hear a soft knock on Joel's.
Joel looks at Tommy. Tommy lifts his chin. Go.
Joel opens Tommy’s door, closing it behind him, to see you standing there in front of his door waiting. Your makeup washed off, your eyes tired, and one of his t-shirts gracing your frame.
"Oh hey," you say, looking at him surprised and nervous. "Can I—"
"Get in there," Joel says, with a small smile and the tilt of his head towards his room.
You smile back, big and grateful. You climb into his bed, tucking your face into his neck, right where it belongs. He pulls you close and whispers c’mere estrellita, there you go – he feels your whole body relax and part of him lets go too. But the worry and vigilance. Those stay. Those stay as long as Tate is in your life.
No.
Those stay as long as you are alive and breathing.
I'd love to hear your thoughts! They truly help keep us writers motivated and writing for you babes! Also consider re-blogging so others can find and enjoy the fic as well! <3
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Last time was honestly too easy, you know your Pedro boys too well! So this one I'm upping the difficulty! Let's see how well you know the hair....
This is how you play: check the photos below the cut, make your guesses and put them in a reblog, making sure to hide your answers below a "Read More" cut. I'll see your reblog and give you your score
Let's play!
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Tagging some people who might want to play again (because you all did way too good in the last one...)
Thank you for the tag @vodkaandpizza. What a lovely idea this is. But surprisingly difficult to choose.
How it works: A pick a favourite passage from your work for each category below. It can be a line or a few paragraphs.
Most Romantic (or sweetest): It Smolders, Then It Burns, Chapter Six - Saturday Night At The Movies
Turning to Frankie, you offered a small smile.
“Thank you for tonight,” you said softly. “I had a wonderful time.”
His lips curved into a grin. “Even watching a film that scared you senseless?” His tone was teasing, his eyes twinkling with fun.
You let out a quiet laugh. “There were some parts that I really enjoyed,” you admitted, your gaze flickering down to his lips. “Particularly the part where you kissed me.”
Frankie’s grin faltered for half a second, replaced by something softer. More intense. “Could I do it again, please?”
Your breath caught, but you didn’t hesitate. “Yes, please,” you whispered. “I’d really like a repeat performance of that part of the film.”
Your Angst-iest writing: Same Time, Same Place
“I’ll miss you,” I said, pulling back to look at him. My hands found the collar of his thick woolen overcoat. I couldn’t bear to look at him, so I averted my gaze to the silver top button. Tears filled my eyes. What I really wanted to say stuck in my throat. I couldn’t tell him that I loved him so very much—because what was the use of telling someone you loved them when this might be the moment that ended everything?
Because you shouldn’t fall in love during wartime. It couldn’t work. I knew that. I've been on the receiving end. Love is ephemeral, fleeting.
And to say it out loud would be inviting more pain into my life.
“I’ll miss you, too,” he replied softly, before capturing my lips in a bruising kiss. It was as though he was gathering as much of me as he could. His hand cradled my chin, his fingers caressing my cheek. It was the kind of kiss that turned my soul inside out—the kind that made time stop.
Your most humorous: The Truth, The Whole Truth, And Nothing But The Truth
A blaster shot ricocheted off of his beskar and Din twisted around to fire over his shoulder. You heard the heavy thud as a body hit the floor.
“Good shot!” you exclaimed.
Din spun around and quickened his pace. “Can we just—”
“You need to relax more, you know. You're always very tense, Din.”
Din didn't miss a beat. “I'm escorting someone through enemy territory who's been drugged with a truth serum. Forgive me for being tense right now,” he shot back.
your sexiest: Frontier Hearts, Chapter Seven - The Goodbye
She was uninhibited, drawn to him in a way that she had never felt with any other suitor. If she was honest, she wanted him in a way that went beyond anything she had ever experienced before.
She wrapped her arms around his waist, standing behind him, feeling the coolness of her damp skin meet the warmth of his. He looked back at her through the smudged mirror, a soft smile curling on his lips as he scraped the last of the fuzz from his face—save his mustache.
As she stood there, her fingers instinctively traced the criss-crossing scars that marked his back once more. A permanent map of his dissent. As her fingertips followed the scars and ridges, she felt him shiver slightly at her touch, his muscles tightening in response.
“Be careful,” he murmured, his voice low and edged with a playful warning. “Keep that up and I’ll end up slicing my throat with my knife.” His eyes found hers in the mirror, warm and amused, but still filled with a quiet vulnerability.
The boyfriend act, part 33: "The one with Santi's wedding, part one"
Pairing: Frankie Morales x F!reader
SERIES MASTERLIST
Buy me a coffee - Ko-fi
Chapter summary: With Santi and Yov’s wedding just around the corner, returning to Austin feels thrilling given all the celebrations ahead, even if it means an imminent reunion with your ex, Frankie. But you’re ready for it. Or, at least, that’s what you keep telling yourself. wc: 20.4k
A/N: warning, long chapter ahead as a little thank you for waiting as it took me so long to update! Thank you all for patiently waiting for another chapter of my long and boring fic, The Boyfriend Act (🤭). You guys really do have the patience of saints, huh?? We only have a few chapters left now, and I promise you won't have to wait as long for the next ones; there are truly very few left!! Anyway, enjoy this one and start bracing yourselves for the ending.
Your feedback means a lot to me so please let me know your opinions in the comments. Thank you 💕Don't forget to follow capuccinodollupdates for notifications!
Tuesday, October 8th
Starting a new journal by writing about returning to Austin feels ironic. Starting a blank book while backtracking definitely is. But as you look out the plane window at the completely clear blue sky, watching the sprawling city stretch out far below your feet, you get the distinct feeling that you are about to land in a different place entirely.
It is your home; the very same walls that said goodbye to you a few months ago will welcome you back within the hour. The same bed, the same spot on your couch, the same mirror that pushed your own reflection back at you. Yet, you don’t feel like the same person who used to inhabit that space; or at least, that is the sensation that washes over you with every passing mile.
With your fresh journal in hand, you try not to overthink it.
Lucky for you, a wedding is exactly the kind of bustling event that can keep your mind occupied with other things.
You can't afford to get distracted by work, or by your latest manuscript, which has been giving you a massive headache these past few days. Nor can you dwell on what will become of you after all this is over. The choice between staying in Austin or moving back to New York has haunted you for the last week, and you were just about to sit down and make a pros and cons list.
But you can’t think about that. You shouldn't, really.
Weddings are fun if you know how to make the most of them. Especially if you aren’t the one getting married. The truth is, after spending weeks tagging along with Yov and Santi here and there, listening to all the wedding prep, you actually considered taking an anxiety pill.
Having a planner helps, it helps a lot. But some things just can't be allowed to slip through your fingers. At the end of the day, the bride and groom have the final say, which means things can get incredibly stressful, incredibly fast. But in the end, it will all be worth it.
Austin, October 8, 2026
I wonder if Mr. Darcy will recognize the smell of home right away. I wonder if I’ll realize just how much I’ve missed it these past few months.
I want to see everyone.
Everyone.
"Oh my gosh, you’re finally here!"
Emma crashed right into you, wrapping her arms around your neck before you could even flash a full smile. Her hair smelled like coconut.
"I'm here," you laughed, hugging her back. "I've missed you so much."
"Me too," she squeezed, tight enough to fuse her ribs with yours. Then, resting her hands on your shoulders, she stepped back just an inch. "You smell amazing!"
"I was literally just thinking the same thing about you!"
Emma laughed.
All around you, people streamed in and out of the airport, hauling heavy suitcases and overstuffed bags. It was a gorgeous day; the sky was clear and bright, the air surprisingly crisp. Nearby, a couple was reuniting with a warm embrace and a few perfectly public appropriate kisses. It was a sweet scene, but not enough to pull your eyes away from your friend's face.
The drive home was quick and fun. Inside Emma’s car, it smelled clean and citrusy, and a Lana Del Rey song was going through the speakers. She had picked up two coffees, one for each of you, and you sipped yours while hearing her repeat you can be the boss, daddy, you can be the boss over and over again, wrinkling her nose every time her sunglasses slid down the bridge.
In the back seat, Mr. Darcy was sitting in his crate, remarkably quiet and relaxed. You could already tell he’d turned into a true New Yorker.
"Darcy is gonna be so happy to be home. Here he can climb up onto the kitchen window sill. I'm sure he misses watching people walk by on the street," you said, and the image of the cat pressed against the glass in the warm sunlight flashed through your mind.
"Mhm, that’s true. In New York people probably looked like tiny little ants, didn't they?"
You smiled. "They did."
Emma’s cheeks bunched up into a soft smile, and she glanced over at you for a second.
"Okay, and what did you miss?"
"Now that I’m actually here? I feel like I missed everything. I didn’t really notice it over there." You looked out the window, the rush of air brushing the strands of your hair against your neck. A deep sigh escaped your chest. "Have you heard anything about Francisco?"
You had managed to keep your simmering curiosity under wraps during your entire stay in New York. You hadn’t asked about him when Emma came to visit a few weeks ago, nor had you brought him up to Santi (or anyone) over the phone.
You mastered that control for months, all through the flight to Austin, and during the first twenty minutes after Emma picked you up. But as the landscape grew closer and more familiar, you simply had to ask.
You turned to look at her almost immediately.
"Frankie?" she asked.
You offered a faint smile. "I doubt I know any other."
"Right, who else?" She rolled her eyes playfully. She paused for a few seconds as the traffic light ahead shifted to red, bringing the car to a smooth stop. "He’s doing good. He's here in Austin, actually."
Your stomach did a complete flip. "Already? When did he get back?"
Emma pursed her lips to the side. "Like, a month ago?"
You raised a single eyebrow. "Really?"
She sighed. "He moved back to Austin last month."
"Emma."
"With Luna and Jamie."
You pressed your back against the seat, watching the scenery flash past the window as a hundred different thoughts raced through your mind. Yet, you didn't let yourself dwell on any of them for too long, only managing to say,
"Well, that makes sense."
"It does," Emma agreed.
"And where are they staying? With Helena?"
"At first, yeah, all three of them. I think Luna and Jamie are still there with her, but Frankie already moved out."
"Oh, he didn't go back to his place?"
She shook her head. "No. He actually put his house on the market and found a spot out in Circle Ranch. The guys helped him move in last week."
Okay. Recalculating.
Recalculating…
"Oh. I… That's… nice. Circle Ranch?"
"Yeah," Emma smiled, glancing over at you with raised eyebrows. "I never pinned Frankie as the type to go for the whole white-picket-fence and a dog kind of vibe."
"Does he have a dog now?"
"No," she laughed. "But it’s that kind of neighborhood, you know?"
You smiled and turned your gaze back to the window.
"Maybe he got used to the Boston suburbs and wanted something similar," you suggested.
"Maybe."
Whatever the reason behind Frankie's move, you felt good about it. You knew his old house was a bit crowded with painful heavy memories that he probably didn't care to relive. You knew he was completely sick of his next door neighbor too, Clint, who always parked right in front of his driveway and blasted his music way too loud. Or the dog from across the street that constantly wandered into his front yard to do its business on the freshly cut grass.
You were genuinely happy for him.
"C'mon, baby, c'mon out."
As you unlatched the little door to Darcy’s crate, you watched his curious eyes take in the surroundings. His tiny nose twitched upward, his eyes narrowing as he sniffed, instantly recognizing his home.
A second later, he stepped out with confidence, raising his tail high in a friendly greeting.
If you had a tail, you’d be doing the exact same thing, because oh, how incredibly happy you were to be back.
You hadn’t realized just how much you’d missed this place until you walked through the front door. Your living room was completely bathed in sunlight, the half-drawn orange curtains cast a warm glow into every corner, and there was a wonderful scent in the air that you definitely had Emma to thank for; she had been looking after the place, keeping it perfectly neat and tidy.
You grabbed your suitcase and rolled it into your bedroom, where your bed was neatly made and the floors practically gleamed as the sunlight hit your feet.
Unzipping it, you began to gradually unpack your things. Emma walked in just a moment later, holding a mug of freshly brewed tea for you and one for herself in the other hand. She set yours down on the nightstand.
"So, what do you wanna do today?" she asked.
You looked up at her, gently biting your tongue without realizing it.
"Well, first things first, I need to go get my car."
"Want me to drive you?"
You scoffed playfully. "Obviously. Is Will home?"
"He gets back at one."
"Oh, okay. Wanna eat something?"
"Yeah," she said, plop down on the edge of the bed. "I’ll order something, and we can just crash on the couch and watch some TV like the good ol' days, baby."
You smiled, your eyes crinkling. "Yes, please. I have missed doing that with you so much."
Emma hummed. "My butt has missed sitting next to yours, too."
You laughed. "Friends? How does that sound?"
She pointed a finger at you. "Yes! And since we are officially in wedding mode, we have to watch season seven."
"Yes!" You raised your eyebrows. "We should watch Monica and Chandler’s wedding and then Phoebe and Mike's!"
"Yeah," she grinned, her eyebrows knitting together playfully. "And let's get ice cream too. Will can wait!"
A wide smile spread across your face, and your chest swelled with warmth.
You were finally home.
Sometimes, getting involved with your brother’s best friend can be the best decision you ever make in your life. You might end up living together in a beautiful house with two gorgeous babies, getting married in one of the highest rated television episodes of the era. You could be, as the kids say these days, couple goals. The total package. The sarcastic funny guy and the girl with a few control issues who (for somewhat obvious reasons) manage to blend and complement each other perfectly. It can be beautiful and lasting and solid.
And in other cases, it can be downright complicated. Because sometimes, getting involved with your brother’s best friend can be a beautiful dream, right up until you find yourself sitting in front of the TV, watching Chandler and Monica’s wedding, and all you want to do is cry.
But you swallow it down. You suppress it because next to you, Emma is shooting you subtle suspicious glances; she knows you far too well not to realize this might be stirring up things buried deep inside your chest. But more than that, you fight it back because you simply don’t want to feel it. Not deeply. Because you know that very soon, at any given moment, you are going to see him again. You don’t know when or where, but you know it’s going to happen. And so, inside your mind, there is a tiny stopwatch with blurred numbers rapidly counting down the time until your eyes meet his once more.
Even the best couples have weak moments.
"Honestly, Chandler’s panic kind of ruins the whole thing," Emma said, lounging next to you with her head resting on your shoulder. "I hate that he doubts it. It ruins everything."
On the screen, Chandler is caught completely off guard by a phone call that refers to him and Monica as Mr. and Mrs. Bing. He makes a whole show of panicking, wanting to run away.
"It’s normal to be scared sometimes," you said.
"I wouldn’t want my fiancé doubting things like that at our wedding. I mean, it would make me question absolutely everything. I hate that choice the writers made. I feel like it’s not Chandler at all."
"Really?" You smiled. "Not Chandler at all?"
"No, why? You don't think so? C'mon."
"No, no, it's just, I mean," you sat up a little straighter, "I get it, but throughout the entire show Chandler has always had insecurity and commitment issues—"
"But we watched all his progress, and it was a long clear arc."
"Yeah but it’s completely normal that even though he's progressed and everything, he still has weak moments from time to time. Especially when it comes to something as huge as a wedding," you laughed.
"Mmh. I dunno. I don't like it. Would you want Santi doubting marrying Yov right before they do it? Would you want your future husband doubting marrying you right before you walk down the aisle?"
"But Chandler didn't doubt marrying Monica; he just got scared, that’s all. He didn't want to run away because he wasn't sure about her; he just panicked about taking such a huge step and didn't know what to do. He watched his parents' relationship fall apart, then went through the whole divorce and everything else. He has a history of commitment issues and the underlying fear that marriage might ruin the good thing he already has with Monica."
"But he literally talked to her just days before about how happy he was to spend the rest of his life with her. It makes no sense."
"It does make sense, Em," you said, looking at her. "You can't completely erase decades of trauma overnight. I mean, he thought their relationship was over after their very first argument until she had to assure him that’s not how things work. The man had avoidant attachment!"
Emma sighed. "I'm still not buying it, sorry."
"I'm sorry, you're telling me you're not buying it? You? The exact same woman who panicked because her boyfriend wanted to spend more time with her and almost considered breaking up with him over it?"
"Will wanted us to move in together!"
"So? All you had to do was tell him no!"
"And I did tell him no," she said, looking at you with a grin. "And we talked it through. I didn't dump him! It's not the same thing."
"I know it's not the same thing, but still, commitment issues are commitment issues."
"Alright, sweetheart, alright."
"You were on the verge of buying a ticket to Yemen at any second."
Laughing, you gave her arm a playful nudge and turned your attention back to the TV.
Time ticked away, minute by minute, as the sunlight shifted across the floor and walls, brushing against every corner until, almost without realizing it, you rested your head against Emma's and closed your eyes.
"I always fall asleep when I'm with you," you teased, buckling your seatbelt in Emma’s passenger seat. "I dunno what it is about you."
"But you needed it, didn't you?"
She started the car engine just as you flashed a smile.
"Maybe."
When you had finally woken up earlier, your mouth was wide open, drooling a little, while Emma was right beside you snoring deeply and completely fast asleep. In your lap, Mr. Darcy had been curled up like a little ball.
It was nearly two in the afternoon by the time you both decided it was time to go get your car. According to Emma, Will would be at his place, and when you told her to let him know the two of you were headed over, she simply said,
"No need, I know he'll be there."
Her relationship updates hadn't changed much since the last time you asked about them two weeks ago. They were still getting along well, really well, and now she had finally admitted to herself that she was in love.
That was an incredibly huge step for Emma, so neither of you was making a big deal out of it. You knew she was secretly ecstatic inside, and probably a little terrified, but she was handling it well. And Will, for his part, was a pretty laid back guy who gave her all the time and space she needed to feel completely comfortable about it.
It was funny and kind of unfair that, despite knowing them for so many years, it had never once crossed your mind that they would make a good match.
Granted, Emma used to be married, but what about before that? She wasn't even seeing her ex when Will entered the picture seven years ago. In fact, they had crossed paths a handful of times, but neither of them had ever shown the slightest interest in the other; or at least, you hadn't noticed.
How could you have missed it? They were absolutely perfect for each other. Emma was somewhat restless, impatient, driven, and occasionally loud, while Will was steady, relaxed, incredibly patient, and had no problem getting loud himself if the occasion called for it.
You were rooting for them.
"Does Santi know you already here?" Emma asked now, steering through a turn.
"Texted him as soon as I got home. We're having dinner tonight with Mom."
Emma smiled. "I saw her yesterday. She looks great, doesn't she?"
You let out a soft laugh. "So great. She's thriving."
"I guess that's what happens after having an european summer."
"A mediterranean one, mind you."
"Is she gonna be at Yov’s party?"
You pursed your lips. "I dunno. I don't think so. She says she doesn’t feel right about it. Apparently she thinks she’d be a mood killer. Yov wants her there anyway."
"A mood killer? It's not like there're gonna be strippers or anything like that, right?"
You laughed. "No."
"Then what's the issue?"
"I dunno. I think she still feels a little awkward participating in all of this."
"She has to be there! I need her to give us the full breakdown on everything that happened in Europe. I'm sure there were some interesting adventures," she said, raising her eyebrows. "I always knew Nora was a cool girl."
"I'm sure Yov will press her about it tonight," you said, turning toward the window. "And if not, I can always force her."
Emma laughed and nodded, completely on board with it.
It wasn't going to be a wild over-the-top party; it was going to be a small gathering at a gorgeous restaurant downtown, followed by drinks at a bar where Yov's friends had booked a private table in the VIP section. It was going to be fun and intimate, nothing crazy or chaotic. Yov didn't feel comfortable with shirtless guys giving lap dances, and she had specifically asked to just spend the night having a good time with her friends and close family.
To her, there was no such thing as a "farewell to freedom" anyway. What was she saying goodbye to? Being single? Well, obviously. But she didn't see much point in looking at it that way, since having Santi in her life didn't actually restrict her from anything. And after marrying him, it wouldn't restrict her either.
There was this archaic idea that once a person gets married, they abandon their freedom entirely; the freedom to hang out with friends whenever they want, to have total independence, and to be able to do this, that, or the other. But Santi and Yov were not that kind of couple. Marriage didn't demand limitations for them, and it was entirely obvious to you that their dynamic would keep right on going exactly the same way. Both were free to do their own thing, go out with friends, or dedicate time to personal matters. The party was symbolic, more than anything.
I mean, sure, they were saying goodbye to being single, but was that really significant? You were positive those two had said goodbye to that years ago.
For Yov, it would be a quiet fun evening tomorrow night. And for Santi, it would be a cookout in the backyard with the guys and a few other friends, followed by a trip to the bar to get drunk and play pool. It was a pre-wedding celebration, plain and simple.
Will’s house appeared ahead of you sooner than expected, and you suddenly realized the drive had gone by surprisingly faster than you'd even noticed.
Everything had been moving at hyper speed since you landed in Austin. The drive home from the airport, the morning spent with Emma on the couch, and now, the twenty minutes from your place to Will’s had felt like barely ten.
It was funny how time flew when you were desperately trying to hold it back. Not for any particular reason, either.
Emma flung the car door open before you could even unbuckle, and the second her feet hit the pavement, she said,
"I can hear music coming from the backyard. Go on ahead, I need to grab a few things from the car."
"Need a hand?"
In the background, the faint sound of an Alice in Chains song drifted over.
"Nah, I’m good." She moved toward the trunk, waving you off.
"Alright."
You walked down the driveway toward the side of the house, where a wide pathway led to the big backyard, and spotted your car right away, tucked under its protective cover beneath the patio roof and parked behind two other cars.
On a table under a window, a portable stereo was blasting music. Layne’s raspy broken voice screamed out lyrics you couldn't quite catch; your attention was already drawn to the car right in front of you, where Will was lying on a mechanic's creeper, working underneath it.
He didn't hear you come in over the music, and his upper body was completely hidden under the chassis. His legs were slightly bent, and seizing the moment, you crept up and gave his foot a gentle kick.
Thump!
You grinned as his whole body jumped in a mini scare.
The creeper shifted; he grabbed the tire with one hand to pull himself forward, the tiny wheels spinning on the concrete.
And just like that, nine months and twelve days later, your eyes locked once again with Francisco Morales'.
You physically felt your smile drop, as if your cheeks had suddenly turned too heavy, and you took a step back while trying, and failing, to tear your eyes away from him.
Frankie scrambled to a sit on the creeper like a startled kid, and braced his palms on the ground behind him. A stray lock of hair fell across his forehead, the rest of it a bit messy, and a pair of thick black rimmed glasses sat on the bridge of his nose. They weren't enough to hide the scars on his face.
With a quick push, he stood up.
"I'm sorry," you blurted out, suddenly breathless. "I'm so sorry, I thought you were Will."
He gave a quick nod, wiping his hands on his pants, but didn't say a word.
As your heart threatened to burst right through your ribs and your throat went completely dry, you felt a desperate, intense, aching urge to just... hug him. And at the exact same time, to tell him: you have no idea how much I have to tell you.
Instead, you just stared.
Frankie looked exactly as you remembered, yet at the same time, entirely different. His hair was slightly shorter on the sides, with the top left long and a little unruly. He was wearing a white short-sleeve t-shirt, stained here and there, and black cargo pants.
Looking at him like that, he seemed pretty much the same as the last time you'd seen him. But you could spot the difference in everything else; he seemed taller for some reason, and though his shoulders and arms had always been strong, they looked more toned now. His beard was short, neat and soft, his mustache trimmed. The scars were visible, fully healed now but prominent, leaving a clear trace of his accident, and behind his glasses, his big brown eyes looked tired.
You could have sworn you stared at him for minutes, but it was only a few short seconds.
"I," you crossed your arms, "I just came to pick up my car. If that's okay. Is—is Will around?"
It took Frankie a second to process.
"Uh, Will?"
You offered a faint smile. "Yeah."
"Yeah, right. Yeah," he reached up, rubbing the back of his neck. "I mean, no. He stepped out a moment ago. But he should be right back."
"Oh. Okay."
Behind you, the familiar scuff of Emma's footsteps drew closer until she suddenly froze.
You turned around, trying to pack an entire conversation into a single look, hoping she would decode it.
Just as you expected, your friend was dead in her tracks, holding two boxes in her arms and staring at Frankie like she’d just seen a ghost.
She glanced at you a second later, then right back at him.
"Frankie," she said, flashing a casual but not quite casual smile. "I didn't... I didn't know you were here."
Frankie huffed a soft laugh and gave a half smile. "Will'll be back in a minute."
Emma nodded. "Where'd he go?"
"No idea," he shrugged, turning back toward the car. "But he left a while ago, so he should be back any second."
"Oh, alright."
The second you glanced her way, Emma’s eyebrows shot straight up as she mouthed: I’m so sorry.
You gave a casual shrug that completely masked the panic clawing at your insides, letting out a soft sigh as your eyes drifted across the yard. Toward the back, for instance, where a disassembled bike sat abandoned mid-repair.
"I can move this car out of the way so you can get yours out, if you want?" Frankie asked. He was talking to you; it took you a beat to realize it.
You nodded. "Sure. Thanks."
He gave a quick nod and turned toward the car blocking yours. Will’s car. He reached inside the driver’s side to grab something, then slid into the seat, shut the door, and got the engine running on the second try.
"Here, let me help," you said, turning around and grabbing one of the boxes from Emma, desperate for any kind of distraction.
"Oh my God, I am so sorry," she whispered, pushing open the back door to the house. There was no real need to whisper since the roaring engine drowned out anything you two said, but she kept her voice down anyway until you were both safely inside. "I had no idea he'd be here. I mean, I know he hangs out here a lot, but I didn't know he'd be here today of all days."
"It's fine."
"No, I’m so sorry," she insisted, setting her box down on the kitchen counter. "I should have called first."
"No, Em, really," you said, dropping your box next to her. "It's fine. It's totally fine. You know what?" You turned to look at her. "Maybe it’s better this way, right? Unplanned and unexpected." You made a swift ripping motion with your hand. "Like ripping off a band aid. I’ve seen him, he’s seen me, how awkward can it really get? It wasn't even that bad!"
She smiled. "It wasn't?"
"Nope."
"Okay, that's good." She pursed her lips. "So... how are you feeling?"
"Nope. Nope," you said, shaking your head. "Too soon, honey. Not there yet."
Emma let out a soft laugh and pulled you into a tight hug. You took the moment to close your eyes, letting the tension in your chest unravel just a bit.
And outside, after a brief moment, the rumbling engine cut out as a clear sign that your safe haven inside the four walls of Will’s kitchen was officially up. You had to go back out there.
Emma let go of you, clearing her throat before turning toward the door and taking the lead. You gave it a single second before following her out.
The moment you stepped into the yard, your eyes instantly searched for him. Frankie was carefully peeling the protective cover off your car, and your gaze lingered on the back of his neck; on the soft messy strands of hair there, on the soft skin briefly blushed…
A sudden warmth bloomed in your chest.
"I'll get your keys," he called out, disappearing into the house so fast that this time, he was the one who seemed to be running away.
Letting out a sigh, you crossed your arms and walked over to the car Frankie had been working on when you arrived. It was old, you noticed, but not quite as old as yours. This one looked more like a nineties model; glossy black with a leather interior and smooth sleek lines. On the hood, the Mercedes Benz logo caught the light.
"You got yourself a real gem here."
Frankie’s voice made you snap upright. He was standing right behind you, dangling your keys from his fingers.
Emma was still keeping quiet.
"Thanks," you said, offering a small smile.
Frankie extended his hand toward you. Your keys were looped around his index finger; you slid them off, careful not to brush against him.
"I don't actually know much about cars," you added, mostly because the silence felt a little too heavy. "Will helped me with it."
"Yeah, he told me. He and I bought this one together, from the same seller," he said, gesturing toward the Mercedes.
"It's really nice."
"Yeah, though it still needs a bit of work. We’re fixing it up to... you know, sell it or something."
"I like it," you said, nodding. "My dad used to drive something like this when I was little."
His eyebrows shot up, and he replied almost too fast, "He did?"
"Yeah."
"Yeah—uh. It's a great car."
You nervously fiddled with the keys in your hands, dropping your gaze down to his shoes; a pair of black high top Vans.
Beside you, Emma let out a quiet amused sigh.
"I think I should get going," you blurted out, looking over at her only to catch a strange look on her face.
Oh, she was absolutely loving this.
"Yeah, sure," Frankie nodded, stepping aside as if he felt he was blocking your way.
"Can you tell Will I'll drop by later?" Emma asked him.
"Sure."
"Alright."
"Em, you can stay if you want," you told her.
"No, no. I said I'd help you unpack and set things up at your place, didn't I? Let's go," she said, waving you toward the driveway.
Unpacking at your place was a total lie. You were already fully unpacked and the apartment was spotless; she just wanted to be there for you.
"See ya," Emma added, giving Frankie's shoulder a friendly pat before turning around and heading toward the front of the house.
Once she was out of sight, you turned back to him.
"Tell Will I say hi."
He smiled. "I will."
"Thanks," you said, starting to turn toward your car. But you froze and looked back at him one last time.
He stood completely, utterly still.
You had no idea what to say, or why you’d even turned back around in the first place. But the moment you looked at his face and caught that flicker of nervousness in his eyes, you knew he was feeling it too.
"I like your glasses."
Frankie’s lips parted slightly, and a very soft sweet smile crept onto his face.
"Thank you," he replied.
Smiling back and holding in a sigh, you didn't say another word. You turned around, got into your car, and drove away, feeling his eyes on you the entire time.
You wished it had been different. You wished your inevitable reunion with him had happened in a controlled environment, surrounded by crowds of people; like Friday's rehearsal dinner or some pre-weekend get together. But as life had already proven to you time and again, you rarely get what you want exactly how you want it.
Forget everything we said a moment ago. All that talk about how time had been moving at a frantic pace since you stepped off the plane, remember? The walk from the airport to your house, your nice nap with Em, the drive from your door to Will’s… Forget it all. Because suddenly, the world seems to have ground to a near halt.
It's moving, and It's moving fast.
You’re driving, and the blocks around you pass at a crawl. No, how silly; you’re the one moving, not the blocks. You drift down the street while Emma sits beside you in silence, and you know it’s not an illusion because the cars passing you vanish ahead in seconds. And also because, after a few minutes, Emma rested her hand on your shoulder and asked,
"You okay?"
You nodded without a word. Well, maybe a soft "hmm" echoed somewhere in your chest.
"I'm sorry," she said, sounding far too guilty. "I know I already told you but I had no idea he was gonna be there."
You nodded again. "He looks so different."
"Yeah."
"Francisco," you glanced at her for a second, "he looks different, doesn't he? Or is it just because I haven't seen him in so long?"
Emma nodded. "No, I think he does look a bit different."
"I mean, I'm not saying he looks bad, he looks…" You tightened your grip on the steering wheel a little with your thumbs. "Different, healthier. Which is so freaking ironic because his face is covered in scars."
"Right."
"Oh God…"
"Hey," Emma squeezed your shoulder, "it's okay."
"He looks so good," you groaned.
Emma laughed. "It's okay."
You turned to look at her, frowning. "Does he wear glasses now?"
"He does."
"It's like he's doing it on purpose just to mess with me!"
"Look what Grian got for me." When Will walked into the yard, he was holding a six pack of beer and a large sealed plastic bag. "Original seat covers, baby, pure leather," he said, stepping closer to drop them onto the table next to the player.
Frankie was sitting in a chair with his elbows on his knees, and his eyes were fixed on the grass just past the concrete, contemplating his entire existence.
"Hey," Will called out.
Frankie looked up at him.
"Covers and beer," Will said, holding up the six pack.
"That's great. How much for the covers?"
Will frowned, glancing around the yard. The music was off, the creeper wasn't under the Mercedes, and most importantly, your car was gone.
"What happened?" he asked.
"She came to get her car." Frankie pushed himself up from the chair in one quick motion, rubbing the back of his neck. "Her and Emma, who said she’d be by later, by the way."
Will’s eyebrows shot up. "Oh, shit, man. You alright? How that go?"
"Nothing. She just… she just came and went."
"Y'all talk?"
"A little."
"And? What'd y'all talk about?"
"Nothing, really. Just… just her car, and this and that, and nothing else." He swallowed, looking over at the half-repaired Mercedes. "I'm such a fool. I couldn't even act normal."
Will laughed. "What are you talking about? What do you mean?"
"Oh, man," Frankie groaned as he sat back down again, burying his face in both hands and rubbing his eyes. "She looks so beautiful. I felt like I could barely breath."
"Alright," Will crossed his arms, "let it out."
"I mean, look at me," Frankie suddenly pulled his hands away from his face and gestured to his clothes. "I'm a total mess."
"Well, you know, they say girls like that. All covered in grease from work, that whole hot mechanic thing..."
Frankie frowned. "Oh God."
"And with the glasses on and everything, huh?" Will chuckled. "I bet she dug 'em."
Frankie felt his face burn with embarrassment, wishing the ground would just open up and swallow him whole right then and there. He felt like a self-conscious teenager, or at least, his body was reacting like one.
A long time. He’d spent so much time thinking about the next time he’d see you. Late at night when everything was quiet, in the middle of work, while washing dishes or doing laundry. He used to wonder how dramatic it would be, if it would be incredibly awkward or not at all, or if you’d just avoid him altogether. And none of it had been the way he expected.
He knew you hadn't expected to see him either. He'd caught it on your face the second he saw you—as beautiful and sweet as he remembered, but completely caught off guard all the same.
He’d been dying inside with every passing second. The moment you drove away, he felt this overwhelming urge to run right after you; to hold you tight in his arms and cover your face with kisses, to tell you how terribly he’d missed you and that loving you this much was unbearable.
But how completely out of line would that have been, right? When you looked so good, so refreshed, so perfectly fine. Frankie knew he no longer had a place in your life for that kind of confession.
He’d have to be strong. Stronger than he’d ever thought. Because the wedding was drawing close and these weren't gonna be easy days. Between the final preparations, the bachelor parties, the rehearsal dinner, and the ceremony itself, he’d have to find a way to keep his feelings in check and not let a single bit show, since you’d be seeing each other practically around the clock.
He couldn't even let his eyes betray him, because he knew all it took was having you nearby for him to look at you like a fool. Guess that's just what longing does to you.
And Santi knew all about that. He and Yov had talked to Frankie a few days back when the three of them stopped to rest during a long Sunday bike ride. They’d asked how he was doing, how he was prepping for the wedding, and if he was truly alright with all of it; all of this out on the trail, while their calves throbbed and their chests heaved. But the way their voices sounded reminded him of those times the guys used to try and casually check up on his health years ago, trying not to sound too nosy or overly worried.
"You don't need to worry, everything's fine," he’d told them, a bit winded. His neck was flushed and he could feel a bead of sweat dripping down his temple. He wiped it away with the back of his hand and let out a chuckle. "What do you think is gonna happen?"
Santi scratched his chin, pulling a face. "I know, I know it'll be fine. It’s just, y'know, it can get awkward and all, and we wouldn't want either of you having a rough time."
"We'll be fine," Frankie nodded. "Don't worry. We spent years getting along terribly and managing to co-exist or something like it, and nothing happened—"
"No, no," Yov interrupted, shaking his head and holding up a finger, "that wasn't co-existing."
Frankie rolled his eyes, hiding a bitter smile. "Everything's fine on my end. I’ll be respectful, polite, and anything that comes up can wait until after the wedding. You can count on that."
He didn't even know what he meant by that. "Anything that comes up" could mean absolutely anything; an argument, a casual conversation, anything requiring an ounce of extra attention that might pull the focus away from what really mattered.
Anyway, he’d promised himself to keep his distance and not let a single thing throw off the balance this week needed to have…
Until he saw you again, and a flood of emotions washed over him, soaking him to the bone. And right then, Frankie realized that for the past few months, he’d only allowed himself to feel about twenty percent of what he truly felt for you.
He’d convinced himself that he was okay with all of this; that his feelings, while still strong and very much there, weren't so intense anymore that they'd steal his breath away.
What a fucking lie. He loved you just as intensely as before, maybe even more; or maybe it was just the effect of seeing you after all this time.
You were surprised to see him; he’d noticed that. You hadn't expected it at all, and it definitely wasn't what you wanted. But as he looked at you, pretending to be completely unfazed, he felt this overwhelming urge to share every single piece of his life with you.
He wanted to tell you about his new house, about the big windows and how beautifully the light flooded the living room. About the shelves he’d filled with his vinyl records, and the space that was still left to fill.
Oh, and Mr. Bingley was absolutely out of his mind, completely in love with the new yard. Frankie would let him out for a bit, keeping a close eye on him so the cat wouldn't wander off anywhere. He’d discovered the little guy was actually a total scaredy-cat, which would make Frankie anxious enough to bring him right back inside. He wasn't quite sure how to handle it yet; the neighborhood was quiet and not dangerous at all, but letting the cat roam free in the yard still made him nervous. Who knew, maybe he’d hop the fence and end up in the street, or some dog might give him a scare. He wasn't about to take that chance.
He’d wanted to tell you about his new job, too. Frankie was back to training pilots, but no longer at his old academy. His former boss had done him a big favor by recommending him to the owner of a different academy (one that trained specialized pilots) and Frankie was finding it a whole lot more engaging and enjoyable.
Now he wasn't training arrogant rich guys who had too much money and free time on their hands, treating flying like some "easy" hobby with zero responsibilities (not that it was always the case, but... most of the time). Instead, he was training people who genuinely saw flying as a calling.
They were all young, eager to learn, and had a real respect for the profession. Frankie truly enjoyed teaching and had a great time with them; plus, the pay was damn good. It was exactly what he needed right now after draining a huge chunk of his savings. His house was about to sell, he’d already sold his car, and you could say he was pretty close to having everything sorted out.
He was doing alright.
He’d wanted to tell you all of that. For a brief minute, every single piece of news in his life flooded his mind and he wanted to share it with you, but a second later he reminded himself that it wasn't his place anymore.
It made no sense how completely his chest melted whenever he thought about you now.
"What are you gonna do now?" Will asked then, leaning his hip against the table and tilting his head.
Frankie sighed, pulling his hands away from his face.
"What else? Nothing. Act normal, I guess. Like an adult."
"Nothing?"
"Nothing," he got up from his chair and walked over to the Mercedes, opening the driver's side door. "I'm not gonna bother her."
"Ah, I see. The old go-crazy-and-suffer-all-by-your-lonesome routine."
Frankie laughed softly, shaking his head. "I deserve it."
Wednesday, October 9th
You really don't care about Francisco. He barely crosses your mind.
He wasn't on your mind when you woke up this morning, nor when you showered and got ready to open the bookstore. You weren't thinking of him when you brushed blush onto your cheeks, or when you coated your lips in raspberry gloss. And you certainly weren't thinking of him every single time the chimes above the door jingled and you glanced up, checking to see who walked in.
No, you aren't thinking about him at all.
Your morning flew by, peaceful and smooth. It had been a while since you’d spent time at the bookstore, and settling back behind the counter felt incredibly good.
You had missed all of this: helping customers find the exact books they were looking for, listening to their vague, quirky descriptions and the titles they always got completely wrong. You missed the scent of old pages, and the aroma of coffee that drifted through the door every time it opened because at this hour, every café on the block was open and the entire sidewalk smelled of espresso.
It was a quiet, nice morning. A few people dropped in; many left with books, others just browsed for stretches of time, and some simply asked a question before heading out.
In the quiet lulls, you read through the notes Donovan had sent this morning. There were far more than you anticipated, all anchored to comments lining the margins of the document.
In one of them, you read:
His age isn’t clear. He could be anywhere between forty and sixty years old. If I didn't know better, I’d assume he is a man nearing sixty. Keep in mind that the reader doesn’t know what you know, and you cannot gloss over that in the main descriptions. You can weave it into the dialogue or the internal monologue. Your choice. But don't make it obvious.
It wouldn't be so jarring if Donovan didn’t highlight the paragraphs in an intense, vibrant red. Sometimes he used yellow, other times a soft, light blue. If there was an actual system to his color-coding, you had no idea what it was.
At ten o'clock sharp, the chimes above the door rang out once more. Instantly, your eyes snapped toward the entrance, your mind flashing for a fraction of a second with the thought that it might be… him.
But it was Bill who stepped through the door.
Tall and handsome as ever, he wore a crisp smile and his bright prominent green eyes were shining as usual.
The moment you saw him, your eyes widened with joy.
You slipped off your stool to greet him as he walked in, carrying two large brown paper bags and a warm grin.
"Coffee and a slice of cake for my favorite writer!"
Bill set the bags down on the counter and welcomed you with open arms; he smelled of fresh brew and cologne. Your cheek pressed against his warm chest as he held you close for a brief moment.
"You haven't even read anything of mine," you laughed.
His hand brushed up your back. "I don't have to to know it'll be incredible."
"You really have faith in me."
Bill pulled back slightly. "We all do. Julie was thrilled when she found out. She says now she’ll have someone interesting to interview for her school project."
You huffed a laugh and walked back around to the other side of the counter. A customer stepped through the door right at that moment. Good morning, he said. Good morning, you replied. He was an elderly man holding a cane, and he headed straight toward the Hispano-American literature section.
"What are your plans for today?" Bill asked, leaning against the counter. "If you're free, Julie and I would love to have you over for dinner."
"I’d love to," you smiled, "but tonight is Yov’s bachelorette party. And Santi’s bachelorette party, too."
He grinned. "Oh yeah? What d'you have planned?"
"We're grabbing drinks at a bar nearby," you tilted your head. "Yov’s girlfriends made a reservation for dinner too, so, we'll see what happens."
"And Santi?"
"Oh, I dunno. I know they're going out for drinks too, but knowing them, they’ll probably do something else too."
A chuckle caught in his chest. "Will they have to go rescue him from a hotel rooftop in the morning like The Hangover?"
"Mmm," you narrowed your eyes playfully, "I think it'll be more like Into the Wild."
"Campfires and all that, huh."
"Exactly," you nodded. "Knowing them, they'll have a few drinks and then go have fun somewhere out there. Nothing too crazy. Plus, the rest of Yov's family arrives tomorrow so he gotta be fresh."
"Got it," Bill nodded. "And how... how has Austin treated you so far?"
"Austin?"
He tilted his head, a smirk forming on his lips that made you suspect his question had several layers.
"Austin is fine," you answered, lifting your chin. "I barely got here yesterday and my eye is already twitching, how about that?"
It was a joke. Your eyes were not twitching at all. Spiritually, maybe.
Bill laughed and reached out with his left hand, grabbing the side of the brown paper bag he had set down moments ago.
"Better not drink this coffee then. It has two shots."
You burst out laughing and snatched the bag from his hands. "Don't you dare!"
You needed that coffee, and you also needed the slice of cake he had so carefully tucked inside the plastic container. But above all, you needed him to stay right there with you and give you his opinion on a few things.
You pulled the coffee cup out and set it on the counter for a moment.
Bill laughed softly, his eyes dropping to your hand, and that’s when you asked:
"You free this Saturday?"
Later
If New York had taught you anything, it was how to dress and do your makeup.
No. Not New York. Alex.
Alex, like so many other wealthy, fashion forward New Yorkers, was a woman who understood style deeply and knew exactly how to tailor it to different people. That was why she had spent a massive chunk of your stay dragging you from one boutique to another, letting you freely indulge in every single one of her perks at beauty salons across the Upper East Side.
She had been incredibly generous. And while you initially thought it was a favor to you, you soon realized it was actually a treat for her. Letting Alex guide and advise your style was exactly what she craved and thoroughly enjoyed, and even Emma had gotten a little taste of her styling expertise when she came to visit a few weeks back.
You weren’t normally one to blow money on clothes and makeup. Truthfully, you liked the things you already owned, they lasted a long time, and you rarely found anything you loved enough to desperately want to buy. But in New York, your credit card began seeing action it had never seen before. And honestly? You liked it.
Now, your closet in Austin was packed with new dresses, skirts, blouses, and a few pairs of boots and shoes. You had flown back with two massive suitcases stuffed to the brim, packed right alongside the heavy uncertainty of whether you were even going to stay here. When in doubt, bring it all.
Right now, Emma stood in front of your bedroom mirror, half dressed. She was in her bra, a dress pulled up only from the waist down, fussing with her underwear beneath the fabric to make sure there were no visible lines.
Even though she was wearing seamless panties, she was convinced that the glare of the light caught the faint outline of the edges.
"I’m telling you, it doesn’t show," you said from the bed.
You had finished getting ready ages ago and were now lounging with Mr. Darcy resting on your stomach. You wore a form-fitting black skirt paired with a black blouse featuring soft, sheer bell sleeves. The neckline was high, grazing your collarbones, and the entire front was dusted with tiny sparkles that subtly caught the light whenever you moved. Your legs were covered in semi-opaque black tights, finished off with boots that hit just three fingers below the knee.
"You sure? What about like this?" Emma turned to the side, arching her back to check her reflection.
"It’s a thong," you said, lifting a hand. "And it’s completely seamless. For heaven's sake, Em, nothing is showing."
"Alright, alright," she dismissed with a wave of her hand. "You better be right. What time is your mom picking us up?"
"Seven o'clock."
"And what time is it now?"
You picked up your phone from where it lay beside you on the bed and glanced at the screen.
"Quarter to seven."
She let out a sigh of relief, then finally pulled the dress up over her waist and shoulders, slipping her arms through the sleeves and tugging the zipper up along her ribs.
She looked at her reflection and pursed her lips. You smiled.
Emma looked radiant. Not just beautiful, not just happy; radiant. Everything about her carried a glow that reminded you of the old Emma, the one from before the divorce, before everything had gone down.
She had always been a strong woman, and she had always faced life's hurdles as one. Even as she went through the divorce, you had never once seen her hang her head or crumble the way so many others would have. But she had suffered through bad days and rough patches, and during those times, a very specific light inside her had gone dark.
Between the two of you, Emma had always been the one who had life figured out, or at least the one who always knew how to stay on track.
Since you were little, she knew exactly what she wanted to do and how to achieve it; she graduated early, started working immediately, and married Luca shortly after meeting him. Everything in her life had always been neat and effortless, unfolding exactly how you’d expect the life of a model adult to go.
After the divorce, she barely faltered. That was the thing about Emma; some things just never seemed to shake her. Good or bad, she didn't let much get under her skin. Her peace was sacred.
Until Will came along.
At first, you couldn't quite put your finger on it, this thing that made her nervous in a way you had never seen before. When you were in New York and she would call to give you updates, the anxious flutter in her voice was entirely new. You were absolutely certain she hadn't been that jittery even during the week leading up to her wedding.
There was something about all of this that, for the first time in her entire life, was throwing her off balance. And it only took you a moment to realize why: she was truly in love.
Not in love the way she had been with Luca, or with any other ex… no. Truly, deeply in love. The kind of love that makes you feel like a teenager all over again, the kind that keeps him in your thoughts day and night, making you ache for him while simultaneously filling you with absolute peace.
You knew the feeling all too well. Looking at her right now, you recognized it instantly, because not too long ago, you had been in the exact same place. Head over heels.
Emma was in love.
"You look beautiful."
Hearing your voice, Emma caught your eye in the mirror and smiled.
"Thank you. You look beautiful too," she replied, turning around to face you directly.
You offered a warm smile in return, spreading your fingers across Mr. Darcy’s back. You gave his fur a gentle squeeze, and he immediately began to purr.
"So…" Emma walked over to the bed and drifted down beside you, propping herself up on her elbow. A wave of her perfume reached you instantly. "How's everything?"
You smiled. "How's everything? Everything's good."
"Ah…" She reached out and stroked Darcy, who promptly closed his eyes.
"What about you? How's everything with you?"
"Good." Emma sighed. "You talked to him?"
Your hand went still on Darcy’s back. "With whom?"
"Y'know. Francisco. Frankie. Have you talked to him?"
Your lips parted for a split second, your brows knitting together.
"No. Why?"
"Just asking," she said, pursing her lips. "After what happened yesterday, I dunno, I just thought maybe you guys had talked."
"Oh, no. No… you know how it is. If we’d talked, I would’ve told you by now, don't you think?"
Emma huffed a laugh. "True. You better."
"And what happened yesterday? Was he there when you went over to Will’s later?"
"Yeah, but only for a little bit," she said, her hand running over Darcy’s fur almost absentmindedly. "And he didn't say much."
"Hmm."
"It doesn't…" Emma locked her eyes onto yours. "It doesn't bother you that I hang out with him, right? Because if it does, I can totally—"
"Em, no," you interrupted, shaking your head.
"No, I’m serious. I know it can be weird for your best friend to spend time with your ex."
"It’s weird if you phrase it like that," you laughed. "But you aren't hanging out with Frankie. It’s just that he happens to be your boyfriend's best friend. It’s not your fault."
"It really doesn't bother you?"
You raised your eyebrows. "No, it really doesn't."
"I swear, the first few weeks I gave him the absolute cold shoulder."
You laughed. "Really?"
"Yes, I swear! And he barely even came near me because he knew what I was gonna say to him."
"What were you gonna say?"
"That he’s a fool and an idiot, what else?" She laughed. "Though I think he already knew it, because he always watched his step around me."
"Mhm. You two seem to get along well enough now, though, right?"
At your question, Emma’s smile faltered.
You knew she spent time around Frankie now. Here and there, they would cross paths at gatherings or over at Will’s place. She didn't tell you much, but it was always implicit. Every time Emma mentioned she was at a certain place, you already knew Frankie would likely be there too.
"Not really," she replied.
You smiled. "Em."
"What? I’m serious."
"You don't have to hide it from me. I know Francisco can be nice. And I wouldn't expect you to treat him badly just for my sake. That would make things uncomfortable for everyone."
"I don't treat him badly," she said, lifting a hand, "but we aren't friends either, okay? We just… we talk like normal people."
"Sure."
"Ugh," she groaned, tossing herself backward and covering her eyes with both hands. "I’m a terrible friend."
"That’s not true!"
"Of course it is! I have fraternized with the enemy!"
"Alright, stop it," you said, propping yourself up on your elbow. "Can we please drop this?"
"No!"
"We’re adults," you laughed, pulling Emma’s hand away from her face. "And Francisco isn't the enemy, he’s just my ex boyfriend. I have to coexist with him tomorrow, Em, please. Can we just act like this is normal?"
Emma sighed, narrowing her eyes. "Fine. But let’s be clear: I am gonna act like this is totally normal, but on the inside, I'm gonna enjoy every single second of watching you with Bill there—"
"Oh no, that’s not—"
"And when Frankie sees you with Bill?"
You threw your head back. "Bill is just my friend!"
"Your 'friend' whom you invited to your brother's wedding, where your ex, who was always a little jealous of him, happens to be the best man!"
A loud laugh burst from your throat as your face flushed bright red. "It’s not like that!"
"Yes it is! You smart bitch!"
Emma’s hands dug playfully into your stomach, and the tickling shocked another loud laugh out of you. Poor Mr. Darcy; the little cat bolted off the bed at the sudden noisy outburst.
On the inside, you swore to yourself: it really wasn't like that.
Fortunately for you, five minutes later, the horn of your mom’s rental car honked outside your apartment, and Emma immediately bounded off the bed to throw on her heels, utterly unable to tease you any longer.
Hours later, at night.
Sitting at the long table surrounded by Yov’s friends, you felt at ease.
The restaurant was located right in the heart of downtown, and thanks to Cinthia, the maid of honor, they had managed to book a private table out on the terrace.
Beside Yov sat Emma, who had become really close to her over the last few months. The bond between them had blossomed naturally, fueled by all the time they spent together because of the guys. Watching them laugh together, it was hard to believe they hadn't known each other a lifetime.
"And then," one of Yov’s college friends said, gesturing animatedly with her fork, "she completely forgot where she parked the car and we spent two hours walking to our apartment, drunk as hell. And as soon as we got home, guess what? Her car was parked right there!"
The table erupted into laughter, and Yov buried her face in her hands just as her cheeks flushed pink.
Emma leaned in, nudging her playfully.
"To be fair, that happened to us, too," Emma chimed in with a grin, throwing a knowing look your way. "Remember that? My dad was so mad."
"Oh, yeah," you raised your eyebrows, "but we walked all the way home having forgotten your car was parked right outside the club."
Your mom gasped; "What? When was that, and why am I just finding out now?"
You turned to look at her, sitting to your left.
"It was a lifetime ago!" you replied.
She smiled and shook her head. It made you happy to see her here, laughing, enjoying herself, and sharing this moment with all of you, because the truth was, it had been a very long time since that had happened.
Following your father’s death, your mom’s retreat had been almost absolute. She had rarely returned to the city, and she had never stepped foot in the family home again; a house that didn't even belong to you anymore.
Your relationship with her had fractured deeply because of that, leaving Santi as the one who stayed closest to her. It meant years of brief interactions, arguments over the phone, and her constant attempts to reach out to you, which you always pushed away.
Back then, you were younger. You were grieving one of the people you loved most, and you needed her. But she wasn't there, and for the longest time, you resented her for it.
If you were a mother, you would never do that; leaving the city because you were heartbroken over the loss of the love of your life was understandable, but distancing yourself from your two children was not.
And it wasn't that she had completely vanished, either. No, she had always tried to stay in touch with daily calls, constant texts, and video chats every single night. Until you finally said no more, and began to freeze out any kind of contact.
That lasted for two years. Two years where you cut yourself off from her entirely, reducing your only connection to calls once every few weeks and updates passed down through Santi.
It hadn't been easy at first, but she was entirely honest with you. All of this was difficult for her, and it had been incredibly hard years ago as well. But living together in New York after her trip had been surprisingly fun, and something you had missed desperately.
The two of you spent your days walking, exploring, taking in the city, and spending your nights watching movies, shows, and reading together in the living room.
You reconnected, and it felt so good. You had missed your mom so much, and being with her now felt completely right.
Amid the chatter and jokes, two hours flew by as you finished dinner and dessert. Yov was ecstatic; her friends were all gathered in the same room for the first time in years, and on top of that, her mom and yours were having a wonderful time together.
The atmosphere was incredibly warm and the excitement for the wedding grew with every passing minute; you were starting to feel the rush of emotion building up inside you, too.
You couldn't believe it. This was actually happening. Santi was getting married, and not only that, but his future wife was someone you absolutely loved.
Watching her now, as she laughed with your mom and lifted her glass to her lips, you felt a wave of genuine happiness.
What a beautiful family you had. And what a beautiful family they would have in a couple of years. You could picture it perfectly; just like this, but a little different. With a couple of kids, maybe. Santi wanted two; Yov wanted at least two. And you couldn't wait to have nieces and nephews running around everywhere.
She was an incredible woman, and your brother was lucky to have her. And on the flip side, Santi was a wonderful man, too. You were certain he would make an amazing husband and father, and you couldn't wait to see him step into that new chapter of his life.
"What are you thinking about?"
Emma’s soft voice pulled you from your thoughts. Turning toward her, you met her bright eyes framed by long curling lashes. She gently touched your elbow.
"Nothing," you answered, a gentle smile tracing your lips. "I can't believe they're actually getting married. Time moves so fast. Santi is fully a grown man now."
Emma smiled. "He has been for a while, huh."
He had been for a long time. But you had barely noticed the passage of time, preoccupied with growing up right alongside him.
Everything had just moved so quickly. Only a few years ago, the two of you were inseparable, going everywhere together; you glued to his side like velcro, and him completely fine with bringing you along. It had always been you and him, him and you.
Every time he hung out with his friends, he brought you with him. Everywhere you went with Emma, there he was, simply because he was too curious and liked your company.
Spending these past months in New York had been a completely new experience for you, as you had never gone that long without seeing Santi. It had felt strange not having him around or seeing him for such a stretch, and it made you realize just how accustomed you were to his presence.
You didn't know if all siblings were like that. Probably not. But you and Santi definitely were.
"Your mom is having a great time," Emma whispered, leaning close to your ear.
You smiled instantly. "I know. I wish Dad were here to see it."
Emma squeezed your arm with hers. "I'm sure he is."
"You think so?" you asked, looking at her sideways with a small smile.
"Of course I do. I bet he’s even having a glass of wine somewhere right now."
That made you laugh. You could picture it perfectly: your dad tilting his elbow back to finish his glass of wine, just like he always did whenever he was celebrating and happy.
Somewhere out there, he was watching over you all. You liked to believe that.
"Another round, my treat! Our boy's getting hitched!"
A microsecond after Benny finished speaking, the entire bar roared in celebration, raising their glasses and hands.
Fuckin' opportunistic bastards, Santi thought amused. Everyone here wasn’t just happy for him; they were just thrilled to drink on someone else's dime. Julius, CJ, Baz, Carlos, and even Don had already crowded around, slapping him on the back in congratulation.
Santi laughed, ducking his head a bit, suddenly feeling a wave of self-consciousness from all the attention.
"C'mon Fish, live a little," Will said, stretching his arm across the table to thrust a beer bottle toward Frankie, who was sitting at the far corner.
Santi watched him shake his head.
"Ts, I dunno," Fish replied.
"Not even a single drop?" Ben asked, sounding genuinely offended. "C'mon, celebrate with us. The state of Texas allows a zero-point-zero-eight blood alcohol level, which is..." He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, doing the math. "... a drink, a beer!"
Frankie crossed his arms and leaned his head back. "Under what exact circumstances were you researching that?"
Ben scoffed. "You don’t wanna know. But let’s get one thing straight," he added, planting his hand firmly on the table. "I am a responsible driver!"
"Fish," Santi called out, raising his own beer. "We’ll call an Uber. Now celebrate with your friend who's about to tie the knot."
Frankie’s smile turned lopsided, and in that brief moment, Santi noticed how the scar on his cheek stood out just a bit more.
"You guys are a terrible influence. Haven’t you noticed I’m a clean guy now?"
"Oh, c'mon," Will laughed, throwing his head back.
"No, no, it's true," Santi chimed in, nodding. "He really is."
Will raised his eyebrows. "I know he is. What is it, up to one or two cans of beer a day, max?"
"Only if I have to drink. Otherwise, nothin'," Fish said, squaring his shoulders with a hint of pride.
Santi smiled, feeling a pang of pride himself. "I’m proud of you. We all are."
"To Fish!" Benny raised his beer.
Will smiled and imitated his brother. "To Fish."
Frankie scoffed, suddenly shy, and hid his eyes under his glasses.
A second later, Will took a long swig of his beer before slamming the bottle back down on the table.
"Alright, enough with the sappy stuff, you're gonna give me diabetes. If Fish is staying sober, it just means more booze for the rest of us. Call that round already!"
Frankie laughed and looked over at Santi, who held his gaze for a couple of seconds, his eyebrows rising bit by bit.
"Uh?" Santi smirked. "Just one? What do you say?"
A few feet away, Grian was pulling out beer bottles and lining them up on the bar.
Frankie leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, a wide grin flash of teeth breaking across his face.
"It's my bachelorette night and my best man can't even clink glasses with me!"
"Alright, alright, alright," Frankie raised both hands in surrender. "Just one. But only 'cause it’s your night and a nice cold beer actually sounds real good right now."
Will slapped Fish on the back, giving him a rough but affectionate nudge, a grin splitting his face.
"And just so we're clear, we're still incredibly proud of you."
Santi smiled as he watched them, taking a sip of his beer. As he swallowed, a heavy sensation settled deep in his chest.
He couldn't quite explain this feeling. He was thrilled about his wedding, and even more so about what it meant for his life with Yov. Yet his smiles felt forced, slipping away the moment none of his friends were looking.
Will was ecstatic, Benny was right there with him (and a bit tipsy), and Fish had just tipped a bottle to his lips, taking a long swig as the corners of his mouth turned upward into a grin. And in that exact moment, the only thing Santi could think about was… someone else.
Terrified that someone might notice the sudden glossiness in his eyes, he pressed the beer to his mouth and finished it in one long gulp.
"Alright, where’s that next round, huh?" he said, bringing the empty bottle down hard on the table. "I’m getting thirsty."
Fish smirked slightly, his gaze drifting over Santi’s face. "You alright?"
Santi let out a huff. "As always."
People always say you shouldn't drink on an empty stomach.
Well, you all took that advice to heart.
Following a delicious dinner and a suggestively named dessert specially crafted for the bride and her guests, the group piled out onto the street, where a stretch limousine was already idling by the curb.
Yov burst out laughing. "Fio, what on earth is this?"
Fiona, one of her best friends, gestured grandly toward the massive car before pulling a white sash out of her bag that read Future Mrs. Garcia in bold lettering.
"What does it look like?" she laughed, stepping closer to loop the sash over Yov’s shoulder. "Nothing but the best for our beautiful bride; you only get married once!"
Emma chuckled. "According to whom?"
"I've been married twice," Cinthia chimed in, raising both hands.
"Well, they do say third time’s a charm," Fiona shot back, clapping a hand over her mouth the exact second the words slipped out.
The sound of your mom’s laughter made you snap your head to the right, and you watched her laugh with flushed cheeks as she walked over to Yov and gently took her by the arm; She was already a bit tipsy. She had finished two glasses of wine during dinner and you knew that was always enough to make your mom giggly, and you loved seeing it.
She was having a wonderful time, just like everyone else.
Fortunately, Fiona’s slip of the tongue was swept away by a wave of giggles as the limousine doors swung open, inviting you into leather seats and neon lighting.
One by one, each one of you piled inside, heels clicking against the pavement before sinking into the comfort of the interior. ABBA was already pulsing through the speakers and a chilled bottle of champagne was waiting in the ice bucket.
Your mom took a seat near Yov, still giggly, while Emma slid in right next to you; her eyes were sparkling as she smoothed down her dress and smiled at you. Cinthia, in front of you, immediately took charge of pouring the drinks, handing out flutes of bubbling champagne as the city lights outside melted into streaks against the tinted windows.
It was a short drive, but when the limousine finally pulled up to the curb, the venue took your breath away.
It wasn't a huge chaotic nightclub, but a really nice luxurious place. Nestled behind a discreet entrance, the lounge exuded… quiet. The lighting was low and calm, casting shadows over velvet booths, dark walnut accents, and a big glowing marble bar that stretched across the main room. Your first thought was oh, this is expensive.
But Cinthia took charge of that. Of everything, really. She had a wildly successful career in PR, and before you had even made it to the restaurant, she had casually mentioned how she always managed to get exactly what she wanted. It was a natural born talent. The restaurant, the limo, the lounge, and even the expensive bottles of champagne waiting for them were all the masterwork of her and Fiona.
A hostess in a tailored suit checked the name and guided your group past the main floor toward a raised, private tier.
"Right this way, ladies. Your table is ready in the VIP lounge," she murmured.
The private area overlooked the rest of the venue, enclosed by elegant brass railings and draped in heavy emerald green curtains. It was the perfect vantage point.
"You really outdid yourself," Yov breathed, taking in the crystal glasses and the dedicated server already waiting for them.
Cinthia just offered a knowing smirk, sinking into the velvet cushions. "Only the best for the bride. Now, what are we drinking?"
Emma squeezed your arm. "Oh my God, no! No! I'm gonna pee myself!"
"Oh no!" your mom shrieked.
You wanted to answer (you really, truly did) but the words wouldn't come because you couldn't even breathe. Your stomach ached from laughing so hard, and Emma wasn't helping; she was standing right in front of you with her legs tightly crossed, this ridiculous, hilarious wheeze escaping her chest.
"Emma, no, go, go!" Cinthia ordered, shooing her away with a wave of her hand. Beside her, Kat, another one of Yov's friends, looked intensely focused, squinting into near blindness as she tried to wipe her glasses with a cloth.
"C'mon, I'll take you," you managed to choke out between giggles, pushing yourself up from your seat and nudging Emma toward the hallway.
"You need me to come with you, sweetie?" your mom asked.
You turned back to look at her and your grin widened; she had a straw clamped between her lips, her eyebrows raised expectantly.
"Nah, we're good, we'll be right back."
Oh God, your stomach literally hurt from laughing. You couldn't even remember what the first joke was, or whatever it was that had triggered this chain reaction of non stop laughter, but it had been at least ten minutes of tossing one-liners back and forth.
Surprisingly, your mom wasn't helping the situation at all; she was on a roll tonight, spilling anecdotes about Santi; embarrassing stories that would have absolutely mortified him if he were here to listen.
And like any good younger sister, you found them hilarious and were laughing your head off.
"Ask him about the time he tried to impress a girl in middle school by doing a backflip off the diving board," she said minutes ago. "He ended up doing a full horizontal belly flop. The smack was so loud the lifeguard thought a firecracker went off! He had a bright red stomach for a week, my poor boy!"
Yov buried her face in her hands, her shoulders heaving as she let out a loud, snorting laugh.
"I am calling off the wedding," she wheezed, shaking her head.
"No!" your mom shot back, entirely unbothered, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "I have the photo album to prove it. I'll pass it under the table right before you say 'I do'."
"Oh yeah! I've seen those photos!"
Picture this. A fourteen year old Santi with slightly long curls and naturally flushed cheeks. And underneath his t-shirt, a bright red stomach bruised from a wipeout that made you laugh your head off back then, but also curse on his behalf. It wouldn’t have been so embarrassing if it hadn't been summer, and if he hadn't done it right in front of every single kid at the pool. The poor guy wore a shirt for an entire week after that, even to get into the water.
It was a simple kind of silly anecdote, but the way your mom told it was hilarious, and it was followed by so many more that your brother’s ears would definitely be burning somewhere right now.
Emma let go of your arm the second you entered the restroom and rushed straight into a stall.
"Your mom is so funny," her voice echoed. "I missed her. Poor Yov!"
Looking in the mirror, you ran your index finger under your eyelashes to fix the mascara that had smudged a bit.
"I know, but she’s one of us now. She has been for a while."
"I love her, I love her—ouch!"
"What's wrong?" you tilted your head to the side.
"Nothing, nothing, I just twisted my stu-pid foot!"
Laughing, you furrowed your brow. "What are you even doing in there?"
Emma let out a low chuckle. "Nothing. These toilets are too damn low."
"Alright. Just be careful in there." You looked down at your purse and opened it to grab your lip gloss, but the glowing screen of your phone caught your attention instead.
Ten missed calls and many… many messages. All from Will. And you would have heard them if you hadn't put your phone on vibrate mode just to enjoy the night better.
Plse answt, one of the messages read.
wwe can't fondsanti
Your heart started beating incredibly fast as you unlocked the phone, your hands turning freezing cold.
You heard the sound of Emma’s toilet flushing just as you pressed call on Will.
"Oh God, much better," she said as she stepped out of the stall, but you couldn't do anything except listen in silence. Emma watched you bring the phone to your ear. "What happened?"
"I don't know," you shrugged both shoulders.
The phone rang once, twice, three times—
"Hey."
"Hey, Will, what happened? I just checked my phone—"
"Santi’s gone."
Oh God, he was slurring his words.
"What you mean he's gone? Gone from where? Isn't he with you?"
Emma’s eyes widened. "Is that Will?"
You nodded and put it on speaker.
"—in the restroom, but Ben went to look for him and he wasn't there, and he's nowhere to be found and—"
"Where are you right now?"
"Here."
"Here where?"
"Will, honey, can you hear me? Where are you guys?" Emma asked.
"In the restroom—at the bar, in the bar restroom."
Your heart jumped into your throat. "And where's Santi?"
"I-I I dunno, he left, or I dunno, he's not here—"
You closed your eyes in frustration. "Listen, is there anyone else there I can talk to?"
"Yeah wait."
On the other end, you could hear music, voices, and a thud that sounded like a door slamming shut. Will muttered a shit, and two seconds later:
"Yeah?"
Francisco.
"Hey, what happened?" you asked, rubbing your hand across your forehead. "Where's Santi?"
"Uh… we… we don't know where he is. We were just hanging out here and he said he had to go to the restroom." Okay, he wasn't slurring his words. "And then after a bit, we realized it had been a really long time, and when Ben went to check, he wasn't in the restroom, or in the bar. He's not here, he left."
"But how? How could he have left without you guys noticing?"
Emma watched you in silence, her eyes wide.
"I dunno, I'm sorry. He must've slipped out through the other side of the bar."
"Shit, Frankie, are you being serious?"
"I'm sorry, we're gonna go look for him right now—"
"Will is drunk, and I assume Benny is too, you aren't gonna get very far," you sighed. "How was Santi acting before he disappeared?"
"A bit wasted too. He started talking about trees and houses, and said Yov was gonna be mad at him."
Emma gasped in shock. Your heart completely skipped a beat.
"Alright, where exactly are you guys right now?" you asked.
"At The Crow. We were planning to head over to Met Park later."
"Okay. Listen to me, stay put, yeah? I'm coming right now. Please don't call anyone else. Have you talked to anyone else?"
You heard Frankie pull the phone away from his ear.
"Did you talk to anyone else? No? You Ben? Alright…" his voice sounded muffled before coming back clear. "No, they haven't talked to anyone else. Neither have I."
"Good. I'm not far, okay?"
"Okay."
Without answering, and before he could say anything else, you cut the call, your hands freezing cold.
"What are we gonna do?" Emma asked. "You don't think he got cold feet about the wedding, right?"
"No, no," you shook your head, though you weren't entirely sure. "No way. Santi would never do that."
Emma rubbed her cheek. "I'm calling an Uber right now. What are you gonna tell the girls?"
"Nothing. They don't need to know. I'll just text mom telling her we're heading home for some silly reason, and that's it."
Your fingers flew across the screen, typing out some absurd excuse. Hey, Em broke her shoe, we're running home real quick to change and we'll be right back, don't worry, we already called the Uber.
You hit send and prayed that your mom's maternal instinct wouldn't kick in tonight of all nights.
You were going to kill Santiago.
If you bit your nails any shorter, you were going to be left with none. And it felt like this damn Uber driver was practically crawling.
"There they are!" Emma said the second you pulled up to the block where the bar was.
Will, Ben, and Frankie were waiting outside on the sidewalk, the three of them looking like scared kids waiting for their moms to pick them up from kindergarten.
You mumbled a quick thank you to the driver and got out as fast as you could, while Emma scrambled out from the other side a bit more clumsily.
Will put both hands on his head as soon as he saw her. "Emmy!"
"Look at you! Grown men!" she snapped, a little tipsy herself. "How could you lose your friend?"
Shaking your head, you looked over at Benny, who was crouching down and looking like he was about to throw up, before shifting your gaze to Frankie; the only sober one, apparently.
He wasn't drunk, but he looked just as panicked. His hair was a bit messy, and he was looking at you with a strange expression.
"What happened?" you asked, crossing your arms as you stepped up to him. "Have you tried calling him?"
Frankie’s eyes flickered across your face. "He left his phone. I have it right here."
"Oh God."
"Don't worry, we're gonna find him," he nodded. "He couldn't have gone very far."
"How? Look at them," you gestured toward Will and Benny. "They're wasted!"
Frankie took another step closer to you. "But I'm not. I've only had a few sips. My car is right across the street."
"Francisco. You're the best man, you were supposed to look out for him," you frowned, a sudden wave of anger hitting you. "How on earth did you let him slip away?"
He frowned back. "How was I supposed to imagine he’d just take off like that? It's Santi we're talking about."
"Yeah, exactly!"
"Alright, alright," Emma stepped in, raising a hand. "Stop wasting time talking and do something, okay? He could be anywhere! Frankie, can you drive?"
He nodded. "Of course."
"Zero point zero eight!" Ben yelled.
"Okay. You go with him and search everywhere," she told you, gesturing with her chin, "and I'll take these two drunks back to Will's place."
No, you thought. And your stomach did such a massive flip you almost gasped. But on the outside, you just nodded.
"Alright," you said, catching sight of Frankie moving beside you out of the corner of your eye. "I'll keep texting you. Tell Grian to keep an eye out in case Santi comes back here, and to hold onto him."
"Will do."
You took a step backward and your back collided with something—No, with him.
As you lost your balance, his hands instantly caught your shoulders. He was right behind you.
"Sorry."
"It's fine," he murmured over your shoulder, his hands releasing you immediately. "Let's go."
He started walking toward the curb, stopping right there to wait for you.
Before moving, you looked at Emma with your eyes wide open, only to catch the mischievous glint in her gaze as she pressed her lips together, trying not to smirk.
Bitch.
Well, this felt familiar.
As you crossed the street, you turned back for a moment and saw your best friend on the other side, while you awkwardly approached your brother’s friend’s car. It was a familiar scene, wasn't it?
Unlike that first time in Dallas, Frankie held the door open for you. A gentlemanly gesture that caught you off guard. First, because you didn't recognize the car. It was a different one. Black or dark blue, you couldn't quite tell the color in the darkness of the night. It wasn't any of the cars you had seen at Will’s house, and this one was newer. And second, because it would have been easier for both of you to have just skipped the gesture entirely.
"Thanks." You settled into the leather seat, and he shut the door softly beside you.
During the brief seconds it took him to walk around to the driver's side and get in, you let out a deep sigh. Your eyes scanned the black dashboard and then moved up to the rearview mirror, where a small silver cat keychain and a green pine tree hung, filling the space with the scent of vanilla.
Frankie stepped inside like a gust of air and slammed the door shut.
Alright. Chill. This doesn't have to be weird.
"Where to?" he asked.
You pressed your knees tightly together. "Let's just drive around the block first."
Without a word, he started the engine and pulled the car out of its parking spot, maneuvering smoothly as he kept a cautious eye on the street, while you locked your eyes on him the exact same way.
"Uh," you cleared your throat and looked straight ahead, "he couldn't have gone very far."
"He must be around here somewhere."
"You think he called a cab or something?"
"I have his phone."
"Right," you pursed your lips. "Of course."
You clasped your hands in your lap and laced your fingers together, feeling your palms grow sweaty as you stared out the window, holding back a sigh.
It smelled way too much like him in here. Like his cologne, the fabric softener on his clothes—like him, because he was sitting right next to you, and that made sense, didn't it?
Your heart was beating so fast.
"He seemed a little down today," he noted.
You turned to look at him. "What do you mean?"
"You know, earlier," he looked back at you, holding your gaze for a couple of seconds before turning his eyes back to the street. "I figured he was just nervous about the wedding, so I didn't want to press him with questions."
"You think that could be it? You think he got scared?"
He shook his head. "No, no way. Santi isn't like that."
"I know he's not. But I dunno, it could be possible."
Through the window, the sidewalks and streets passed by with no sign of him.
"What did he mean when he said Yov was gonna be mad?"
Frankie pursed his lips and turned the corner. "I don't know, he wasn't making much sense. He started talking about trees, about how long they live and how big they can grow, and how it had been a really long time since he last visited the park. I asked him about it, but he said nothing. Then he said Yov was gonna be mad if she found out about the house. When I asked him what he meant, he just said it was stupid."
"I can't think of anything," you sighed, rubbing your hand over your neck in frustration. "It doesn't make any sense. Did something happen with his house? What on earth was he talking about?"
"He's drunk, I don't think much of what he said was supposed to make sense."
"But Santi isn't like that, you know him," you looked at him. "When has he ever said something he didn't mean?"
He sighed. "Never, I guess. Maybe tonight he was just in the mood to talk about live oaks."
You froze, watching Frankie’s profile as he looked straight ahead and scanned the sidewalk on his side while driving at a relaxed pace.
"Live oaks?"
"Yeah," he affirmed, looking over at you. "I didn't know he was that into trees."
Oh.
OH.
Your hand shot out to grab his shoulder. "I think I know where he is."
"What?"
"Turn around right here," you pointed with your hand, "now. I know where he is!"
Frankie accelerated to the corner and made a sharp left. "Where? Tell me."
"I'm not completely certain, but I'm almost positive," you brushed a strand of hair out of your face.
He chuckled. "Are you gonna tell me where or not?"
"Osbourne Park."
"Why?"
"When we were kids, we had this eco-week in school and they sent us to plant trees. Santi and I planted a live oak with Dad. We went there a lot after he passed away, and I am—Jesus, I'm almost positive he has to be there. Did he say anything about my dad tonight?"
"Yeah," he raised his eyebrows, "yeah, he did."
A relieved sigh escaped your throat and instantly, the car surged forward as he pressed on the gas.
"Take the next right. It'll get us to the ramp faster," you said, leaning forward in your seat, your fingers tightly gripping the edge of the dashboard.
Without a word, he shifted gears and veered right. The streetlights flashed across his face, throwing shadows over his jawline and making his messy hair look even wilder.
Not the time to be looking at him like this!
"He's gonna be fine," he said quietly, grounding anchor against the worry rising in your chest. "If he’s at the park, he’s just clearing his head. He wouldn't do anything stupid."
"I know, I just hope he's there. Otherwise, I don't know," you murmured, staring out at the blurred shapes of buildings. "I don't have any other idea."
Frankie glanced at you, his expression softening before he turned his focus back to the road. "Easy. He's gonna be okay. And if he's not there, we can keep looking around."
Your heart did another strange, complicated flutter that had nothing to do with Santi. You swallowed hard and kept your eyes glued to the windshield.
The car flew past the exit signs, Frankie maneuvering through the light night traffic. He kept his foot steady on the accelerator, making the drive feel much shorter than it actually was. And within short minutes, the neon signs of the downtown bars faded away, replaced by the dark, towering silhouettes of the trees surrounding Osbourne Park.
He took the final turn into the park's entrance; the headlights cut through the heavy darkness of the empty parking lot, sweeping over the grass.
You popped the door open and scrambled out of the car as the heavy darkness of the park was broken only by the scattered park lights cutting through the night, and hovered by the car for two seconds, waiting as Frankie got out from his side and shut his door with a thud.
The moment you saw he was ready, you started moving into the park, your eyes darting everywhere, scanning every shadow. Then, you locked your gaze just to the right, past the paved, illuminated path that led toward the thicker wooded area where the tallest trees stood, and among them, the live oak.
Your pace quickened. As you got closer, cutting through the deep shadows, you managed to make out a familiar shape.
"There he is," you said, drown in anger and relief.
You broke into a fast walk, nearly a jog, while your heart hammered against your ribs as you felt Frankie’s footsteps keeping close right behind you.
As you got closer, you could make him out better. Santi wasn't on the grass; he was sitting on a park bench right in front of the little green space where the tree stood tall and still young among others.
Your footsteps naturally lost their urgency, your pace tapering off as you approached him from behind. He was half hunched over, elbows resting on his knees with his head hanging down. His curls caught the bright glare of the overhead LED light, making them glint in the dark.
You stopped. "Santi?"
He jumped a little at the sound of your voice, straightened up at a relaxed pace, and turned his head just enough to look at you, his eyes unfocused.
"Bub? What are you doing here?"
His voice sounded completely congested and undeniably drunk.
"Frank," Santi smiled, "what are you two doing here?"
You let out a tired sigh and stepped closer to him. "I could ask you the same thing, couldn't I? What are you doing here?"
Up close, he looked like a little kid. You could see his glassy, tear filled eyes, the soft curls falling over his forehead, and the utterly defeated look that took over every single feature of his face as he stared at you in pain.
Santi hung his head again.
"I'm sorry. It's just..." He swallowed hard. "I need time."
His voice was so low you had to furrow your brow. "What?"
He shook his head.
Confused, you glanced over at Frankie, who was keeping a short distance back. He was absolutely quiet.
"Our house is for sale," Santi said. "Our house."
You shifted to his side and sat down right next to him. Tilting your head to see him better, your chest tightened.
"Our house?"
"Our house," he looked at you, and right then, it clicked.
Santi wasn't talking about his house. He was talking about your childhood home.
"I drove past it the other day. I always do. It’s on my way to work, or… not really, I'm lying. I just like driving past it, I guess," he continued. "You remember the family that bought it? With those three little kids?"
"Yeah."
"They don't live there anymore. It's empty now, and there's this big sign outside with a realtor's face on it," he let out a humorless laugh.
You forced a smile even though your cheeks felt heavy, and you reached your hand out to his arm.
Instantly, Santi placed his hand over yours.
"I want it back, bub," his voice cracked. "It’s our house. How could we just let it belong to someone else?"
"You know how things were back then. It wasn't easy for mom—"
"Dad lived there. We grew up there. And she… she just got rid of it because it hurt? What about us? What about you, what about me?" he spat out painfully, the words hitting you straight in the chest.
You swallowed hard. "I know."
Santi’s face contorted with agony, and a sob broke through his lips. And as if he were terrified of you seeing him like this, he covered his face, burying his head in his hands, trying to hide in the shadow of his own body.
"Santi," was all you could manage to say as you threw your arm around his back, resting your head against his shoulder while thick tears began to pool in your eyes.
He let out a ragged breath and abruptly straightened up, making you shift away from him.
"I made an offer," he said.
"For the house?"
He nodded, looking at you with pure fear in his eyes. "I did. And Yov doesn't know."
"How… how? With what money—I'm sorry, but—"
"Our savings, and I'm planning to take out a loan—"
"Santi, wait," you shook your head gently, "you have to talk to her before you do anything like this."
"I know."
"Why didn't you tell her?"
"I don't know," he shook his head, in pain. "She loves our current house. If she found out I wanted to sell it—I don't wanna disappoint her." A gasp broke through his words. "I'm gonna be a husband."
You smiled involuntarily at the realization. "Yeah, you will."
Santi sat completely still, barely moving, his eyes bloodshot as he stared down at his own hands, his body swaying in an almost imperceptible rhythm.
"I'm gonna be a husband," he repeated, barely a scared whisper. "And a dad, someday."
"I am absolutely certain you'll be a great husband and dad."
His head snapped toward you, his eyes instantly flooding with glassy tears.
"You will," you reaffirmed, squeezing his hand. "I know you will."
He nodded at a very quiet, subdued pace. "I need him, bub."
A beat.
You nodded. "I know. I need him too."
"How can I ever be like him? How can I ask him what to do or how to do it if he's not here? He should be here," his words took on an angry edge right at the end. "On my wedding day."
"I honestly don't know," you murmured, your voice catching as you squeezed his hand tighter. "I ask myself the exact same thing every single day. But I know I have you, and you have me. And you can always, absolutely always count on me, for whatever, whenever. And I'm sure he's so proud of you."
Santi offered a faint, fleeting smile, his eyes searching yours. "I'm gonna miss you when you leave again. Nothing is the same without you sticking your nose into all of my business."
You let out a soft laugh, blinking back a new wave of tears. "You're gonna be way too busy starting your own family. You'll barely even notice I'm gone."
His smile faltered, a deep, raw sadness washing over his features. "How could you say something like that? You're part of my family too. I've missed you so much these past few months, you know that? First Mom, and then you," he said, his voice cracking slightly as a weak smile returned to his face. "Why is everyone so obsessed with leaving this place, huh?"
He turned his head around, his gaze shifting toward Frankie, who was still standing a short distance behind you both, keeping his respectful space.
Frankie offered a quiet smile, his eyes on Santi. "Hey, I came back, didn't I?"
Santi let out a weak laugh. "Yeah, you did."
Then, he turned back around to face the dark park, letting out a long, exhausted sigh. He hung his head, dragging both of his hands over his face and up through his tangled curls, holding them there for a second.
When he finally lifted his eyes, he locked his gaze onto the live oak tree, staring at it in total silence for a long moment, as if soaking in the memory of your dad one last time tonight.
Finally, he spoke, his voice completely drained. "I wanna go to sleep."
You nodded silently, the lump in your throat making it impossible to speak.
"Alright, let's go," you whispered.
Carefully, you pushed yourself up from the bench and reached out, pulling on his arm to help him stand. His weight shifted unsteadily, but right at that moment, Frankie was there. He stepped in instantly, his strong grip catching Santi by the arm, anchoring him and helping him keep his balance on his shaky, alcohol heavy legs.
In complete silence, the three of you made your way back across the grass toward the car. The only sound was the rustle of the night breeze through the leaves and the quiet scuff of your shoes. And when you reached the vehicle, you quickly pulled the back door open as Frankie guided Santi inside, carefully maneuvering him so he could settle into the backseat.
The second his head hit the leather, it was over. In less than two seconds, Santiago was completely out, his eyes shut tight as his breathing immediately slowed into a deep sleep.
Frankie drove in silence down the side street by the park, careful with every bump and easing through the road so the car’s movement wouldn't wake Santi. In the backseat, he was completely twisted and bent out of shape, yet fast asleep.
Less than a minute passed after you left the park area behind before a sigh finally escaped your throat.
Your phone lay in your lap, its screen dark ever since you read Emma’s last message a few moments ago. She was already at Will’s place with the guys, and apparently, Benny had crashed on the couch the second they walked through the door.
Frankie pulled up to a red light.
"You can take us to my place if you want, I’ll stay with him," you said, not looking at him.
He clicked his tongue. "Nah, it's fine. I’ve got him. Yov’s party is still going, you shouldn't miss it. I’ll take him to Will’s and crash with the guys. You and Emma can head out."
"You sure?"
"Yeah," he turned to look at you, "gotta fulfill my duties as bestman."
A helpless smile slowly formed on your lips as you looked at him, and his own lips mirrored the gesture a second later. His eyes held yours like a magnet, and your stupid heart skipped a beat again.
"So, uh, New York," he tossed out, breaking eye contact as he looked back at the road. "What did you think?"
You lowered your head, fixing your gaze on your hands in your lap.
"It's nice. It's a great city," you looked back at him, but his eyes were still fixed ahead. "And I… I’ve been writing a lot."
Frankie glanced at you again. "Yeah?"
You nodded, unable to stop yourself from smiling like an idiot.
"Yeah. A book, actually."
"That's amazing," he smiled, "what's it about?"
"Uh, well, it's kind of a love story. It's mostly about Miles, and his relationship with Alya. They meet one night at a restaurant and lose touch for a year until they cross paths again, but Miles is this guy with a huge amount of baggage and things to work through," you waved your hands, showing just how huge Miles's problems really were. "And it's… it's a complicated story."
Frankie gave a half-smile, nodding slowly. "Does it have a happy ending?"
You pursed your lips and tilted your head. "I'm not telling you."
"Why? C'mon."
The traffic light turned yellow, and two seconds later, green.
"It has a happy ending, doesn't it?" he pressed, his eyes drifting back to the road as the car started moving again.
You huffed. "You really want me to spoil it for you?"
"Depends. How long do I have to wait to read it?"
"I haven't even finished writing it yet, so probably a while."
Frankie let out a soft laugh. "Alright. I'll wait."
Or maybe you could show him a few pages, you thought. Just a few, just to get his opinion.
It was just a thought. You didn't even know why you were so desperate to show him all of it.
"Emma told me you moved to a new place?" you said, your fingers fidgeting in your lap.
He nodded. "Yeah. Over at Circle Ranch."
"Yeah? It's a nice area."
"It is, it really is," he glanced at you for a split second. "Bingley likes it."
You smiled. "Really?"
"Yeah. We have a big backyard now, lots of grass and a few trees. He loves it, but it freaks me out a little, y'know," he shook his head with a smile. "The other day he climbed up one of the trees and I spent half an hour trying to get him down."
"He probably would've come down on his own. Cats really like being up in high places."
"I know. But what if a dog gets him or something?"
You tilted your head. "Are there any dogs nearby? I mean, from your neighbors or...?"
He shook his head. "Not really."
"Then?"
Frankie laughed. "I don't know. I guess I just don't want anything happening to him."
"Mhm. Cats are really smart. Bingley is really smart," you assured him. "And if your yard is safe, you shouldn't worry too much as long as he stays inside it. Just make sure he doesn't escape."
"Yeah, I bought him a collar with a tracker."
You laughed softly. "That's cool. I should get Darcy one of those. You really are a protective cat dad, uh."
"Well, obviously," he smiled, keeping his eyes on the road. "He’s my roommate. If he goes missing, I gotta do my own dishes."
"Fair point," you smiled, looking out the window for a moment. "I'm glad Bingley is enjoying his new backyard. Sounds like he has his own little kingdom now."
"He definitely thinks he owns the place," Frankie chuckled, slowing down as you approached a quiet intersection. The playful tone in his voice softened, turning into something softer as he glanced over at you. "What about you? Are you staying at your apartment?"
"Yeah. It feels good to be back home. Even Darcy is enjoying it."
Frankie nodded, keeping his hands steady on the wheel. He went quiet for a moment as the car moved down the dark street.
Then, his voice dropped. "So... Uh, are you, are you going back to New York?"
A sudden hollow feeling carved itself deep into your chest. You bit the inside of your cheek, looking away out the passenger window as the city lights blurred past. In your lap, you tightly laced your fingers together, squeezing your hands to ground yourself.
"I guess. I don't know yet."
You turned your head back to look at him just as the car approached another intersection. The traffic light flicked to a glowing red.
Frankie came to a stop and turned his head.
In the sudden stillness of the car, bathed in the soft crimson glow of the light, his eyes met yours. There was no teasing left in them, no easy deflection; just a brief searching intensity that seemed to pull the air right out of your lungs for a second.
He looked at you as if he were trying to read between the lines of your hesitation, his eyes dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second before locking back onto yours. "You like it there?"
Your heart squeezed.
Yes, you thought, but it doesn't feel like home.
Instead of saying it out loud, you looked away, answering softly, "I guess I do."
You turned your eyes back to him. Frankie was still looking at you, wearing a small encouraging smile. But you couldn't mirror it. There was something heavy sitting deep in your chest that anchored your lips in place.
Frankie noticed. "When Harry met Sally, uh?"
That pulled a small laugh from you. You shook your head.
Seeing your reaction, Frankie shook his head too, a chuckle escaping him as he quickly backpedaled. "No, no. They met in Chicago. Forget I said that."
You leaned your elbow against the car door, resting your face in your hand as you turned to look out the passenger window. The lingering smile stayed on your lips for a few seconds as the car moved forward, but it slowly began to fade, melting away into the quiet streets.
Beside you, Frankie just drove. He didn't push for more conversation or try to fill the space with words. He simply let the silence settle between you, steering through the night as the landscape outside started to blur into something increasingly familiar.
Will’s house wasn't far now. Just a few more blocks, a couple of turns, and this ride would be over.
And right then, a sudden ache hit you: you didn't want it to end.
The realization washed over you quietly, almost catching you off guard, of just how desperately you had missed this. Just being near him, sharing the same space, even wrapped in these sometime-uncomfortable silences.
You watched the streetlights sweep across the dashboard in waves, wishing the car would slow down, wishing the blocks would stretch out, just to keep the outside world away for a little longer.
But no matter how much you wished you could control time, sometimes wanting to speed it up, other times desperate to slow it down, the reality was that it just kept moving.
And while your heart hammered against your ribs like an untamed creature, craving more of him, Will’s house suddenly appeared ahead.
Frankie pulled the car into the driveway, bringing the ride to a final stop.
A beat later, he let out a quiet sigh and unbuckled his seatbelt, the click signaling the end of the line. The headlights caught the front window of Will’s house.
Your eyes drifted to him then. He glanced at Santi, still dead to the world in the back, before turning his face to yours.
"Frankie," you breathed, and the name felt forbidden on your tongue.
He didn't speak, but the slight tension in his brow gave him away. His hands remained clamped at the top of the steering wheel.
"I'm so sorry for everything that happened to you," you said, knowing this probably wasn't the right time or the right place, but utterly unable to hold it in any longer. "About Henry, and... and everything that came after."
The silence stretched.
Frankie swallowed, giving a single nod. "Thank you."
"And it makes me real happy that you're doing better now."
A ghost of a smile touched his lips, but his eyes stayed entirely dark. His gaze drifted down, anchoring somewhere between the two of you, as if measuring the distance that had grown since you left.
His hand twitched on the wheel, a microscopic movement toward you that he stopped just in time.
"Thank you."
You nodded.
Frankie seemed to hesitate. "And I... I'm so sorry," he murmured, his brown eyes lifting back to yours. "For hurting you and… and letting you down. You didn't deserve what I did to you."
You didn't offer an easy reassurance. You just let out a slow nod.
"And I'm really happy you're doing what you love," he added, his voice flattening out as he forced a smile. It was a tight, fragile thing. "I have no doubt everyone is gonna love your book."
You swallowed the lump in your throat. "Thank you."
Frankie’s smile faltered, dropping for a fraction of a second before he held it back up.
"And New York..." He trailed off, his gaze slipping from yours to look down at his own lap.
In that brief second of detachment, your eyes scanned his face with a desperate quiet hunger, memorizing him all over again. You traced the familiar slope of his nose, the soft curve of his mouth, the tiny lines around his eyes that hadn’t been there a year ago, the new marks on his face. You searched every single feature, hunting for a crack in his armor, looking for a hidden twitch, a shadow of hesitation, anything that said stay.
But Frankie just gave a soft shake of his head, looking back up. His expression was clear and almost painfully serene.
"I'm sure New York loves you too," he said softly. "It’s a big city, but it fits you. You’re gonna do amazing things there."
A cold ache settled deep into your stomach.
Was this encouragement? Was this a gentle nudge out the door? Was he clearing the path for you, sweeping away the debris?
A sudden winter seemed to settle inside the small cabin of the car. You forced a nod, your eyes drifting back to the dashboard where the green light of the clock kept ticking forward.
"Yeah," you breathed. "Thank you, Frankie."
He unclasped his hands from the steering wheel, the leather letting out a soft stick and release sound that felt incredibly loud. And the space between your seats suddenly felt like an ocean.
You looked straight ahead and unbuckled your seatbelt, the snap breaking the trance. "We should probably get Santi inside."
Without waiting for a response, you pushed the car door open and stepped out, your lungs begging for air.
You took a deep grounding breath of the cool night wind as you walked toward the front porch. Pressing the doorbell, you could hear the heavy thud of Frankie’s door closing behind you.
Emma opened the door almost instantly.
"Hey," she whispered, stepping outside and crossing her arms against the chill. "Will and Benny are already passed out. What happened? How's Santi?"
"Nothing," you said, turning back toward the car where Frankie was gently shaking Santi’s shoulder. "Santi was just at the park. Everything's fine."
Emma nodded, watching as Frankie carefully hauled a groaning Santi out of the backseat. You stepped in, grabbing your brother's other arm to stabilize him.
"Careful," you murmured.
Santi blinked heavily, a goofy smile spreading across his face as he looked at you.
"I'm careful," he slurred.
The three of you shuffled toward the porch in an awkward synchronized stumble, Frankie carrying most of Santi's dead weight while you guided his steps. Emma stepped aside, holding the front door wide open to let the makeshift rescue team pass.
"Will and Ben are in the living room," Emma guided quietly, shutting the door behind you. "You can take him straight to the bedroom."
"Alright, keep your feet steady, man," Frankie muttered to Santi, adjusting his grip around his torso.
Santi let out a low grunt, his sneakers dragging lazily against the hardwood floor.
"Why didn't you tell her?" he mumbled into the space between them.
You frowned, staring at your brother. Just then, Santi rolled his head back to look at you, his eyes unfocused but teasing. "He didn't... he didn't."
Frankie didn't acknowledge it, his face a mask of focus as they reached the open bedroom door. He placed a firm hand on Santi’s back, guiding him over the threshold.
"C'mon. Bedtime."
Santi paused for a second in the middle of the room, clumsily tugging at the zipper of his jacket.
"It's too fucking hot in here," he muttered.
A soft chuckle escaped Frankie’s lips. You watched them from the doorway, leaning against the frame with your arms crossed, forcing a faint hollow smile that didn't reach your eyes.
"Hey."
Turning around, you found Emma standing a few feet away in the dimly lit hallway. You stepped out of the room, giving Frankie and Santi some space.
"What's the plan?" she asked softly.
"We're heading back to Yov's," you replied. "Frankie's staying with the guys."
Emma searched your face, her eyes lingering a bit too long. "You sure?"
"Yeah."
You slipped back into the bedroom. Santi was already sprawled out on the mattress, his jacket and shoes discarded on the floor, while Frankie pulled a thick blanket up to his chest.
"All good?" you asked quietly.
Frankie nodded, looking down at him. "Look at him. Like a baby."
You swallowed the tightness in your throat and walked out toward the living room. Emma was already on one of the armchairs. Across from her, Will and Benny were sound asleep on the couches, buried under a messy pile of blankets and breathing heavily.
"I'll call an Uber," you said, pulling out your phone.
Emma nodded. "Your mom texted me, by the way. Asked how long we were going to be. I told her we got held up because you had a stomach ache."
A small, tired smile tugged at your lips. "Right. Did she buy it?"
"Seems like it," Emma said, shrugging her shoulders.
You nodded, your fingers moving quickly across the screen to confirm the Uber ride, while the soft snores of the Millers drifted from the couches. Emma watched you in silence for a beat.
"I’m completely sober now," Emma noted quietly.
You offered a tight smile. "Me too. The scare Santi gave me cleared the alcohol right outta my system."
On your screen, a driver accepted the ride, the map showing he was only two minutes away.
"I’ll text mom to let her know we’re on our way," you said, just as Frankie walked back into the living room.
"Santi's already snoring," he said, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe. "I don't think he’ll wake up until noon tomorrow."
"Yeah, well, neither will these two," Emma whispered, gesturing with her chin toward Will and Ben. "How much did they even drink? Weren't you supposed to have other plans after the bar?"
Frankie shook his head. "I lost count. Benny got a little too excited ordering rounds."
"You gotta work tomorrow?" Emma asked.
Frankie shook his head slightly. "Yeah, but not until after ten."
In the heavy silence that followed, you listened to their casual back and forth, the ordinary words mapping out a life you were no longer part of. You bit the inside of your cheek, keeping your eyes glued to the glowing screen of your phone.
"Are you too busy tomorrow?" Emma asked, leaning back against the cushions.
Frankie shook his head, pulling his phone out of his pocket. "Nah, not really."
You let out a quiet sigh. Shifting your weight, you stepped away from the living room without a word, slipping back into the dim hallway toward the room where Santi was sleeping.
As you walked, you caught a movement from the corner of your eye. You glanced back and saw Frankie watching you from the living room, his dark eyes tracking your retreat. You met his gaze for barely a second before turning your head away, focusing entirely on your brother.
It's fine, you thought. What did you really expect?
You had known that coming back to Austin meant facing Frankie, and facing Frankie meant clearing up a few things. But you couldn't pretend that the world had been on pause all this time. You couldn't expect him to show more than he already had. Because no matter how many feelings you still harbored for him, or how many he kept for you, if he even had any left; time had kept moving. And maybe... maybe this was just it. The end of the line.
The phone vibrated in your hand. The Uber was outside: Eric, dark grey Toyota Camry.
Casting one last look at Santi, you stepped closer to the bed and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead. He barely stirred, completely and deeply asleep.
By the time you reached the living room, Emma was already standing by the door, her bag slung over her shoulder. "Ready, babe?"
You nodded, tightly crossing your arms against your chest.
You couldn't bring yourself to look directly at Frankie, but you could feel his gaze burning into your profile; he was standing just to your left.
"Okay," Emma murmured, twisting the doorknob and pulling the front door open.
You stepped out first, your feet moving automatically as if you suddenly couldn't bear to be in his vicinity for a single second longer.
The night air hit your face like a splash of cold water, but it wasn't enough to clear the suffocating feeling in your chest.
"Tell Yov I say hi," Frankie’s voice drifted from inside.
Only when Emma stepped out onto the porch beside you did you finally turn your head to look at him. Frankie’s eyes locked onto yours, intense and searching, but you didn't say anything; you just offered a small fleeting smile, turning on your heel before it could fade.
Walking down the driveway toward the car waiting by the curb, you didn't look back. Not before getting into the car, not after the door clicked shut, and definitely not through the window as the engine revved and the house began to recede into the darkness.
The only thing you knew for certain was that you desperately needed a glass or two of that champagne. Or maybe something a lot stronger.
"Hey," Emma’s voice broke through the quiet, her fingers touching your forearm. "What’s wrong? Did something happen?"
You shook your head, trying to swallow the lump in your throat, but your body betrayed you completely. Your eyes burned, blurring with hot tears, and your mouth trembled, puckering into a soft painful grimace.
"Hey," Emma repeated, her fingers tightening just a fraction.
"It's over," you whispered. You didn't sob. You didn't break down. But your mouth trembled as the hot tears finally spilled over, tracks of quiet fire burning down your cheeks.
