summary: weeks after first meeting the Creature, you're both quite taken with each other; once you and him bond over your mutual appreciation for books, it becomes your favorite past time—and it comes with a surprising reveal.
word count: 1.8k
A/N: established (slow burn) relationship, just something achingly sweet & domestic with our beloved creature (love that we all collectively agree his name is Adam) <3
gif: @rosie-tyler
Fear had never been something you felt coursing through your veins when it came to him.
Curiosity, on the other hand, had felt something definitive for the both of you. Human and… someone more, stronger in a lot of ways, yet that much more fragile in others, both curious about each other.
When you first gazed upon him—Adam, as you now refer to him, much to his delight—curiosity was the first thing you recall feeling. He had qualms regarding his appearance, as you could clearly tell, and he was hiding even from you. He moved from shadow to shadow, as quietly as possible, always looking over his shoulder.
Only when his eyes landed upon your figure did he stop and reconsidered his choice, albeit for a single moment.
When you approached him, he backed away from you; you inched closer, he ensured there was more space between the two of you. When you stepped into the shadows, in his comfort space, could he finally exhale, audibly so, and freeze, long enough for you to study him.
“What happened to you?” you asked.
“I am made by the hands of a cruel man.”
You held your breath as you came even closer to examine him to the best of your abilities. It was tough to do so in the darkness, but you dared not ask him to step outside of what little comfort you presumed he had. There were scars all over his face and hands, of that you were certain. You suspected the rest of his body carried the same marks.
“Are you in any pain?”
He fell silent, unsure of how to answer you. You could tell he was struggling from his small grunts, so you took his hand into yours, an act of kindness that to you felt so natural, yet to him felt startling and downright shocking.
“You shouldn’t be out here alone, in the woods,” you continued. “Come with me.”
“Where to?”
“Warmth.”
He seemed confounded by your kindness, offering him a place to sleep in your house, as well as food and warmth. He studied everything with a fascination that almost exceeded humanity, but as he finally took off the big cloak hiding him from your sight, you saw more of him and you understood, with a certain horror, that he had indeed been created by the hands of a madman.
And yet you’ve known no gentler soul than that of Adam’s. No man had ever been kinder or more timid than him. It took you by surprise each time; he never forgot to say please and thank you, always helped you with chores—as a way to express his gratitude for allowing him to stay with you, you presumed—and always built a fire in the evening for the two of you. The nights were growing colder and colder, and the woods were not safe, particularly not in the dark.
“You do not have to do all the hard work around here,” you said to him one evening, a fortnight after your first meeting. “I can manage.”
“I would like to provide you with help. To—thank you for allowing me to stay.”
You smiled at him. “It is my pleasure. I hope you are comfortable.”
“You provide great comfort. And warmth.”
“I have to ask… what is your name? Do you have a name?”
He faltered, and instantly you knew the answer to your question—and subsequently regretted it.
“My creator’s name was Victor Frankenstein.”
“He never gave you a name?”
“No.”
“Hmm. Very well. Have you… heard any name you might like?”
“I… read a tale of the first man on earth, Adam. And his time in the Garden of Eden with Eve.”
“How about Adam then? Would you like that?”
He smiled; by gods, he smiled and looked wildly beautiful as he did so.
“Adam. Yes,” he concluded as he sat next to you by the fire.
That had become somewhat of a routine for the two of you, to huddle up by the fire on cold winter nights and on occasion read. Adam remained so curious about everything, and his eyes sparkled when he saw you with books. He always asked what you were reading and if you were finished with the book, he’d start right away; if you were only beginning to read it, he’d ask you to read out loud. Sometimes you’d both read the same book twice or even thrice, as they were hard to come by.
But Adam didn’t mind, and you certainly didn’t.
Months passed by in this fashion, with the two of you finding a natural rhythm to the daily life you were building together. It all came naturally, as if there was no other prospect for either one of you. Adam seemed more than content to take care of the heavy lifting around and inside the house, as well as offering you protection from external threats. You assured him that there were less of those than one might think, especially around those parts of the countryside, but he continued as such. You learned it was his way of showing affection—that, and bringing you various trinkets from his trips outside, which included a variety of leaves, a bracelet, a couple of blankets and flowers.
He always brought you flowers.
And you always kept them and the leaves in carefully made ornaments.
Often it all felt too good to be true; you were almost afraid to hold such tender moments close to your chest and to share them with Adam. He’d told you his tale, how he came into this world and how he came to life, what his creator, the man by the name of Victor Frankenstein, had done and his treatment of Adam, all of the loss and pain he’d endured in such a short time span. Your heart broke and ached for him all the same.
You ached seeing him remain full of curiosity, tenderness and love, even joy more often than not.
He was human by any definition you could think of.
You did whatever you could to soothe some of his pain as well; when he awoke during the night, screaming and crying in fear, you sat next to him till the morning, gently stroking his hair and holding him close, whispering small encouragements in his ear.
“Do you not fear me?” he’d asked once during the night. Somehow by that point, he was the one holding you, slightly obdurate as it might have been. “Are you not repulsed by my nature?”
“Should I be?”
That had obviously never crossed his mind, for it rendered him speechless.
“I do not know. I—I do not think so.”
“I do not think so either.”
“I have done… terrible things. Unspeakable things to men who were merely standing by.”
You turned towards him, grazing his cheek and feeling his warm breath over your lips. “Then we mustn’t speak of them.”
And you didn’t. As the winter stretched out and the cold engulfed the country, you and Adam remained warm and full in spite of it all. You were never not enthralled seeing him interact with animals so easily. It felt beyond endearing, and you particularly enjoyed watching him feed the deer that often gathered outside of the house.
Everything about him felt easy and kind and beautiful, and if you were being honest with yourself in the increasingly rarer lonesome moments of yours, you’ve become very fond of Adam.
In truth, you believed you loved him.
How, precisely, you could not tell. Perhaps the longing hiding in your ribcage, begging to be gently exposed, was not from a place of genuine need, but rather worry.
You tried to stifle it. You had all the time in the world, you felt. And truthfully, you were not certain how you could broach the subject with Adam, if there was even need for it. There was nothing which insisted upon being defined—all feelings passed with ease and mutual understanding between you and him, and you wished for nothing else of this life.
“Can you read me some more of the book, please?”
Adam’s request came tonight after eating soup, some stew with carrots and potatoes and a pie you baked for dessert. You were both full and content, now by the fire. You held Pride & Prejudice in your hands, re-reading it for what felt like the hundredth time.
It was yours and Adam’s favorite.
You chuckled. “We’ve read this so many times already.”
“Please?”
He blinked slowly at you, a gesture you felt he did subconsciously, yet it was beyond endearing to you.
You knew you couldn’t resist, and ultimately, Adam knew it too. He sat cross-legged before you, his eyes unmoved from the direction of your face as you opened the book and cleared your throat.
“From the beginning?”
“If you’d like. Thank you.”
“’It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife. However little known the feelings or views of such a man may be on his first entering a neighborhood, this truth is so well fixed in the minds of the surrounding families, that he is considered as the rightful property of someone or other of their daughters.’”
Adam smiled, and you did too. You did not know how long you read into the night or when your eyelids began to feel heavy, nor when you finally drifted off to sleep, once waking by the swing of familiar, strong arms, carrying you to bed and cuddling next to you. All you knew is that you were as warm as you’ve been for months now, heart and soul both full, never aching.
“I love you,” came from his throat, words so saccharine and fulfilling you felt your eyes tear up, closed as they were.
You knew there was no need to say it. After all, you hadn’t said it even when you thought of it and wanted to. You knew that what you and Adam shared transcended mere words and actions.
And yet you couldn’t help but reciprocate, still and cozy in the dimmed light of the fire still cracking somewhere in the grand room. “I love you as well, Adam.”
warnings: age gap, religious conflict, crisis of faith, temptation, forbidden attraction, forbidden romance, eventual smut, social expectations, night life themes, contrast between joel's and your world, protests, mentions of exile, mention of politics.
wc: 80.1k (so far)
status: in progress
chapters:
chapter i
chapter ii
chapter iii
chapter iv*
chapter v
chapter vi
chapter vii
chapter viii
chapter ix
chapter x part 1*
chapter x part 2
chapter xi
epilogue
Summary: Joel found you on a quiet evening when the chapel was empty, save for the flickering candlelight and the faint scent of incense clinging to the air. You were curled up on one of the wooden pews, arms folded beneath your head, chest rising and falling in the steady rhythm of sleep.
He cleared his throat, but you didn’t stir. He hesitated before reaching out, tapping your shoulder. “Miss?” His voice came softer than he expected. “You can’t sleep here.”
"Father, do you always wake up strangers like this?"
Your voice was thick with sleep, eyes blinking against the dim glow of the chapel’s candlelight. The air smelled of old wood, wax, and something faintly metallic, like rain on stone. You looked young like this, your face soft, but Joel knew better. You shouldn't be older than thirty.
"You can’t sleep here," he repeated.
Joel stood over you, stiff-backed, his fingers still hovering near your shoulder from where he’d tapped you awake. He shouldn’t have noticed the way your legs stretched across the pew, the way your blouse—too sheer for a place like this, shifted as you moved, leaving no place to imagination.
"Didn’t know God locked His doors at night," you mused, rubbing at your eyes.
Joel exhaled sharply. Lord, give me patience.
"This isn’t a shelter," he said. "If you need a place—"
"I'm not homeless" Your tone was firm, final. But there was something else in your voice too, something he couldn’t quite place, but it hinted sadness.
The world outside was changing. Women weren’t quiet anymore. They weren’t soft in the way people in towns like this expected them to be. And yet, there was something about you that didn’t fit the mold of rebellion either. You weren’t a girl searching for trouble. You were a woman who had already met it.
"I just got into town," you admitted after a beat, glancing toward the stained-glass windows, dark now with the night. "Didn’t know where else to go."
Joel studied you, his chest tightening. "Are you in trouble?"
A small, humorless laugh left you. "Depends on what you call trouble."
Silence filled the chapel, thick and unmoving. The rain had stopped, leaving only the distant hum of the highway beyond the hills.
"You shouldn’t be here," he said finally. But his voice had lost its authority, had softened just enough that he felt the weight of it settle in his own bones.
Because the longer he stood there, the clearer it became.
You weren’t just a woman passing through.
You were trouble to his faith.
And trouble, he knew, never left quietly.
And worse, he couldn’t ignore the way, for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t sure if devotion could save him.
The boyfriend act, part 1: "The one with the proposal"
Pairing: Frankie Morales x F!reader
SERIES MASTERLIST
Chapter summary: The journey from Dallas to Austin is tense but tolerable, as you and Frankie do your best to ignore the mutual disdain simmering between you. But everything derails when a chance encounter with Harry—your ex—and his fiancée pushes you to tell a spur-of-the-moment lie. Frankie’s reaction makes it clear he’s not on board. WC: 14.3k
A/N: Okay, here's my new baby! And I fucking love it! I hope you enjoy this story as much as I've been enjoying writing it. Also, just a heads-up: I’ve taken some creative liberties with the characters. While this story is inspired by the ones in Triple Frontier, it barely follows the events of the movie, and the characters themselves aren’t portrayed exactly as they are in the film.
PS: I’d love to hear your thoughts—your feedback means so much to me! Knowing what you think truly motivates me to keep going. So don't hesitate and let me know <3 Also, if you want to be on the tag list, let me know. And don't forget to follow capuccinodollupdates for notifs :)
When Santiago’s message arrived, you read it three times, as if repetition might change the words or soften their impact.
[Santi]: Hey bubs, mornin. I’m really sorry but I won’t be able to come get you. I’ll meet you at home later tho. Frankie will pick you up, same time as planned, don’t worry:)
The words seemed to pulse faintly on the screen, a quiet disruption of the neat plan you’d constructed in your head.
Frankie. He wasn’t your first choice—or your second, or third. If you were honest, he didn’t even make the list.
That morning had started with a sense of calm, a kind of orderly anticipation. The steady hum of the fan in the corner of Emma’s room, the cool sting of the shower water, the first sip of coffee, sweet and bitter all at once—it all felt like the clean slate of a well-prepared day. You’d zipped your suitcase shut with a satisfying finality, placed your carry-on by the door. Nothing left to chance.
The plan was simple: you’d take the bus. Predictable, unremarkable. But Santiago had insisted earlier that week, his voice crackling through the phone with a kind of rare, unguarded enthusiasm.
“We can stop for lunch, you know? Like we used to do with dad. Maybe even take a detour if we find somethin' cool,” he’d said, his tone warm, almost playful.
You’d been leaning against Emma’s kitchen counter at the time, a glass of wine in one hand, a cube of cheese in the other, and your phone between your cheek and your shoulder. Emma raised an eyebrow from across the room, silently prompting you to explain.
“Everything okay with Yovanna?” you teased, your voice carrying just enough edge to feel like a joke, even though it wasn’t entirely one. “Or is this an excuse to run away for the day?”
“Fuck you,” he laughed, the kind of laugh that came easily between you two. “I just want to spend time with you. It’s been ages since we really caught up. I miss you like hell.”
That stopped you. He wasn’t wrong—months had passed since the two of you had talked properly, beyond the surface-level exchanges over meals or texts.
“Okay,” you’d said, your voice softer than before, though you avoided looking at Emma. “I miss you too. I’ll wait for you then.”
And now, this. No Santiago, no shared lunch or detours. Just Frankie, an unwelcome rewrite of the day you thought you had mapped out so clearly.
You sat back against the bed frame, rereading the message one last time. Frankie will pick you up. Frankie will pick you up. Frankie. Frankie. Fucking Frankie. Now the plan had unraveled, and the disappointment felt sharper than you wanted to admit.
You let the phone fall to the bed beside you, the screen dimming as it landed.
Emma lay stretched out next to you, her head tilted toward the TV, where an episode of Friends played on low volume. It was one of those episodes you both knew by heart, the kind you could recite without effort. The one where everybody finds out. The blue light from the screen washed over her face, softening her features, making her eyes look brighter than they really were. Without looking away, she reached out and hooked her arm around yours, a quiet gesture that felt like home. She’d done the same thing when you were teenagers, sharing the lumpy couch in your parents’ living room, giggling over something trivial while your mom cooked dinner in the next room.
“What happened?” she murmured, her voice soft but curious, as if she could already sense the shift in your mood. The laugh track bubbled in the background, filling the space between her words.
“Santi’s not coming,” you said, glancing at the TV without really seeing it. “He sent Frankie.”
You felt a pang, not just from the change in plans but from the weight of the goodbye looming in the background. You’d learned to carry that feeling since Emma moved out of Austin—this persistent ache, like a thread pulling tighter with every visit that ended. On most days, it faded into the background. But today, it stuck to you, clinging like a damp sock you couldn’t quite shake off.
“That Frankie?”
“I doubt he knows any others.”
“How convenient,” she said, her voice low with mockery, though her arm squeezed yours gently. “Well, call me when you get there. And try to be nice to him, if you can manage it.”
Emma turned her head slightly, just enough to glance at you out of the corner of her eye. “And don’t take too long to come back and visit me, okay?”
“You could always visit Austin, you know."
“It’s more fun if you come here. You get to be a tourist,” she said, with that breezy logic she always used to disarm you. “I already know Austin. That’s not so exciting.”
You snorted, more out of habit than disagreement. She wasn’t wrong. Emma rarely was.
The rest of the evening passed in near silence, broken only by the low murmur of the television. First, another episode of Friends, then one of The Nanny. The rhythm of the shows was familiar, the kind of easy, forgettable comfort that didn’t require much from you. At some point, Emma shifted closer, resting her head on your shoulder. Her breathing slowed, deepened, a steady rise and fall that seemed to sync with your own. She didn’t say anything, didn’t need to. There was something about her presence, her weight against you, that felt like a reminder—you were understood here, even when you didn’t have the words to explain yourself. She wasn't just your best friend, she was your sister.
The sharp blare of a car horn shattered the calm, breaking through the evening like the crack of distant thunder. You flinched, your body instinctively tensing, the warm cocoon of the moment dissolving in an instant. Emma didn’t stir much, her eyes still closed, her arm still draped over yours. You nudged her gently, tapping her arm until she groaned softly and sat up, squinting against the glow of the TV.
“I think he’s here,” you said, your voice low but cutting through the quiet.
Emma stretched in one graceful motion, her arms arching overhead before she bent down to grab the bright lavender Crocs she kept by the bed. The shoes, adorned with an assortment of decorative pins—a blue flower, a miniature coffee cup, and a small plastic dinosaur—were an oddly perfect reflection of her: delicate, energetic, and just the right amount of ridiculous, in the best way.
“Come on, I’ll walk you out,” she said, her tone casual, but there was a softness to it, an unspoken understanding that made the impending goodbye feel heavier.
Outside, the heat clung to you immediately, the air thick and sticky, humming with the faint buzz of cicadas. Your gaze landed on the car parked in front of Emma’s house, and something in you tensed. It wasn’t Santi’s car, of course, and it wasn’t Santi standing there waiting.
Frankie was leaning against the hood, arms crossed, his whole posture radiating impatience. He looked as though he’d been sculpted there, his bored expression so exaggerated it almost felt theatrical. The heat shimmered in waves around him, but he didn’t seem to notice—or care. He wore a rumpled gray shirt that looked like it hadn’t been ironed in weeks and a pair of dark sunglasses, their reflective lenses hiding whatever was going on behind them. The cap was familiar, too—plain, worn, the same style you’d seen him wear before, though this time in a faded gray that matched his shirt.
For a fleeting, irrational moment, you thought maybe this was all a mistake. That Santi might suddenly appear, stepping out from behind the car or walking up the driveway with that easy laugh of his, telling you it had all been a joke. But the driveway remained empty, and Frankie, noticing you, straightened up with a kind of deliberate slowness.
He started walking toward you, each step measured, as if he were pacing himself for an obligation he didn’t particularly want to fulfill. His movements had the casual indifference of someone who would rather be anywhere else, but was too resigned to argue.
“Where’s Santi?” you asked as you approached, the question coming out sharper than you’d intended.
Frankie didn’t answer immediately. He simply closed the distance between you with deliberate, unhurried steps. Then, without a word, he grabbed the suitcase from your hand in one fluid motion. The gesture caught you off guard—not because he took it, but because of how mechanical it felt. He didn’t look at you, didn’t acknowledge you in any meaningful way. It was as though you were just an extension of the bag he was moving, an obstacle to be dealt with as quickly as possible.
“He couldn’t make it,” he said at last, his voice flat, almost dismissive.
He hauled the suitcase toward the trunk and tossed it in with a thud that seemed louder than it should’ve been. The sound echoed briefly, underscoring his lack of finesse. He slammed the trunk shut with a single decisive motion and turned back toward the driver’s seat, his body language broadcasting that he considered the interaction over.
“He didn’t tell me anything about it,” you said, your voice rising slightly, tinged with disbelief. You stayed rooted to the spot, your feet planted as if the weight of the confusion had sunk into the concrete beneath you.
Frankie paused, his hand on the car door.
“It was a last-minute thing.”
Before you could respond—before you could even begin to untangle your frustration into something coherent—he opened the door, slid into the driver’s seat, and pulled it shut behind him with a force that made the air shudder.
You turned back toward the house. Emma was watching from the porch, her arms crossed loosely over her chest. Her expression hovered somewhere between curiosity and bewilderment, her head tilting slightly as you approached.
She hugged you tightly, holding on a beat longer than usual. When you pulled away, her eyes searched yours, silently asking questions you didn’t have answers for.
“I’ll call you when I get there,” you said, though you weren’t sure what the call would entail—whether you’d laugh about all this, or vent, or just let her voice fill the empty spaces.
Her lips twitched into a faint smile, one tinged with resignation.
“I love you so much,” you added, your voice quieter now. “Take care of yourself, okay?”
“I always do. I love you too. Take care and call me as soon as you can."
She stepped back as you turned toward the car, your feet dragging slightly with each step.
Now, an hour and a half later, the car sped steadily toward Austin, the scenery blurring into a series of indistinct shapes. Frankie hadn’t said a word since you’d left Emma’s house, and the silence had settled in the car like a heavy fog, pressing down on you with every passing mile.
You’d considered speaking—several times, in fact—but every potential conversation starter you thought of seemed pointless. What was there to say to him? You barely knew each other, and what little you did know felt more like a series of grudges than shared history. The only things you had in common were your mutual love for Santi and, apparently, your mutual irritation with each other. Neither felt like enough to bridge the yawning gap between you.
You stared out the window, the dry, flat landscape sliding by in endless monotony, like a movie stripped of plot and color. Pale beige fields stretched into the horizon, broken only by the occasional cluster of power lines. The sameness of it all seemed to lull the world into a kind of dull, static hum.
The only relief came from the music spilling softly from the car’s speakers—classic rock, its grainy tones unmistakable even at low volume. The sound was tethered to Frankie’s phone, resting in the cupholder beside him, the screen glowing faintly every so often with an incoming notification he didn’t bother to check. A Fleetwood Mac song began again, its familiar opening chords filling the silence for the third time since you’d left.
You shifted in your seat, glancing at him from the corner of your eye before turning your attention back to the road ahead.
“Do you like this song?”
“I think so.”
“It’s played three times already.”
“It’s a good song,” he said softly, his voice low enough to be mistaken for an afterthought.
You turned back to the window, letting the conversation dissolve into the space between you. He hadn’t said it to be defensive—just matter-of-fact, like the song itself was reason enough. You folded your arms across your chest, the seatbelt digging slightly into your side.
Then, your mind wandered back to Santi, to the message that had upended your day. What had he been thinking? Of all his friends, why send Frankie? The question rolled over in your head, each repetition more insistent than the last. Was it an oversight? A logistical decision made in haste, without considering how you’d feel about it? Or was it intentional? That idea sat uneasily with you, gnawing at the edge of your thoughts. He knew how strange things felt between you and Frankie. Hell, everyone knew. They’d all been there, witnessed it firsthand—the arguments, the uncomfortable silences, the way your personalities seemed to clash as naturally as oil and water.
The possibility that Santi might’ve chosen Frankie on purpose—maybe even as some misguided attempt to force you into tolerating each other—bothered you more than you wanted to admit. You shifted again, suddenly restless, as the car hummed along the empty stretch of highway, the silence between you growing heavier despite the steady background of Fleetwood Mac.
Over the last few years, Frankie had been a fixture in your life, the way someone else’s shadow might be—not yours, but unavoidable. Being your brother’s best friend meant your paths crossed often enough, though you both seemed to approach these encounters with mutual disdain. You didn’t like him, and he didn’t bother pretending to like you. Disgust was the word that came to mind when you thought about how he looked at you. Not exaggerated or theatrical, just a cool, unflinching disgust, as though he found something about you fundamentally wrong.
The last time you’d spoken more than a handful of clipped, perfunctory words to each other was in Santi’s kitchen a few years ago. That was the breaking point. The fight. It wasn’t dramatic, not really—no yelling, no slammed doors—but it was the kind of exchange that changed things irreversibly. After that, you decided you didn’t want to think about him, let alone look at him, ever again.
And that was the end of it. You stopped trying to explain. You'd come to accept that to Santi, Frankie was probably nothing like how you saw him. You weren't sure what it was about him that rubbed you the wrong way, but you knew that with your brother, Frankie surely couldn't be as unpleasant as he was with you.
So, you ignored him. Every time you saw him, you made sure your gaze passed over him like he was just another fixture in the room. And he did the same. It was as though you were two people occupying the same space, but never truly sharing it.
Why on earth, then, had he agreed to come and pick you up?
The silence in the car stretched on, and you settled into the uncomfortable rhythm of it, letting it fill the space between you and him. Frankie’s eyes stayed fixed on the road, and his thumbs twitched restlessly over the steering wheel.
Finally, he broke the silence, but his words felt like a formality.
“We'll stop for lunch,” he said, his voice low, almost indifferent. His gaze flickered to you for a brief second, enough to make sure you had heard, before returning to the road. “I haven’t eaten anything all day. Do you mind?”
You were starting to feel the pangs of hunger yourself, but you didn’t let that soften your response. You couldn’t.
“No,” you replied, your voice curt, colder than you intended.
Frankie nodded, the movement barely noticeable. He turned his attention back to the road, his expression unchanged, as though you hadn’t spoken at all. His calmness was maddening.
For a moment, you considered breaking the silence again, saying something just to disrupt his steady composure. But then you thought better of it. There was still a long way to go, and the last thing you wanted was for this trip to feel even more suffocating than it already was. So you stayed silent, the weight of your irritation pressing down on you, knowing that with each mile, you were only getting closer to end of this torture.
Fifteen minutes later, the engine turned off and you looked over at the driver's side, half-expecting Frankie to say something—anything—but he was already in motion. Before you could open your mouth, the door swung open, and he was out of the car, his body moving with an urgency that seemed to come from some invisible force, as though he were escaping the confines of the vehicle. For a moment, the empty passenger seat seemed to expand, making the car feel smaller, quieter.
You stayed there a second longer, watching as Frankie made his way across the parking lot. His steps were steady, deliberate, almost too casual, as if walking away from you might somehow erase you from the moment entirely. He didn’t look back, didn’t pause to see if you were following. And honestly, you weren’t in any rush to do so. There was no reason to catch up with him. He clearly didn’t want you there, and you didn’t want to be near him either. This trip wasn’t about you; it was about doing your brother a favor.
The parking lot was modest, just enough space for the few cars scattered about. It wasn’t anything remarkable, just a typical lot for a small, unassuming restaurant. The faded lines barely marked the spots, and you counted five cars parked across the patch of asphalt. The windows of the restaurant were perfectly clean, and you could see people inside. A couple of families were chatting animatedly at their tables, and a few solitary diners were hunched over their food, their focus far from the simple meal in front of them.
With a sigh, you walked toward the entrance. Above the door, the sign Jimmy’s buzzed softly in red neon, its glow a little too bright for the evening light. Next to it, a yellow arrow with tiny, flickering bulbs pointed inside, inviting anyone who passed by to come in. "Eat here!" The sign seemed eager, almost enthusiastic in its attempt to catch attention.
You pushed open the door, the bell chiming brightly above your head as you stepped inside. The rush of cool air from the air conditioning met you instantly, a welcome contrast to the heat that still clung to your skin from the car. The coolness was almost too sharp, sending a slight shiver down your spine as you paused just inside the doorway. Your eyes took a moment to adjust to the softer light inside. The diner was small, but it had a cozy, familiar feel, with colorful walls and a few tables scattered around. The noise inside was a comfortable hum, punctuated by the occasional clink of silverware, low conversation and the music in the background.
It didn’t take long to spot him. Frankie was seated at the bar, absorbed in the menu in front of him. His posture was casual, but there was something about the way he held himself, his shoulders slightly hunched, that made it feel like he was a little too withdrawn, like he didn’t want to engage.
You walked toward him slowly, the sound of your footsteps softened by the tiles beneath you. You were just about to sit next to him when he looked up, his gaze meeting yours briefly before returning to the menu. His voice was flat, almost bored as he spoke, as if the interaction was nothing more than a passing inconvenience.
“Go find a table,” he said, his tone neither rude nor warm.
You frowned, taking the menu from his hand without a word. His gaze didn’t follow you as he stood up, stretching slightly as he rose from the bar stool. There was something about his movements—relaxed, yet sharp—that made you feel like you weren’t really a part of whatever was going on. His shirt clung slightly to his back from the heat of the car, the evidence of sweat still visible on his skin, and you couldn't help but notice the fine hairs on his arms standing on end, a subtle sign of the sharp contrast between the stifling heat outside and the chill of the air-conditioned room.
“I’m goin' to the bathroom. Be back in a sec,” he added casually, his voice even, before disappearing down the narrow hallway to the right. No expectation of a response. No glance to see if you were still standing there, just a simple statement. He was gone before you could offer anything in reply.
You were left standing there, the laminated menu in your hands, a slight weariness creeping in.
With a sigh, you turned on your heels and began scanning the room for a table. There was still at least an hour and a half of travel left, plus however long you'd spend eating. Why hadn’t Santi given you a heads-up? You could’ve taken the bus or the train, something that didn’t involve sitting in a car with anyone but him. But no, that wasn’t even an option, apparently.
You spotted an empty table near the back, next to the window, and as you walked toward it, the decor around you caught your eye. The place had a playful, nostalgic vibe, as if it were trying to channel the spirit of another time. Framed posters of Grease, Fame, Footloose, and Saturday Night Fever hung on the walls, adding to the feeling of a throwback to the ‘70s and ‘80s. It was all very upbeat, almost theatrical, like a movie set. The tables were red and white, and a jukebox stood in the corner.
You glanced at the posters, half wondering if the owner had lived through that era or just loved the aesthetic of it all. Either way, it gave the place a sense of warmth and a bit of character, a stark contrast to the outside.
Suddenly, a voice cut through the quiet murmur of the restaurant, sharp and unexpected, and your name echoed in the air. You froze, the sound ricocheting in your chest, followed by a rush of emotions you didn’t want to acknowledge, let alone feel. You could feel the familiar tension ripple through your muscles, a mix of surprise, confusion, and something deeper you couldn’t quite place. Slowly, you turned to face him, every step feeling like it took an eternity.
“Harry,” you said, the name falling from your lips like it belonged to someone else, someone distant. A smile flickered across your face—perfectly timed and just the right shape, though it felt hollow, as fake as the kindness you were trying to project. Your lips tightened, a familiar mask of politeness slipping over your expression, one you wished you didn’t have to wear. “What... what are you doing here?”
His smile was instant and disarming, his surprise clear, and his happiness so genuine it made your chest tighten. For a moment, it erased the absurdity of seeing him here, of all places, in the middle of nowhere. The coincidence felt cruel, as if the universe was playing a cruel joke on you.
The last time you saw him, three months ago, it felt like a lifetime ago—a goodbye steeped in heartbreak. You’d clung to him, tears soaking his crisp white shirt as he whispered reassurances: “It’s okay. You’ll be okay. I care about you.” But the words he didn’t say cut deeper: he cared for you, but he loved her.
It had been a casual fling, no strings attached—or so you told yourself. Then came the day he confessed: he was in love with Lisa, a friend you’d never met. They were getting married. His words, calm and rehearsed, felt like a gut punch, but his excitement betrayed him. He was happy. You weren’t.
You tried to be strong, to tell him you were fine, even as you broke down. Because you loved him, and you couldn’t bear the thought of him with her.
And now, here he was, smiling like nothing had happened, curiosity in his eyes—oblivious to the wreckage he’d left behind.
In front of him, Lisa was sitting with a big bright smile. You’d seen her face before, her perfectly curated Instagram photos, her flawless smile that could have been lifted straight from a movie. But in person? She was even more striking, the kind of beauty that didn’t need filters or captions. The kind of beauty that made everything around her seem insignificant, that made you feel small just standing next to her. Her presence was magnetic, the sort of thing that pulled your gaze despite every instinct telling you to look away.
Suddenly, the air conditioning hit you like a blast of cold, sharp enough to make you flinch. But then again, maybe it wasn’t the air conditioning. Maybe it was just your body freezing in place, rigid with surprise and something much harder to define. You didn’t know how to respond. Harry was talking—his voice was there, filling the space, but the words barely reached you. They felt like distant echoes, the kind that might have meant something once but now were just noise, reverberating uselessly around you.
“What are you doing around here?” he asked, pulling you back from the tangle of thoughts you were trying so hard to keep at bay.
You blinked, trying to center yourself, but it was like you had forgotten how to breathe properly.
“We’re... I’m just passing through, heading back to Austin,” you said, your voice sounding too steady, too rehearsed, even to your own ears. Your heart was lodged somewhere near your throat, threatening to choke you if you said too much. “I went to visit Emma.”
“Ah, Emma. How is she? Is she still in Dallas?”
“Yep,” you answered, the word sharp and clipped, offering nothing more.
The silence hung between you, thick and uncomfortable. You could feel it stretching, wrapping itself around your words, making them heavier than they needed to be. Finally, you exhaled, the air coming out in a slow, resigned sigh.
“What about you guys? What are you doing around here?”
You didn’t really want to know, not at all.
“Lisa’s grandparents live in Waco,” Harry said with that wide smile of his, the one that always made you feel like you were watching the world tilt on its axis. He looked at Lisa like she was the center of his universe, as if everything that mattered began and ended with her. “We went to take the invitation to them personally and I met the rest of the family while we were at it.”
You didn’t smile. You couldn’t. Your lips pulled tight, the gesture feeling almost painful, like your face wasn’t sure how to form the expression anymore. The words were there, though, just beneath the surface.
“Right, right.” You swallowed, forcing the words out despite how hollow they felt. “How cool. You must be so excited—a summer wedding, then?”
You’d known for weeks—September 13th. The invitation, with its sparkling gold lettering, had made your stomach churn. You buried it under junk mail, unable to face seeing him so happy, so certain of what he had.
But you couldn’t say that, could you? You couldn’t tell him that the mere thought of them together, of their future, felt like a knife to your chest. So you forced a smile, a tight, lifeless thing, and let the conversation carry on.
"That's right," Harry said, laughing as his gaze flickered to Lisa, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Even though we wanted to enjoy the early days of fall, Lisa wanted to get married around summer, mostly because of her parents. They got married during summer too."
Lisa laughed softly, the sound like a note held too long, then spoke, her voice low and warm.
"It's not just that," she said, her hand resting lightly on Harry's. You found yourself looking away, unable to hold the image of them together for too long. "Everything looks more beautiful during this season, doesn't it? Even the days last longer."
Her voice was thick with something you couldn't quite place—familiarity, maybe. Or maybe it was love, that unspoken thing that you couldn’t ignore, even if you wanted to. The way they fit together made everything else seem smaller, less important. And yet Harry’s eyes shifted to you, seeking something. Approval, maybe. He didn’t say it, but it was clear. His look said: Don’t disagree.
"That's true. Summer is beautiful," you replied, feeling the words slip out too easily, forced through your teeth. Your voice came out softer than you intended, and you felt Lisa’s smile hit you like a jolt. It was stunning—perfect in a way that seemed almost too much, like she’d been born to smile in that exact way. You hated her for it, just a little.
"We look forward to seeing you there," Harry said, breaking the moment, his words direct and heavy. "We haven't received your confirmation—you’re going, aren't you?"
How could he ask that, not see how unnatural this felt? But Harry wasn’t cruel—just unaware. You’d never told him you loved him, never made your feelings clear. To him, this was normal. He thought you’d be fine.
“I... um—”
“Don’t worry about going alone,” he said, that same nonchalant tone that had once made you smile. "You always meet people at weddings."
Heat flooded your face, burning like a slap. The words stung, but his obliviousness made it worse. You wished the ground would swallow you whole—or anything to escape. Instead, you laughed—a thin, brittle sound that barely masked the pain.
"Ah, no, that’s not it," you lied, your voice trembling just enough for Harry to notice. "That's covered."
“Oh, is it?” Harry asked, raising an eyebrow, his interest piqued. He leaned forward, a relieved smile crossing his face.
"Sure," you said, forcing a confidence into your tone that you didn’t feel. "I’ll... I’ll go with my boyfriend."
Harry's eyes widened a little, and then the smile appeared again—this one more genuine, more curious. He tapped the table, an excited gesture that made your stomach twist.
“You don’t say?” he said, his voice rising in pitch. “And who’s the lucky guy?”
You wanted to crumble. You wanted to say nothing, because the truth felt too big, too overwhelming, and there was no way to say it without everything falling apart. But you couldn't. You just couldn't.
As if by some celestial miracle, you saw Frankie emerge from the hallway, his attention absorbed by the screen of his phone, scrolling, unaware of anything around him. His timing was perfect, and relief washed over you, as if fate had sent him. He wasn’t supposed to be here, yet there he was—a lifeline in the chaos.
For a moment, he seemed to glow, his familiar, worn cap catching the harsh lights like a crown. You’d never been so glad to see someone. Then his eyes met yours, and his expression shifted—confusion flickering as he took in your frantic stance, the mess of emotions written on your face.
Before you could stop it, before you could make any sense of what was happening, a smile stretched across your face—too wide, too fast, like a reflex you hadn’t been prepared for. It was probably a little too sharp to be anything but forced, but you couldn’t help it. You couldn’t help anything.
"Frankie," you said, the words tumbling out with more enthusiasm than you intended. It sounded too bright, almost exaggerated, but there was no stopping it now. "This is Frankie... Frankie, my boyfriend.”
You weren’t sure what you were doing, but it didn’t matter—you needed to make something clear. Frankie tensed beside you, glancing your way, trying to read the situation. His eyes met yours, and you silently begged him: Help. Please.
For a moment, he studied you, his gaze flicking between you and the couple. Then, as if something clicked, his expression shifted to understanding. He realized what he had to do and adjusted instantly.
"Right," he finally said, his voice low, the smile on his face still a little unsure but polite. "I’m Frankie."
Harry extended his hand with a practiced smile, warm but a touch too bright. Frankie hesitated, his gaze shifting from Harry’s hand to your face, brow slightly furrowed as he tried to assess the situation—or his role in it.
You stepped closer, tapping his waist lightly, a subtle signal to act. He blinked, refocusing, and finally took Harry’s hand, his grip firm and deliberate. But in his eyes, there was a flicker of discomfort—one only you noticed.
“Frankie,” Harry said, his voice carrying a weight of something too calm for the situation. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, I'm Harry.” Then, he nodded enthusiastically, dropping his hand back to the table. “And this is Lisa."
Lisa smiled, her gaze bright and almost blinding.
“Nice to meet ya, Frankie,” she said, her voice the epitome of warmth, her charm effortless, her presence just... perfect. Oh my God, just stop it!
Frankie finally turned his attention back to you, though it wasn’t immediately clear if he was still processing the social niceties or deciding how best to carry this conversation forward. His voice shifted slightly as he spoke again.
“Same here,” he said, his tone unfamiliar to you—something smoother, almost softer, like he was trying to convince himself as much as anyone else.
He moved closer, just a bit too close, slipping his arm around your waist with ease, sending a flutter through your stomach. His hand rested lightly against your side, his palm warm at your back. You froze, unable to focus on anything but the pulse of his touch, the way he effortlessly played the boyfriend role.
It felt wrong, uncomfortable.
Confusion and relief mixed inside you, unsure if the relief came from the act itself or the distraction it provided from the situation.
"Well," Frankie broke the silence. "Sorry to interrupt, but we need to leave soon. I want to make sure this beautiful woman gets some food before we go—otherwise, she goes bad."
You blinked, momentarily taken aback by the way he phrased it.
Harry chuckled, his easy laughter filling the space.
“Yeah, I believe you,” he said, his grin still wide but with a spark of curiosity. He shot a look at Lisa, then back at Frankie, narrowing his eyes just a touch. “That’s the main reason we stopped. Though I’ll admit,” he added, glancing down at the table with a mock grimace, “I was the one really starving.”
The awkwardness of the moment barely registered for Harry. He seemed to think everything was going smoothly, unaware of the small cracks in the facade that were threatening to show. Frankie, however, was more aware than anyone, and you could see it in his eyes—the way his face shifted from the casual smile to something more guarded, something more carefully neutral.
Frankie gave a short, almost amused laugh, pulling his arm back from your waist with a light tap. His tone was polite, more deliberate than before.
“Yeah, I’m sure you can relate,” he said, a flicker of warmth in his eyes. “Keeping your lady happy, that's what it's all about, isn't it?”
You tried to smile, but it came out thin, tight around the edges. Your legs became weak.
Harry’s laugh was light. He buyed it.
Frankie straightened up slightly, offering his hand to Harry in that careful, calculated way that now seemed practiced, even though it hadn’t been moments ago. His movements were calculated, polite, but entirely different from the Frankie you knew. The way he was acting felt like an entirely unfamiliar version of him—Thank God.
“Okay, thanks for the chat, but we bett—”
"Yeah, of course," Harry interrupted, still upbeat and completely oblivious to the tension. "It was nice meeting you, Frankie. Take care of her, alright? She's... well, you know. A special one."
Frankie’s smile stiffened, the edges barely moving as he gave a short nod. His eyes flicked to you for a fleeting second, his expression tight and controlled, though something was definitely off.
"I will, man," he replied, voice steady but carrying an underlying edge. "I’ve got her covered. Don’t worry. She’s in good hands."
“Bye, Harry,” you said, turning to him with a friendly but somewhat distant smile, your hand lifting in a wave that felt too casual for the weight of everything you hadn’t said. “And you too, Lisa. Good luck with the wedding!”
Lisa smiled warmly. “Thank you,” she replied, her voice smooth. “Let us know if you're coming."
“Yeah. Hope to see you at the wedding. You too, Frankie,” Harry said, just before you thought about starting to walk to the table at the back of the place.
Frankie looked confused, and looked at you for an answer, or for you to say something.
"Sure," you said, taking him by the arm, ready to leave. "We'll definitely be there!"
You moved in silence toward the booth, Frankie's hand resting at the small of your back, guiding you like an automatic reflex. The low hum of conversation in the restaurant seemed to fade as you both reached the table, and you were strangely relieved that the high backs of the seats shielded you from Harry’s view.
He dropped into the seat across from you, his presence as loud and brash as ever, even without a word. When you looked at him, it struck you how quickly he'd reverted to the expression he always wore around you—furrowed brows, lips pressed into a thin, almost unnatural line. It wasn’t clear if it was annoyance, confusion, or just him being him.
“I’m so hungry,” you said, flipping through the laminated menu like it might hold the answers to something bigger than lunch. “I really want a burger, and some fries.”
He didn’t reply immediately, his stare heavy on you. Then:
“What the fuck was that?”
You sighed, closing the menu and flattening your hands on the table as if bracing yourself. His face was a familiar mix of wide eyes, creased forehead, and that particular grimace that always made you feel like you’d said something wrong.
You shrugged. “My ex.”
“Okay? And?”
“And that’s it. Nothing else.”
Frankie leaned back with a dramatic exhale, the leather of the booth creaking under him. He shook his head in disbelief, his jaw tightening.
“Since when am I your boyfriend?” he asked, his tone sharp with irritation. “Last time I checked, I was doing your brother a favor.”
“Don’t worry about it,” you said quickly, cheeks warming. You picked up the menu again, trying to will your face back to neutrality. “Thanks for playing along, anyway.”
He sighed—loud, pointed. You glanced up, and sure enough, he was staring at you, his fingers drumming a steady rhythm on the table. Not impatient, exactly. Calculated.
“You’re not going to tell me what the fuck that was?”
You ignored him, letting the embarrassment swirl hot in your stomach as you fixed your eyes on the menu. Burgers. Burgers. Burgers. Burgers. Fries. Onion rings, maybe.
“Hey,” he said sharply, snapping his fingers in front of your face.
You blinked, snapping your head up to look at him.
“Oh, are you talking to me?”
Frankie gave you a look so exaggerated you almost laughed, except you knew he wasn’t joking.
“Who else would I be talking to? You think I’m out here monologuing? Who are you, fucking De Niro?”
“Hey!” you snapped, slamming the menu down on the table. The sound echoed between you, a sharp punctuation that sent a ripple of air across his forehead, lifting the dark strands just slightly. “Don’t talk to me like that, Francisco. Who do you think you’re talking to? We’re not friends.”
He snorted, the sound sharp but oddly soft at the same time, pulling off his cap and placing it on the seat beside him. With a low groan, he ran a hand through his hair, fingers catching briefly in the strands. His gaze found yours again, his posture seemingly relaxed but betraying a subtle tension. You could see it in the way his shoulders didn’t quite settle, in the way his eyes didn’t blink as he studied you.
“I know, we’re not friends. But I just lied for you. Why? Who was that? And why are you acting so weird?”
Before you could answer, he straightened in his seat, leaning forward slightly. “No, wait. The real question is: why are you acting weirder than usual?”
You folded your arms, leaning back until you felt the booth press into your shoulders. Your gaze flicked to the front door, the thought of walking out taking root in your mind. Leaving felt easier—safer. Honestly, you’d rather trudge all the way back to Austin on foot, the heat and endless asphalt blistering your skin, than sit here and explain yourself to Frankie. He wouldn’t care. Worse, he might care just enough to make you regret opening your mouth.
When your eyes returned to him, though, his expression surprised you. Serious, yes. But not angry. He was watching you with an almost disarming calmness, like he’d decided he had all the time in the world to wait for your answer.
You sighed, the sound shaky as it escaped your chest.
“It’s my ex,” you said, barely above a murmur.
“Yes,” he said immediately. “Your ex. I got that part. And?”
“And his fiancée.”
“Aha,” he nodded slowly, like he was piecing something together, but his eyes didn’t leave yours. “Why did you lie to them?”
You swallowed hard, the pulse in your neck thudding too loudly in your ears.
“Because...” Your voice wavered, and you hated it. “Because... Um, he told me I might meet someone at the wedding.”
Frankie blinked, his confusion shifting into something closer to disbelief.
“What?”
“God,” you muttered, rolling your eyes as heat crept up your neck. Your hands dropped to your thighs, fingers curling into the fabric of your jeans. “We dated for four months, and he broke up with me to get engaged to her. Then he invited me to their wedding. When I said I’d go, he told me not to worry about showing up alone, because I’d probably meet someone there.”
Frankie’s mouth opened slightly, but no words came out, so you pressed on, a flush of anger sparking under your skin.
“So, I panicked,” you admitted, your voice sharpening. “I told him not to worry, that I’d bring my boyfriend. And then you showed up, and it just—it made sense in the moment, okay? That’s it.”
“It made sense to you to say I was your boyfriend?” he asked, his tone incredulous. “You couldn’t have said I was someone else? Made up something better?”
“No, it didn’t occur to me!” you hissed, your eyes widening as your voice rose, though you kept it just shy of shouting. “I panicked, okay? I’m sorry! What was I supposed to do?”
He stared at you for a moment, his face a mix of annoyance and bafflement, before leaning back again. You could see the wheels turning in his head, though whatever he was thinking, he wasn’t about to share it with you.
You sank deeper into your seat, glaring at the table like it might offer some kind of solace. But all you could feel was the mortifying heat of his gaze, still fixed firmly on you.
Frankie scratched his forehead, his fingers dragging slowly down to his chin, where they rested briefly before falling to the table. His expression was skeptical, as if he were trying to solve a particularly irritating puzzle.
“Okay,” he started, his voice even but edged with disbelief. “So, you dated this guy for three months—”
“Four months,” you corrected, your tone clipped.
“Right. Four months. And then he left you to get engaged?”
“Yeah.”
Frankie leaned back, his posture deceptively relaxed, but the sharpness in his eyes gave him away.
“You’re telling me he cheated on you, and you’re still planning to go to his fucking wedding? Are you out of your mind?”
He propped his chin on his left hand, elbow planted firmly on the table, and his gaze locked onto you. There was something in his expression that made your stomach twist—a combination of pity and incredulity that made you feel stupid, even if he hadn’t said the word outright.
“No, he didn’t cheat on me,” you replied, lowering your voice as you leaned forward slightly, not wanting anyone else to overhear. “We weren’t in a serious relationship. We were just... casually dating. He was always in love with her, but they couldn’t figure things out. I knew that. He told me.”
Frankie’s eyebrows lifted, his disbelief evident.
“He told you he was in love with another woman, and you still kept dating him?”
“No,” you shot back, frowning. “He told me after a while—around the time we broke up. I would never date someone who was in love with someone else.”
“But you were in love with him, weren’t you?”
There it was. That tone. The one that suggested Frankie thought he had you all figured out, as if your life and feelings were nothing more than a series of obvious moves on a chessboard he could read from across the room. He was so infuriatingly arrogant, so sure of himself.
You narrowed your eyes, but the involuntary twitch of your eyebrows betrayed you.
“I had feelings for him,” you admitted, your voice stiff with frustration.
Frankie tilted his head slightly, his lips quirking into a half-smile that made you want to smack him.
“Okay, let me make sure I’ve got this straight: this guy you casually dated for four months left you for another woman, got engaged, invited you to the wedding, and you, still hung up on him, agreed to go but invented an imaginary boyfriend so you wouldn’t have to show up alone. That about right?”
“I’m not in love with him,” you snapped, crossing your arms defensively and shaking your head.
“I don’t believe you."
“I don’t care what you believe."
“You want to know what I think?”
“Are you deaf?” you said, your lips pressing into a pout. “I just told you I don’t care.”
“I think you’re crazy for going to that wedding,” he said, leaning forward slightly. His voice dropped lower, as though he were sharing a secret, though his words carried no sympathy. “Do you want to torture yourself or something? Are you a masochist?”
The word slipped out like a dagger, his eyes narrowing as he studied your reaction, his face drawing closer, his voice almost a whisper.
You exhaled sharply, a mix of frustration and disbelief, biting your lower lip as you turned to look out the window. The distant hum of cars on the road outside felt like the only thing grounding you in the moment.
When you looked back at him, your voice was steadier, quieter.
“We’re friends. Things between us ended well. Why wouldn’t I go to his wedding?”
“So he broke your heart, and you’re still going to his wedding. Got it.” Frankie leaned back slightly as he said it, his tone deliberately even, but the words were sharp enough to make you flinch.
You felt the heat rise in your cheeks, anger mixing with a deep, familiar embarrassment.
“Why the fuck do you care anyway? I already told you everything. Make fun of me all you want, but stop interrogating me and leave me alone.”
Frankie’s eyebrows lifted, his expression shifting into something maddeningly amused. A slow, sarcastic smile spread across his face, the kind that made your stomach twist in irritation.
“You got me involved in this, remember?” he said, his voice light, almost playful, which only made you angrier.
“It was just a little lie, that’s all.”
He let out a short, humorless laugh, shaking his head.
“Well, you didn’t think it through,” he said flatly, reaching across the table to grab the menu you’d abandoned. He straightened it out in front of him, his fingers smoothing the creases, and his eyes scanned the options with an air of exaggerated focus.
For a moment, you thought he might actually drop it. But of course, he didn’t.
“I wonder what he’ll think,” Frankie said suddenly, his tone casual but cutting, “when he sees you show up to the wedding alone.” His eyes stayed on the menu, but his words hung heavy in the air between you. “You should’ve come up with something else. Be more witty next time. Or, I don’t know, just don’t go to the wedding. That works too.”
Oh.
Your stomach churned at the thought, the weight of it pressing down on you as your mind raced through the possibilities. He was right, of course. What were you going to do? There was no way you could actually show up to the wedding now. You’d have to turn down the invitation at the last minute, make up some absurd excuse about why you couldn’t make it. Or maybe you wouldn’t say anything at all. Harry didn’t deserve an explanation. He wasn’t entitled to one.
The silence stretched between you, uncomfortable and loud. You didn’t answer him. What could you say? You felt silly, even ridiculous, sitting there, replaying the moment over and over in your mind. Of all the places in the world, did you really have to run into Harry there, in the middle of the road, with Frankie of all people?
None of this would’ve happened if Santiago had come to pick you up like he was supposed to. If he’d warned you he couldn’t make it, you would’ve saved yourself the humiliation. You wouldn’t have had to deal with Frankie’s smirking face or his infuriating commentary.
You stared at the table, your fingers fidgeting with the edge of it. God, why did everything have to turn into a mess? Why couldn’t things just go smoothly for once?
Frankie didn’t seem to notice—or care—that you hadn’t responded. He flipped a page of the menu, his expression unreadable now, as if he’d already moved on. But his words lingered, heavy and persistent, refusing to leave you alone.
With your appetite nearly nonexistent, you ordered a hamburger. It sat heavy in front of you, unappealing and far too big. You nibbled at it slowly, methodically, as if chewing it down might somehow help you swallow the rest of your humiliation. Across the table, Frankie made quick work of his own meal. He ate like someone who hadn’t seen food in days, the kind of eating that could make anyone watching feel small.
When he finished—barely ten minutes in—he leaned back in his chair and fixed you with a look. Not an outright stare, but enough of one that you could feel the weight of his impatience.
You didn’t care.
Instead, you turned your attention to the fries on your plate. Picking up each one with deliberate slowness, you savored them, your gaze drifting toward the window. Outside, the road stretched on endlessly, shimmering in the summer heat. Frankie sighed, low and exasperated, every few minutes, but to your surprise, he didn’t rush you.
When you finally stood to leave, Harry and Lisa were nowhere to be seen. Relief swept over you like cool water. If you’d had to exchange goodbyes with them, you were sure you’d lose every bite of food you’d managed to stomach.
You followed Frankie out to the car. His footsteps were quick and purposeful, the kind that demanded anyone trailing behind him keep up or risk being left behind. Once inside, the tight, enclosed space of the vehicle made your skin crawl. You clicked your seatbelt into place, but the snugness of the strap across your chest only added to your discomfort.
For a fleeting moment, you considered bolting. What if you just opened the door and threw yourself onto the hot, sticky asphalt? You’d roll a little, maybe scrape a knee, but at least you wouldn’t be here.
The car started with a low rumble, and Frankie turned up the music without a word. The sound wasn’t loud enough to drown out your thoughts, but it added a layer of noise, a distraction you didn’t ask for but didn’t resist either.
Your gaze shifted to the scenery blurring past the window. You rested your forehead against the cool glass, welcoming the breeze coming in through the lowered window. The air smelled faintly of gasoline and sun-warmed earth.
Frankie drove in silence, his hands steady on the wheel. His thumbs tapped along to the rhythm of the song playing faintly in the background—Rebel Yell by Billy Idol. You stared at the horizon, but your mind kept circling back to him.
He probably thought this whole situation was hilarious. You could see it in the way his eyebrows had lifted earlier, the way his lips twitched with incredulity every time he asked about Harry. He didn’t need to say it—he thought you were foolish, and maybe you were. You felt it, deep in your chest, that heavy, sinking shame that told you he was right to think so.
What the hell were you going to do?
Not going to the wedding wasn’t an option, not unless you wanted Harry to think you were still upset—or worse, that you still cared. But going? Going alone? That wasn’t an option either. You could bring someone else, maybe. But who?
Harry knew all your friends, and you didn’t have many male ones left who weren’t married, taken, or entirely inappropriate. Your brother’s friends? Sure, because that would work out great. Another one of Santiago’s buddies, strolling in on your arm. You ran through the list in your head. Will? No. Ben? Ben had a girlfriend.
It was hopeless. Every scenario felt more humiliating than the last.
God, you wished you could disappear. Or better yet, transform into something simple and unbothered. A worm, maybe. Worms didn’t have exes. They didn’t have weddings to dread.
You were spiraling, and it must have shown on your face because Frankie spoke up, his voice breaking through your chaotic thoughts.
“We’ll make a stop to fill up the tank, okay?” His tone was casual, distracted, as he turned left into the gas station lot.
“Sure,” you mumbled, barely lifting your head.
The car slowed to a stop, and you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. For a moment, the world outside felt steadier than the one inside your head.
You followed Frankie out of the car, your steps slower and more hesitant than his easy stride. He moved with the kind of casual confidence that seemed effortless, his shoulders relaxed and his head bobbing slightly as he hummed along to a song that had been playing a few miles back. The heat pressed down on you, thick and relentless, but he didn’t seem to notice.
You lingered by the passenger side, arms folded across your chest. Your gaze flitted to the gas station shop, where shelves of snacks and cold drinks promised brief relief from the sweltering air. For a fleeting moment, you considered going inside—maybe grabbing a soda, or even just standing under the blast of an air conditioner. But then you thought about how much longer that would draw out this journey. The idea of extending your time in Frankie’s company, even by a minute, was enough to keep you rooted in place.
So you waited, watching him in silence. He moved with the kind of efficiency you’d expect from someone used to things like this—mundane tasks, long drives, solitude. He didn’t rush, but he didn’t dawdle either. He glanced at you once as he replaced the nozzle, his expression unreadable, and then he climbed back into the car without a word.
You followed suit, settling into your seat and pulling the door shut with a soft click.
The miles ahead stretched out endlessly, yet the closer you got to Austin, the more your thoughts swirled. You cycled through possibilities, none of them good. Each option felt like another layer of embarrassment, a new way to showcase just how deeply you’d tangled yourself in this ridiculous situation.
Eventually, your mind settled on one solution—a compromise of sorts, though it was far from ideal. You turned it over and over, weighing the risk against your pride. It felt heavy in your chest, but the closer you got to the city, the harder it became to ignore.
Finally, as the familiar outline of Austin came into view, you forced yourself to speak.
“Frankie,” you said, your voice tentative. You turned to look at him, your hands fidgeting nervously in your lap.
He didn’t take his eyes off the road. “What?”
“You know,” you began, cautiously, “Santi loves you a lot. You’re one of his best friends.”
“I know.”
“And you must love Santi too, right? I mean, you’d do anything for him.”
At that, he glanced at you, his brows knitting together in confusion. The kindness in your voice must have thrown him off. But what really seemed to unnerve him was the faint, almost hesitant smile you were giving him.
“Of course I love him,” he said slowly, his tone edged with suspicion. “What do you want?”
You smiled a little wider, tilting your head. “Why do you think I want something?”
“Because you’re smiling at me like that,” he shot back, returning his focus to the road. “And it’s creepy. Stop it. You’re scaring me.”
“I just think,” you said carefully, “that it was really nice of you to go all the way to Dallas to pick me up. You didn’t have to, you know. I could’ve taken a bus or figured something out. But you did it anyway. You did me a favor today, and I just—”
He cut you off with a dry laugh, wiping the back of his hand across his forehead. A bead of sweat had formed there, glistening in the harsh afternoon light.
“If you want to call it that,” he muttered.
“I mean it,” you insisted, leaning slightly toward him. “You didn’t have to do this. You could’ve said no, and I wouldn’t have blamed you. But you didn’t. Why?”
His grip tightened on the wheel, and he shot you another quick, sidelong glance. His expression was guarded, like he wasn’t sure where this was going or if he wanted to know.
“I dunno,” he said finally, his tone clipped. “Because Santi asked me to. Because I had nothing else to do. Does it matter?”
You pursed your lips, staring straight ahead as your thoughts spiraled. Why were you nervous? It wasn’t fear—definitely not fear of him. But still, there was something about Frankie that unsettled you, something sharp-edged and unyielding in the way he looked at you, like he could see more than you intended to show.
You forced yourself to steady your breathing, trying to reason with your own hesitation. It didn’t matter if he was intimidating. It didn’t matter what he thought of you.
“I think you should come to the wedding with me,” you blurted, the words tumbling out before you had the chance to second-guess them. As soon as they were out, you snapped your gaze away, focusing intently on a crack in the dashboard as though it held the secrets of the universe.
“What?” Frankie’s tone wasn’t as surprised as you’d expected—it was more amused, like he thought you’d just said something profoundly ridiculous.
“You should come to the wedding with me,” you repeated, forcing yourself to look at him this time.
He turned his head briefly, his eyes scanning your face, his expression unreadable. He seemed to be studying you, trying to decide whether you were joking or if you’d completely lost your mind. Finally, he clicked his tongue and shook his head.
“No,” he said flatly.
“Frankie.”
“No.”
“Please.”
“What’s the matter with you?” he asked, his voice rising slightly in exasperation. “Did you hit your head or something? Have you completely lost it?”
“No, just hear me out,” you said, raising a hand in what you hoped was a calming gesture. He shot you a wary glance but didn’t interrupt. “It’ll just be a favor—a small favor. I swear, if you do this for me, I’ll give you whatever you want. Wathever. Um, well—not whatever you want,” you corrected quickly. “Something reasonable. Something human. Please.”
Frankie snorted, a small, incredulous smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“You’re asking me to pretend to be your boyfriend at the wedding of a guy who dumped you? And you’re the sister of one of my best friends?” He shook his head, laughing quietly, like he couldn’t quite believe the words coming out of your mouth.
You sighed, the weight of your desperation pressing down on you.
“Santi will understand,” you argued, your tone bordering on pleading now. “He will. And it’s not like I’m asking for much—just come with me for a little while. We don’t even have to stay all night. Just long enough to…” You trailed off, realizing how pathetic you sounded. “Just long enough to make it believable.”
“Sorry, no,” Frankie said firmly, cutting you off. “I’m not getting dragged into your drama. And honestly? I think it’s stupid for you to go to that wedding in the first place. What are you trying to prove? My answer is no. Invite someone else.”
Frustration burned in your chest, rising up to your cheeks as his words landed. You could feel your face heating, both from embarrassment and anger.
“I can’t invite someone else,” you snapped. “You’re my boyfriend, remember? That’s what Harry thinks. He saw you. They saw you. And you did a pretty good job pretending to be nice to me today—can’t you do it one more time? Just this once?”
“No—”
“I’ll do anything you want,” you interrupted, your voice insistent. “I mean it. Any favor you can think of. Just name it.”
Frankie tilted his head, giving you a skeptical look.
“I’m not interested in any favors from you,” he said bluntly. “I don’t need anything.”
“Then do it for Santi,” you said, desperate now.
Frankie laughed at that, a low, disbelieving sound that only irritated you further.
“What does your brother have to do with any of this?”
“He’s your best friend,” you said, leaning toward him slightly, like you could will him to understand. “And you love him. And I’m his sister.”
“Uh-huh,” Frankie said, still smirking. “So?”
“So, doesn’t that mean you should help me?”
Frankie’s laugh grew louder, his shoulders shaking slightly as he glanced at you.
“You’re really reaching now, aren’t you?”
He turned to look at you then, the movement deliberate, his eyes narrowing slightly as they met yours. There was no malice there, but the firm set of his jaw told you all you needed to know—there was no convincing him. He understood the weight of your request, the quiet urgency stitched into each word, but it didn’t sway him.
“I’ve never asked you for help before,” you said, your voice softer now, almost brittle. “In fact, I’ve refused your help plenty of times. You said I was childish, remember? Well, fine. Maybe I’m being childish. But now I’m asking. Just this once.”
He shook his head slowly.
“It’s not the same thing,” he said, his voice low and steady, like he was trying to explain something simple to a child. “And you are being childish. Like I told you—no. The answer’s fucking no.”
You blinked hard, swallowing against the sting of rejection that settled heavy in your throat.
“Okay, fine,” you replied, the word clipped, your voice devoid of emotion. You turned your face away from him, angling it toward the window, not wanting him to see the look on your face—humiliation, maybe, or something closer to defeat. “Thank you.”
Frankie sighed, long and low, his hands flexing around the steering wheel as though he were squeezing the last ounce of patience from himself. The silence that followed was thick, broken only by the low hum of the car and the faint thrum of your pulse in your ears.
The rest of the drive passed without a single word exchanged. You stared out the window while Frankie focused intently on the road, his grip on the wheel tight and unyielding.
When the car finally pulled up in front of your house, the relief that washed over you was immediate and overwhelming. You reached for the door handle, your fingers trembling slightly, and stepped out into the humid air.
Frankie followed, moving around to the back of the car with the same mechanical precision he’d had all day. He popped the trunk and pulled out your suitcase, the effort seemingly as uninspired as when he’d loaded it hours ago.
He carried it to the door and set it down, his movements brisk, almost dismissive. You stood there, arms crossed, your body angled away from him, unwilling to meet his gaze.
“That’ll be all,” he said finally, his tone flat, his sunglasses obscuring his eyes on your face.
“Thank you,” you murmured, barely audible. “I’ll let Santi know I’m home.”
“Good.”
You didn’t look up as he turned back toward the car. You didn’t watch him leave, but you heard the sound of his door slamming shut, the low rumble of the engine as he drove off.
As the noise of his departure faded into the distance, you stayed rooted to the spot for a moment longer, the weight of the day pressing heavy on your shoulders. The heat prickled against your skin, and your head ached faintly, a dull reminder of how much you wanted this day to end.
You grabbed the handle of your suitcase, pulling it inside as the silence of the house enveloped you. You needed a shower—cold water to wash away the heat, the frustration, the embarrassment of it all. You needed to be alone, to let the day dissolve into nothingness behind a locked door.
Nearly two weeks slipped by, lost in the haze of your routines and the background hum of self-destructive thoughts.
What were you going to do? Probably nothing. You wouldn’t go. That was the easiest answer, and maybe the only one that made sense. What choice did you really have?
Still, Frankie’s words stuck in your head, gnawing at the edges of your resolve. What are you trying to prove? he’d asked. And after a few restless nights, staring at the ceiling and replaying the conversation, you realized he was right. You did want to prove something—to Harry, to yourself. You wanted him to see you happy, radiantly happy, at his wedding, as though it didn’t touch you at all. You wanted to seem light and unbothered, the kind of woman who could be at her ex’s wedding without flinching.
Except you did care. Of course, you cared. You hated that you cared. And you hated Harry for putting you in this position. How could you not be upset? The man had left you only a few months ago, and now he was marrying someone else. It wasn’t normal—none of it was. But you couldn’t shake the question gnawing at the back of your mind: why did you have to be the one left hurt?
And Frankie. You’d hated the way he’d looked at you when he said it; What are you trying to prove? What the hell were you trying to prove? like he couldn’t believe how foolish you were. If you hadn’t wanted to see him before, you definitely didn’t want to now. You resolved to talk to Santi, to tell him how uncomfortable the trip had been—without blaming Frankie, exactly—and to ask, kindly but firmly, that he warn you if Frankie would be around in the future.
It was humiliating, this whole situation. But you were sure about one thing: you never wanted to see Francisco Morales again.
The sun had dipped below the horizon, leaving your kitchen in soft shadows as you stirred sugar into your coffee. Your gaze stayed fixed on your laptop, on Harry’s wedding invitation glowing on the screen. You’d read it so many times it felt permanently etched into your mind. But now, you’d decided. You weren’t going.
Your finger hovered over the trackpad, guiding the cursor to the “RSVP not attending” option. You paused, just for a second, your chest tightening. Then, before you could click, the doorbell rang, sharp and sudden, making you flinch.
Setting the mug down, you crossed to the window, peering out at the sidewalk. The sight below made your brows knit together. That couldn’t be right. Surely, you were imagining things.
You slipped on a pair of shoes and headed downstairs, opening the door without much thought.
“Francisco,” you said flatly, his name sitting awkwardly on your tongue. “What are you doing here? Did something happen with Santi?”
He dragged a hand over his mouth and shook his head, slow and deliberate.
“Can we talk?”
“About what?” Your tone was sharp, incredulous, your expression twisted like he’d just said something absurd.
He looked different somehow. Neater, you thought, though you hated yourself for noticing. His hair was slightly shorter, his beard more trimmed than usual.
He sighed, long and heavy, like he’d been forced into something he didn’t want to do. The sound made you laugh, a sharp, derisive snort. As if he had the right to be irritated. He’d shown up unannounced, at night, on your doorstep. If anyone should feel fed up, it was you.
“I’m going to help you,” he said finally, the words clipped and begrudging.
“With what?”
“With your ex.”
“What?” The confusion on your face deepened. “Harry?”
Frankie glanced to the side, as if checking for onlookers, before returning his gaze to you and nodding.
“Are there other exes you need help with?”
His question was thick with sarcasm, and you rolled your eyes in response.
“Well, I don’t need your help anymore. But thanks,” you said quickly, your voice tight, as you began to push the door shut, inch by inch.
Then his hand was on it, stopping you.
“Wait,” he said, and this time his voice was different—tinged with something almost like desperation. “I’m serious.”
You paused, narrowing your eyes at him through the gap.
“Why would you help me? You were very clear the other day,” you said, your tone sharp. “There’s no point in me going to the wedding.”
“True, there’s no point,” he said, his gaze steady on yours. “But I know you well enough to know you’d love to go anyway. To show Harry how great you’re doing. Am I wrong?”
“You’re wrong,” you shot back instantly, too quickly.
Frankie sighed, the sound dragging out like he was trying to buy himself time. He glanced away for a second, then back at you, his expression suddenly resolute.
“I’ll do whatever you want,” he said.
You blinked at him, stunned into silence for a moment.
Then, with a raised brow, you asked, “Are you sick? Do you have a fever, Francisco?” You brought your hand up toward his forehead, but he flinched back dramatically before you could touch him.
“What are you up to?” you asked, pulling the door open wider, suspicion laced in your tone.
Frankie stood there, his posture stiff, his expression uncomfortable, like he was holding something in that might burst out if you pressed too hard.
“May I come in?” he asked finally, his brown eyes soft and glinting, almost boyish.
You hesitated, studying him for a few beats, letting the curiosity outweigh your disdain. Then you stepped back and opened the door fully, sealing the moment with the soft click of the latch behind him.
Frankie climbed the stairs ahead of you, pausing at the top to wait as you opened the door to your apartment. He stepped inside, scanning the space.
Your living room was warm, cozy but cluttered—books and mugs scattered across the coffee table and nearly every other available surface, interspersed with pens, pencils, and random odds and ends. Behind the sofa, the kitchen was visible, small but functional.
You stood back, watching him take it all in. His expression was unreadable, but you imagined him silently judging the chaos. You almost wanted him to—let him think it was messy, or that your style was lacking. You didn’t care.
He didn’t belong there, in your space. Everything about him seemed incongruous with the world you’d built for yourself—his presence like a mismatched puzzle piece, forcibly shoved into place where it clearly didn’t fit. He was out of tune with your reality, standing in the warmth of your living room like he’d wandered in from an entirely different life.
You crossed to the kitchen island, where your half-drunk coffee sat waiting. Sliding onto the stool, you gestured at the one across from you.
“Have a seat.”
Frankie hesitated but eventually sat down, his movements stiff and reluctant, like he’d rather be anywhere else. His expression was tight, uncomfortable, like he was a vampire catching the faintest whiff of garlic in the air. His eyes landed immediately on your laptop, still glowing with Harry’s wedding invitation.
“I see you’re taking the wedding well,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
You sighed audibly, refusing to take the bait.
“What do you want?”
As you waited for him to answer, you lifted your coffee to your lips. It had already cooled, the bitterness more pronounced now that it was lukewarm. Another thing he ruined for you, you thought bitterly. Your fucking coffee.
“I’ve been thinking—”
“Congratulations,” you cut in, deadpan.
Frankie’s eyes flicked up to meet yours, dark and unamused. He didn’t even blink, just stared at you like he was waiting for you to get it out of your system. You shrugged, feigning indifference, though the weight of his gaze made your skin prickle.
“I’ve decided I’m going to the wedding with you,” he said finally.
You raised an eyebrow, lowering your mug to the counter.
“You decided? I thought you didn’t want to go with me.”
“I don’t,” he said. His fingers brushed the edge of your laptop, tracing a line along it.
“But you’re still here,” you said, your voice laced with suspicion.
Frankie exhaled slowly, leaning back slightly.
“I’ll help you… if you help me.”
“If I help you? With what? Don’t tell me you’re finally going to therapy,” you blurted out, a half-smile tugging at your lips.
Frankie straightened in his seat, his back stiffening like you’d just landed a verbal jab. For a moment, it looked like he might get up and leave—walk out and never look back. But instead, he stayed. He clenched his jaw, his eyes locking on yours with a determined, almost defiant look.
“I had dinner with my family tonight,” he began, his voice measured but tense. “With my mom and two of my sisters—”
“Is that why you look like that?” you interrupted, tilting your head.
“What?”
“Like you finally took a bath,” you said, your smirk widening.
Frankie exhaled sharply, his patience visibly fraying. “Can you shut up and listen to me for a second? I’ll be brief.”
You held up a hand as if to say, Fine, go on.
“They’re nice, my family, but they won’t leave me alone,” he said, his tone growing more frustrated. “All through dinner, they kept asking me these awkward questions, trying to convince me to go on these dates they’ve been setting up with their friends’ daughters or coworkers or whoever.”
Your smile widened, thoroughly amused. “Why? Why don’t you just go? Come to think of it—”
“No,” he cut you off, his voice sharp. “I already agreed once, and it was a disaster. I’m not doing it again. And I’m not about to get into that with you.”
“Good,” you said, leaning back slightly. “Because I’m not interested.”
Frankie sighed deeply, running a hand through his hair.
“Every time I see them—for over a year now—it’s the same thing. They won’t leave me alone. And look, I get it. They’re trying to be helpful. But I’ve had enough.”
Your curiosity piqued at that. “What happened a year ago? Why?”
Frankie’s face tightened, his upper lip curling slightly as if the question had caught him off guard.
He frowned, his brows drawing together, before finally muttering, “That doesn’t matter.”
The dodge only made you more curious, but you let it go, watching as he leaned forward slightly, his hands gripping the edge of the counter.
“The point is,” he continued, “I got fed up. So tonight, when they started in on me again, I told them to back off. That I didn’t need them setting me up on dates because… because I already have a girlfriend.”
His words hung in the air for a moment, their weight sinking in.
Oh.
“Oh,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper. Your eyebrows lifted just enough to show your surprise, though you tried to mask it.
Frankie shifted in his seat, his gaze falling to his hand resting on his knee. He shook his head slightly, a faint, almost imperceptible motion, as though he was trying to block out whatever he feared you might say next.
“Funny,” you said, your voice light with mockery. “And your mother believed you?”
When he looked up at you, his expression darkened. The amused smile playing on your lips ignited a flash of irritation in his eyes. You looked entirely too entertained by the situation, and it made him bristle.
“Hardly,” he admitted, his tone sharp. “I don’t even think I convinced her. That’s why I need your help.”
You raised an eyebrow, leaning back slightly, as though creating space from whatever absurdity was about to come out of his mouth.
“You want me to pretend to be your girlfriend?”
Frankie nodded once, curtly. “My mom’s birthday is in a few days. She’s turning sixty. She’s having this big nice party, and she told me she wants to meet my girlfriend then.”
You crossed your arms, still trying to gauge whether or not this was some elaborate joke.
“When’s the party?”
“Next Saturday.”
Your eyebrows shot up, and your lips parted in disbelief.
“Francisco,” you grumbled, the word low and heavy. “That’s in three days.”
“I know,” he muttered, matching your tone. His jaw tightened like he was already regretting the entire conversation.
“And what did you tell her?” you demanded. “What did you say when she asked?”
Frankie’s hand moved to the counter, his fingers drumming once before he let them still.
He hesitated, and then, in a resigned voice, said, “I told her yes. That I’d bring my girlfriend to her birthday.” He paused, meeting your gaze. “So she’d finally leave me alone.”
You pushed back from the stool, standing in one swift, exasperated motion. Your hands flew to your hips, your whole body radiating irritation as you glared at him.
“Oh, so you just assumed I’d help you, didn’t you?” you snapped, your voice loud in the otherwise quiet apartment. “What if I said no?”
“I knew you wouldn’t say no,” Frankie said, meeting your anger with calm certainty.
You let out an incredulous laugh, your head tilting back briefly before you fixed him with a sharp look.
“My God, what’s wrong with you? You don’t know what I’m thinking.”
He didn’t flinch, though you could see his patience thinning in the slight twitch of his brow.
“I know you well enough to know you’ll say yes,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact, as though he were stating the obvious.
The sheer audacity of it made you want to scream.
Frankie rose from his spot, his movements deliberate and quick. His footsteps echoed as he crossed the room, closing the space between you with purposeful strides. He stopped in front of you, standing taller, looking down at you with an intensity that was hard to ignore.
“I know you want to go to the wedding,” he said, his voice firm. “I know you asked me to go with you, and you were persistent. And anyway, I think you owe me.”
You blinked, incredulous, a small laugh escaping your lips despite yourself.
“I owe you?”
Frankie’s eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening as he took a small step closer.
“Don’t forget that the only reason you didn’t make a complete fool of yourself in front of Harry was because I decided to help you. I played along. If I’d wanted to, I could’ve exposed you in front of him and his fiancée. I could’ve made it worse.”
“Thank you so much, Francisco, you're a fucking angel,” you spat, your tone thick with sarcasm, though the incredulous smile on your face betrayed how absurd it all felt. “What do you want me to do? Give you a hero of the century award?”
Frankie’s expression didn’t waver; he was dead serious. “No. Come with me to my mom’s birthday and we’re even.”
You froze for a moment, processing his words, the sheer audacity of them making your heart skip a beat. This was beyond ridiculous.
"You're fucking crazy! Are you serious?" you demanded, unable to hide the disbelief in your voice. "It’s not even close. Harry’s my ex something, nothing more. And you’re asking me to go with you to a family event, full of your relatives, and you want me to pretend to be your girlfriend in front of all of them?”
Frankie’s eyes flicked upwards, his impatience seeping into his expression. He rolled his eyes.
“It’s not like we’re getting married,” he said, dismissive, his voice tinged with frustration. “You’re exaggerating. It’s not the first time I’ve taken a girlfriend to a family thing. What are you, fifteen?”
You crossed your arms, giving him a skeptical look. “I don’t know, by my standards, introducing a girlfriend to your family seems like a pretty serious thing.”
Frankie exhaled through his nose, clearly growing more insistent. He looked at you with unwavering intensity, his gaze now pointed, as if trying to break through the walls you were building between you and this ridiculous proposition.
“I’ll take care of that,” he said, his voice steady but with a finality that made it clear he wasn’t backing down.
You stood there for a moment, the room stretching in a strange, suspended silence. You weighed his words in your mind, the absurdity of the situation tangled with a strange sense of reluctant curiosity.
“Are you really going to accompany me to the wedding?” you asked, your voice quieter than you’d intended, the question slipping out like something you hadn’t meant to say aloud.
Frankie nodded, a reassuring, almost teasing gesture, as though he was certain he had already won.
“I’ll help you catch the bouquet and everything,” he said, the corner of his mouth curling in a grin that almost made you want to punch him.
“You’re ridiculous,” you muttered, your voice edged with irritation.
“And yet, here you are, still going with me to that wedding.”
Frustration rose in your chest, pooling in your throat like heat. You bit down hard on the inside of your cheek, trying to suppress the rush of emotion that threatened to spill over. How utterly insolent. How impossible.
“Fine,” you finally spat out, barely containing the anger simmering beneath your words. “I’ll help you. But you’d better make my time count, Francisco.”
He flashed a half-smile, the kind of smug, self-satisfied smirk that made your fingers itch to slap him. You wanted to say something else—something cutting, something that would make him regret this entire conversation. But you couldn’t.
Instead, Frankie reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone, and tapped the screen a couple of times before handing it to you.
“Give me your number.”
You took the phone from him with a swift, almost startled motion, your fingers brushing against his as you punched in your number. The action felt mechanical, as if you were moving through a script you didn’t want to follow. When you handed it back to him, you watched him tap the screen, adding you to his contacts with deliberate motions. His fingers moved quickly, but you couldn’t catch the name he gave you. It was probably something ridiculous, something that made you cringe even without knowing it.
He didn’t say anything, just slid the phone back into his pocket, and turned to head for the door. But before he reached it, he stopped and looked at you, his eyes meeting yours once more.
“I’ll text you,” he said abruptly, almost as if it were a last-minute afterthought.
And then, without waiting for a response, he opened the door and left, the sound of his footsteps echoing in the quiet stairs. You stood there, still staring at the empty doorway, the weight of his words hanging in the air long after he was gone.
With one click, you confirmed your attendance.
tags: @darkheartgatita @joelmillerisapunk @nandan11 @whirlwindrider29 @onlythehobi @diabaroxa @yellowbrickyeti (a few of the tags aren't working, idk why, fix it tumblr!!!!)
Summary: It’s Joel’s birthday. As usual, you and Sarah are getting everything ready to celebrate, just like you have for years. However, while preparing dinner before Joel gets home from work, Sarah tells you that her dad has been seeing a mysterious woman for the past couple of weeks. This wouldn’t be an issue, except he’s been deliberately hiding it from you, even going out of his way to lie about it.
Though you try to keep your anger in check to avoid ruining his birthday, your emotions get the better of you later that night when it’s just the two of you. Joel doesn’t hold back either, sparking a heated argument that pushes you both further than ever before.
Word count: 9.4K
A/N: Okay, I was planning for the first chapter to be 4K words MAX, but my imagination went crazy with this lol I really hope you like it. I really enjoyed writing this <3 warning: ANGST! don't forget to leave feedback, tell me what you think!
If you want to be on the tag list, let me know too.
You met him on the night of your twenty-second birthday, at the small party Cassie had put together for you in her dimly lit apartment. You hadn’t wanted much of a celebration, nothing bigger than a few close friends, and certainly not a group of strangers. But when Brianna swept in, holding hands with a man you didn’t know, and introduced him as her boyfriend, you felt a vague flicker of annoyance, the kind that accompanies unmet expectations.
"I thought it was just going to be us," you mumbled to Cassie, catching her in the kitchen as she poured herself another glass of wine.
She looked at you, her cheeks already flushed, eyes bright. "They're a few of my friends, too; they’re nice—you’ll like them if you give it a chance." She smiled, urging you to relax, as though she could tease you out of your mood. "It’s your birthday; don’t be so sullen."
"I didn’t know Brianna was bringing her boyfriend," you said quietly, as Cassie started back to the living room.
She paused, giving you a half-smile over her shoulder. "Neither did I, actually," she admitted, lowering her voice. "Apparently, they've been together for about a month. She’s really into him."
And she was. Brianna clung to him all night, her laughter spilling out freely, unrestrained and buoyant from the wine. It wasn’t long before someone suggested karaoke, and as voices rang out in the next room, you slipped quietly back into the kitchen, craving a moment of solitude. You were surprised to find Brianna’s boyfriend there, leaning against the counter, scrolling absently through his phone with a glass of water in hand.
He looked up, straightened, and offered you a tentative smile. “Oh, hi. Happy birthday,” he said, his voice warm but reserved. “Sorry, I didn’t get a chance to say it earlier…”
“No worries,” you replied, your tone reassuring. “Thanks.”
He hesitated, as though weighing what to say next. “Are you having a good time?”
You gave a slight shrug. “It’s…” but before you could finish, he cut in with a knowing smile.
“It’s okay. I don’t love my birthday either.” His eyes glinted in the soft kitchen light, and you felt a small smile tugging at your own lips.
You looked at him then, really looked at him, allowing yourself the indulgence. “I didn’t want to admit it,” you said, feeling the faintest hint of heat rising to your cheeks. “What was your name again?”
“Joel,” he answered, his gaze drifting briefly back to his phone. “Sorry, I’m a little on edge tonight. Left my daughter with a new babysitter. I think she’s having a rough time.”
Your eyebrows rose in mild surprise; you hadn’t pegged him as a dad. You moved closer, pouring yourself a glass of orange juice and asked, “How old is she?”
“Four. Her name’s Sarah.” He ran a hand through his hair, and you could tell he was tense. “It’s only the second time she’s been with this sitter, and apparently, she’s been crying all evening.”
“Oh, poor thing,” you murmured sympathetically. “She’s little. Changes like that must be hard on her.”
He sighed, his gaze drifting to the side as he typed something quickly on his phone. “I should probably get going. Brianna won’t love that idea; we’d planned to stay out…” He paused, eyes flicking up to meet yours, worry etched across his face. “You think she’ll be too mad?”
“No,” you assured him, though you knew Brianna wouldn’t be pleased. “Go be with your daughter. She’s little; she needs you. Brianna will understand.”
A grateful smile spread across Joel’s face, and for the first time, you noticed the faint dimple on his cheek. For a fleeting second, you wanted to reach out, trace it with your thumb.
“Thanks,” he murmured, his eyes lingering on you in a way that felt unintentional, yet steady. “I hope your night gets better once karaoke is over,” he added with a quiet laugh. "Wish me luck."
You chuckled, meeting his gaze. “Good luck, Joel.”
He left with that same soft smile, and you watched him go, his warm brown eyes leaving an odd impression, like an unclaimed memory. And, as expected, Brianna didn’t understand. She spent the rest of the night sulking, casting sharp words at Joel through her bitterness.
“You knew he had a daughter when you got with him, this was bound to happen at some point,” Cassie told her, fed up with the other's complaints.
You didn't hear the answer, as you were distracted by watching the colorful pictures someone had put on the television.
You heard nothing more from Joel for a couple of weeks, until Cassie blurted out the gossip one morning while you were having lunch at her house.
“He broke up with her,” she began to tell you. “He told her she wasn't being empathetic and that he couldn't drop everything to party with her as if they had no responsibilities.”
It was no surprise. Brianna was a woman who lived at night; she was twenty-three years old and enjoyed it with the freedom that was rightfully hers. You couldn't blame her for wanting to have fun with her boyfriend. But Joel lived a very different reality than she did; at twenty-eight, he had a daughter to take care of, routines to follow, and a lot of work to do.
Although you thought it would take her longer to get over him, it wasn't long before she met a guy at her gym and got into it with him, outgrowing Joel in a matter of days. But for some reason, Joel’s warm, steady gaze stayed with you, like a whisper that hadn’t fully faded.
Years passed quietly, slipping through your fingers like sand until, suddenly, it was your twenty-sixth birthday. This time, the scene was different: you’d moved into your own place just two days earlier, and there was little thought of celebrating. Instead, the weekend found you alone, arranging your things and attempting to bring order to the chaos of a new home.
It was a crisp Saturday morning, and you stood in your front yard with a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice in hand, humming along to some eighties tune drifting in from the living room. The song—one of those upbeat ones that made even housework feel light—had lifted your spirits, and you moved rhythmically as you pushed plastic flowers into the dirt along the front path, sending little puffs of air to make the petals flutter.
You were lost in your task when you heard soft footsteps behind you, instinctively making you turn.
“Oh, hello,” you said, quickly masking the slight surprise the girl’s sudden appearance had given you.
She looked at you with wide, curious eyes, seemingly unfazed by her solo adventure.
“Hi. What’s your name? Do you live here?” she asked, her gaze shifting from your face to the flowers in your hands.
Glancing around for any sign of her parents, you noted her relaxed stance, like she’d been coming here all her life. Smiling, you nodded and gave her your name. “Yep, I just moved in.”
She looked unimpressed. “This house was empty for a while. I didn’t like the kid who lived here before. He was a pain in the ass—”
“Sarah!” came a sharp voice from behind, making you jump slightly. Heavy footsteps approached, and you squinted against the sun to see a figure striding toward you, his features obscured by the bright morning light.
When he stepped closer, his face came into focus, and your breath caught. You knew him.
“Sarah, you can’t just leave the house like that,” he said sternly, a furrow in his brow, his tone more parental than reproachful.
He turned to you, and the scowl softened as recognition dawned.
“Joel,” you murmured, the name slipping out before you even meant to say it aloud.
His expression shifted into a surprised smile, and that was all it took to break the ice between you. You explained that you’d just moved in and were still settling. Joel offered to help with anything you needed, including taking a look around the house to ensure everything was in order. He formally introduced you to Sarah, now eight years old, who had nearly scared him to death by sneaking out. She had his same lively spark in her eyes, a brightness that seemed familiar.
That evening, Sarah invited you to dinner with them, leaving Joel with little choice but to agree. And one dinner became many, as evenings blurred into weekends, and you found Joel’s presence in your life weaving into something inseparable from your routine. He started popping by to help with small projects, fixing kitchen cabinets or adjusting the wobbly front steps, visits stretching into movie marathons or lazy conversations with cold beer in hand. Days flowed into evenings of chatting over the meals you cooked to share with Sarah, and sometimes her uncle Tommy. Though Joel claimed he was no cook, his barbecues were legendary, and you couldn’t deny you looked forward to them most of all. And soon enough, he was there for everything, from driving you to doctor’s appointments to accompanying you on those grocery runs he pretended to hate. He even started showing up early on days he knew you’d need a ride. Over time, he became the best friend you’d ever had, a safe place, someone who felt like family. With everyone else scattered—Cassie overseas, old friends moved away—Joel became your rock.
It wasn’t something you dared to admit to yourself often, but you couldn’t imagine your life without him. And maybe that’s why you never allowed yourself to voice those little fleeting thoughts, the ones that flitted through your mind every now and then: how safe you felt whenever he threw his arm around your shoulders, or how good he looked reclining on his couch after a long day. Or how perfect it felt when the three of you—Sarah dozing on his lap, you leaning into his shoulder—sat together in the warm silence of a Sunday afternoon. There was an ache, too, a quiet pang whenever he mentioned another woman. Thankfully, that was rare; Joel once told you, with a shrug, that he “wasn’t really looking for that sort of thing.”
Sometimes, you watched him carefully as you talked about your own dates, hoping to catch a glimmer of jealousy in his gaze, some subtle cue that maybe he felt the same way. But there was never anything you wanted to see, and you always felt silly for looking. So, you buried it all. The risk of ruining things with Joel wasn’t worth the confession.
One afternoon, however, your emotions almost escaped your eyes when, while preparing Joel's birthday cake, Sarah dropped a piece of news that caught you off guard. She told you, with her usual nonchalance, that Joel had gone out the night before with someone new.
“Yeah, it’s like… the third time they’ve gone out,” Sarah mentioned while spreading cream on the sponge cake. “I don’t know her name or anything, just that he met her in line at the bank,” a laugh choked in her throat, amused at imagining her father flirting with some woman in a public space.
You forced a smile, laughing along like it was funny.
"And who stayed with you last night?” you asked, trying to keep your tone casual.
Not that Sarah was necessarily a baby; she was already twelve and extremely independent. But Joel never left her alone if he went out for the night, he knew how much she loved spending time with you watching movies and eating junk food. Then, when he arrived, you would pester him with gossipy questions and he would pretend to get angry and then answer every one of them.
“Uncle Tommy," she said, eyeing her work with satisfaction. “We had fun, but I kinda wished you’d come too. Hey, what do you think?” she fingered the cream neatly arranged with the angled knife.
“It's perfect,” you smiled at her, not waiting too long to ask the question you wanted so badly. “Why didn't you call me then?”
Sarah started sprinkling colorful sprinkles on top of the cream and looked at you for a second when she noticed the tone in your voice at the last word. She didn't seem to think much of it.
“You were busy, weren't you? Dad said you had something to do.”
Her answer hit you like a small weight to the chest. Joel had purposefully left you out. He’d even made an excuse for Sarah’s benefit. So, there had been three dates—three times he’d kept this woman a secret. A small knot formed in your stomach as you forced yourself to smile, still watching Sarah as she concentrated on the last of the sprinkles.
In the kitchen, you were running your hand through the steam from the beef stew on the stove—Joel’s favorite—when the door opened. His footsteps grew louder, approaching, and you nervously adjusted the dress you’d chosen, one you knew he liked, though he’d never said it. It was your favorite too, a cream-colored sundress with delicate shoulder ties.
Sarah sprang forward, covering his eyes. “Don’t look, the table’s not ready.”
You hurried to set the glasses in their places, your hands a little shaky as you moved, hoping he wouldn’t notice the flush creeping up your cheeks.
“I don’t need to see it—I can smell it, and it smells incredible,” Joel grinned beneath Sarah’s tiny hands, which she’d plastered over his eyes, half to keep him from sneaking a glance, half just because she could.
“Too bad you don’t smell incredible,” Sarah retorted with a smirk, wrinkling her nose. "Go take a shower!"
You laughed, catching Joel’s raised brow at her.
“You’ve got five minutes,” you said, placing the lid on the simmering pot.
Joel snorted, brushing Sarah’s hands away from his face.
“That’s the smell of a hardworking man,” he replied, feigning offense as he turned for the stairs. “Y’all oughtta know.”
*
Later, the three of you sat around the table, and Joel took his first bite of the stew, eyes widening, a kind of bliss washing over his face. He tossed his head back and groaned.
“Sweet Glory,” he mumbled, closing his eyes. “Thank you for this.”
“Oh, come on,” you teased, though part of you couldn’t help but feel a pang of something between irritation and flattery. “You say that every time I cook for you.”
He shook his head, smiling as he chewed, then spoke softly, his gaze slipping downward.
“I’m not exaggerating—I love everything you do.” A pause, and then a quick, awkward clarification. “I mean, everything you cook.”
The clarification was like a line drawn in the sand, a boundary etched by his voice alone.
You smiled weakly and inwardly thankful when Sarah spoke, telling you about something that had happened at her school that week and distracting you from the question that was spellbinding your tongue. You were dying to ask it, to look him in the eye and ask: who did you go out with last night? Why didn't you tell me? Is it someone I know? Is that it?... But you didn't, you stayed quiet and participated in the pleasant conversation, celebrating his birthday as he deserved. After all, no matter how much it angered you that he kept things from you, it was still his special day.
After dinner, Sarah forced Joel to sit in front of his cake, two lit number candles glowing in front of him. You turned out the lights, watching as the light from the flames reflected beautifully in your best friend's dark pupils.
Joel was wearing a black T-shirt and dark jeans, his hair was still barely damp from the shower he'd taken before, and his sun-kissed tan face looked smooth, decorated by the beard and mustache you loved so much. Behind him, his shadow vibrated and spread across the wall with grandeur.
“Make a wish!” Sarah cheered, bouncing with excitement as she placed her small hands on his shoulders.
Joel smiled, closed his eyes, and blew out the candles. In the dimness, you leaned in and kissed his cheek softly.
“Happy birthday, old man,” you whispered, your hand resting gently on his neck.
He reached for your hand, pressing a warm, lingering kiss into your palm. “I’m not that old,” he muttered with a mock frown.
Sarah giggled, holding a knife to cut the cake and licking a dab of frosting from her thumb. “You’ll be forty in four years,” she teased, catching your amused expression.
Joel scoffed, scratching his stomach as he stood back up, turning to you with a smile that made you forget, just for a moment, all the questions you were holding back. There was only Joel, his rumbling laugh, Sarah’s delighted giggles. It felt like home.
Sarah gave him his gift first: a copy of Curtis and Viper 2 with the deleted scenes and a mystery box. When he opened it, a smile formed on his lips.
He pulled out a weathered wristwatch, broken for months, now polished and repaired.
“I took it in to be fixed. Do you like it?” Sarah asked, eyes wide with anticipation.
Joel nodded, eyes softening as he extended his wrist for her to put it on. “It’s perfect, baby.”
“Let's watch the movie later,” Sarah said. “You can't fall asleep.”
“Let's see which one of us falls asleep first,” you joked, and you were right. Joel had been working all afternoon and Sarah had been yawning for hours.
You turned and picked up the box resting beside your feet, handing it to him. When he opened it, Joel pulled out a black cloth garment and a paper envelope. He tugged at the cloth, revealing a thick, soft jacket. He read the label and a smile appeared on his lips.
“I saw it and thought of you,” you said, mimicking his gesture.
“How much did you pay for this?”
“Don't worry about it, it had to be yours,” you noted as you stood up and took it from his hand. “Here, stand up. Let's see how it fits you.”
“And what if it doesn't fit? Do we have to travel to Rome to exchange it?”
You laughed, then helped him slide it over his shoulders, a comfortable, familiar movement.
“I know you by heart, I couldn't be wrong.”
“So?” he asked, smiling coquettishly. Your stomach tingled and you decided to ignore it.
“Lookin’ good, Dad,” Sarah chimed in, her innocent smile lighting up the moment. “Bet someone special will love it, too.”
Joel smiled weakly, as if he was trying to tell her something with his eyes, and for a second you hated the thought of your gift being enjoyed by someone else. You imagined him getting ready to go out with her -whoever she was-, running his hand through his hair and perfuming his neck as he did from time to time whenever he went out with someone. You knew that perfume perfectly, you'd recognize it anywhere, though you were sure it wouldn't smell the same on anyone else. Joel added his own scent to it, and you loved it.
“Okay, now, open the envelope,” you urged, your voice unintentionally sharper than you meant.
Joel sat back down and opened the blue paper envelope. He read the note carefully and when he looked up, you and Sarah were looking at him excitedly.
“Sunshine, did you pay for this?” he asked you, a soft disbelief in his tone.
Inside were three plane tickets. Sarah had helped you pick the destination—somewhere none of you had been but would love.
When you nodded, he let out a soft sigh. “Let me cover part of it.”
You groaned, rolling your eyes. “It’s my birthday gift to you, Joel. It’s all settled. You need a vacation, and we certainly do too, don't we?”
“That's right,” Sarah confirmed, smiling complicitly.
He sighed, shaking his head. “You’re too good to me.”
But he smiled, tucking the tickets back into the envelope.
Time with Joel and Sarah was easy. When you were with them, hours slipped away, and the heaviness of everything else seemed to dissolve. You felt at home, and sometimes it left you wondering about Sarah’s mother, about how anyone could have left them. Didn’t she see how extraordinary they were? Didn’t she realize what she’d lost?
You thought about this as you relaxed on the couch beside Joel, Sarah curled up with her head on your shoulder. Her breathing had slowed, and you smiled, realizing she’d fallen asleep. Three glasses sat on the coffee table: the wine Joel had opened just before dinner—a bottle you’d brought back from your last trip to Italy—and Sarah’s lemon soda. Joel snorted softly, glancing at his daughter with a smirk, then leaned over and pressed a kiss to her forehead.
“Fallen soldier,” he whispered, smiling.
You laughed, brushing a hand over Sarah’s hair. “She’s tired. She was up all afternoon making your cake, you know? Tried the cream three times before she got it right.”
Joel sighed, an apologetic note in his voice. “I know, sorry I was late. I know she wanted me here sooner.”
Curtis and Viper 2 was halfway through on the TV, forgotten in the background. Joel straightened, signaling he’d take Sarah to bed, and you shifted to make room as he lifted her, carrying her toward the stairs. You watched him disappear down the hallway, and as the house fell into a quiet lull, that familiar disappointment stirred in your chest. Now, without Sarah’s chatter, you’d have to keep pretending that nothing was wrong.
You took a long sip of your wine, finishing off the glass just as Joel returned. He sat down heavily beside you, causing the cushions to sink as he let out a sigh, rubbing a hand over his eyes before giving you a grateful look.
“Thanks for today, I had a great time. Sarah was very happy,” he said quietly, a warm smile appearing on his lips.
“I'm glad, hun. Although the credit goes to her, I just made dinner.”
“Doesn’t matter. You helped her, and I’m grateful. I mean that. For today, and for… all these years.” His voice softened, almost reverent.
“You don’t have to thank me,” you whispered, feeling your pulse pick up as he leaned closer, his brown eyes unreadable but soft. “You’re my family, both of you. Really, I’m the one who owes you thanks.”
He shook his head and leaned back, taking another sip of his wine.
“Not at all,” he replied, leaning back again.
You watched him for a moment, turning the weight of your question over in your mind. If you said something, he’d make an excuse. If you kept silent, the doubt would eat at you. You tried to fix your gaze on the TV, on anything other than his profile in the dim room. But the words slipped out of your mouth before you could stop yourself.
“So, what did you do last night?”
He tensed beside you, so subtly that only you could’ve noticed. “What?”
You tried to keep your tone even, hoping you didn’t sound like you’d spent all day thinking about it. “I just… didn’t see your truck out there, thought maybe you were gone or something.” It was a lie; you had fallen asleep on your couch last night, you hadn't even noticed Joel was gone.
Joel seemed to measure his words carefully. “Oh. Yeah… I just went out for a beer with Tommy,” he answered, his tone a little too casual.
Heat crept up your face, disbelief taking root. He really was holding out on you for some reason, wasn't he? The man was lying to you, and not very cleverly. Tommy had been with Sarah, what if you had seen him, hadn't he thought of that? Apparently not.
It took a moment before you could bring yourself to say anything, watching as he glanced at you with an uneasy smile, waiting for you to believe him.
“Joel,” you murmured, not quite able to keep the accusation out of your voice. “You’re lying to me.”
He gave a nervous laugh, rubbing the back of his neck, but you didn’t let him off so easily. Before he could say anything, you spoke again.
“Tommy was with Sarah last night, here,” you pointed out, your voice firmer this time. His silence told you everything, his face drawn and uncertain as he realized you’d caught him.
After a long pause, he looked down, his voice unusually flat. “Alright, yeah. I know.”
The admission was so casual it took you by surprise, but you shook your head, feeling the ache of frustration and betrayal creep in.
“Why would you lie to me?” you pressed. “We’re friends. Why wouldn’t you tell me you’re seeing someone?”
Joel sighed, avoiding your gaze, his eyes instead locked somewhere in the distance. “It’s… it’s nothing serious,” he mumbled. “Just getting to know her. Don't make such a fuss out of it.”
“What? what you're saying doesn't make sense. You’ve kept it hidden, avoided every chance to be honest about it. Why?” you asked, trying not to let the hurt seep into your voice.
“It’s not like that,” he insisted, but his voice sounded unsure.
“So if I call Tommy right now, he’ll tell me the truth? Or did you ask him to keep this from me too?”
Finally, he met your gaze, his eyes scanning your face, reading the frustration and hurt you’d tried to keep buried. You could see it in his eyes, that familiar tug of defiance, a flash of something deeper than guilt or secrecy.
“What if I did?” His voice was almost philosophical, his gaze intense and challenging. “This is my private life. I don’t have to explain myself to anyone, not even you. Do I?”
You drew in a sharp breath. His words struck like a slap, but you steadied yourself. “You’re right, Joel. You don’t owe me explanations. But you don’t have to lie to me, either.” You looked down, feeling your voice start to waver. “You’ve never hidden your relationships from me before.”
He sighed, scrubbing his hands over his face and slumping back against the couch.
After a few seconds, he finally looked at you, a look of exasperation crossing his face.
“Because of this.” He gestured between you, his tone gentle but firm. “This reaction, right here, is exactly why I didn’t tell you.”
What Joel was saying didn’t make sense. Your frustration wasn’t over him seeing someone else; it was something else entirely, something more fundamental.
“Oh, just stop,” you snapped, voice sharp. “I’m not mad because you’re dating someone, Joel. I’m mad that you lied to me. They’re two completely different things.”
He took a breath, settling back on the couch, and turned to face you, a guarded expression crossing his face. “No, it’s always the same thing. Remember the last time I was seeing someone?”
And you did, briefly. A year ago, one of his friends had introduced him to his cousin—a woman who had just moved to town. She was polite enough, but her smiles had a brittle quality to them, and when she met Sarah, her warmth never extended beyond a single, dismissive greeting. The indifference was obvious, at least to you, and maybe you’d let that show a little too openly. Joel had caught on quickly, and after that, things with her fizzled out.
“That was different,” you argued, exasperated. “She wasn’t nice, Joel. She had zero interest in Sarah.”
He gave a bitter, half-smile. “Maybe, but it wasn’t your job to manage that. I can handle my own relationships. But you always—” he paused, thumping his chest with a finger, “you always step in. Always get defensive.”
“That’s not true!” Your voice rose as anger crept in, heating your face. “You’re just making excuses. Date whoever you want, Joel, I don’t care. But don’t lie to me, don’t insult me with these flimsy excuses. Or if you’re going to lie, at least make it convincing.”
He clenched his jaw, his gaze hardening, something fierce sparking in his eyes. “Are you sure about that?” he asked, his voice low and measured, the words hanging between you like a dare.
“Sure about what?” Your brow creased in confusion, the pulse in your chest picking up, a flurry of anger and… something else you couldn’t place, mingling with the haze of the wine.
His eyes narrowed, holding yours, unflinching. “That you don’t care. That’s what this is about, isn’t it? Because I know you, i know you to well to know you’re just jealous.”
Jealous. He thought you were jealous.
He had missed the point completely. Your feelings for him were complex, that much was true. But you had learned, or thought you had learned, to carry them quietly. Your friendship with him had come to feel like a sturdy house you could live inside without having to ask too much of it. Having him in your life was enough.
But now, you felt that house shift, cracks spreading through the walls. His inability to trust you hurt more deeply than you’d expected. The openness you’d once trusted was fracturing. You felt the sting of tears prick at your eyes, the words he’d thrown out so casually cutting to the quick.
“Fuck you, Joel,” you muttered, standing abruptly, storming to the door and slamming it shut behind you. You barely heard him call your name as you left, fury driving you down the front steps, the cool night air biting at your cheeks.
Honestly, he could go fuck himself.
Just as your hand reached your front door, his footsteps closed in behind you, his strides fast enough to catch up. You tried to close the door before he could reach you, but his hand caught it just in time, his voice heavy with irritation.
“Just go away, Joel,” you said, barely glancing at him. “I don’t want to see you again.”
“That’s not true, and you know it.” His voice was calm, almost pleading.
You stepped back, reluctantly letting him into the foyer. He’d have come in anyway.
“I mean it, God. Go home,” you insisted, your voice wavering, betraying the anger mixed with something else.
He shook his head, taking a few steps closer, his jaw tight. “Can we just talk?”
“Talk?” you repeated incredulously. “Talk about what? About how wrong you are?”
He didn’t flinch, but his eyes darkened. “Don’t act like what I said was crazy,” he said, voice steady but a little sharper now.
You scoffed, throwing your hands up. “Oh, so now I’m jealous, is that it? Then, by your logic, you must’ve been jealous too, right? Like last month, when Travis asked me out. Because if that’s the case, then we’re having the same conversation, aren’t we?”
Joel clicked his tongue, tilting his head with an exaggerated sigh. “No, Travis is just a jerk. And I don’t like him, plain and simple.”
Travis Dunn, your neighbor, had moved in a few months after you did. Handsome, tall, and friendly, everyone on the street adored him—everyone except Joel. He couldn’t seem to stand him, though Travis was always polite to him.
Last month, when Travis had asked you out, Joel had practically laughed in your face when you told him about it, muttering something dismissive as if the very idea was absurd. You’d told Travis you were busy, though deep down you knew the real reason you hadn’t accepted was because of Joel’s disapproval.
You shook your head, exasperated. “Travis isn’t a jerk, Joel, you just don’t like him. He’s nice, honestly, much nicer than some people, if we’re being honest here. Everyone loves him; you’re the only one who has a problem with him.”
“Then everyone’s as much of an idiot as he is, sunshine.”
“Oh, really? Or maybe… you’re jealous of him?” Your tone was teasing, but you felt the shift as soon as you said it.
Joel’s mouth twitched in a half-smile, but the humor didn’t reach his eyes. He ran his tongue over his lips, shaking his head slowly, twice.
“Don’t turn this on me,” he said. “This isn’t about Travis or me.”
“No?” you shot back, voice edged with challenge. “So if I go tomorrow and say yes to him, that wouldn’t bother you at all, right?”
He stepped closer to you, his eyes dark with something you’d never seen in him before. The air seemed to thicken, his presence so intense it felt as though it wrapped around you. He leaned in, his face close enough that his words brushed your skin.
“You can do whatever you want, baby. It’s your fucking life.”
“And you can do whatever you want too, Joel. That’s the fucking point!” you nearly shouted, hands pushing against his shoulders, shoving him away. “I don’t care what you do! It’s already clear you don’t get it, you don’t get anything, ANYTHING!”
Joel staggered back for a split second, but it wasn’t long before he closed the distance again, though he didn’t get as close this time.
His voice was lower, a thread of something hard in his tone. “If you’re so insulted by the idea of being jealous, maybe that’s something for you to think about. Ever thought of doing a little introspection?”
“Are you drunk, Joel?” you asked, eyes narrowed, softening your voice a fraction. The argument was exhausting you, and the anger left you feeling hollow.
He laughed, an odd, choked sound. “Oh, c'mon, you know one bottle of wine ain't enough to get me drunk.”
“Yeah, but you’re tired, and you’re not exactly young, Joel,” you said, brushing past him, his gaze glued to you the entire time. “Alcohol hits you differently now. Just go home, leave me alone.”
“Fine. I’ll leave you alone, and maybe then you can run across the street and fuck Travis Dunn, if you want it so badly,” he shot back, impatience tinging his voice as he turned toward the still-open door.
The words hit you like a slap. You froze for a moment, the anger washing over you in a wave. Before you could think twice, you rushed up to him, gripping his arm tightly to force him to turn and look at you.
“What the hell did you just say, Joel?” you hissed, grabbing his shirt, fingers bunching in the fabric as you backed him up until his shoulders hit the wall by the door. “Go on, say it again!”
Your breaths came fast, chest rising and falling as the rush of anger pushed tears to your eyes. You couldn’t believe he’d actually spoken to you like that, cutting right through to something raw and vulnerable. He’d never spoken to you like that before. Maybe he was a little drunk, or maybe he was losing his mind.
But there was no softness in his gaze, no hint of the Joel you knew. His stare was sharp, almost wild with something simmering underneath, something you didn’t understand. To you, this whole argument made no sense, at least not his reaction.
Joel’s grip on your wrist was firm, almost grounding, as he pulled you closer, pressing your palm against his chest. “I can’t stand that asshole, but go ahead and fuck him if you want,” he spat, voice laced with frustration. “Go fuck the whole neighborhood while you’re at it. I really don’t care anymore.”
His words were harsh, designed to cut, but they only drew a laugh from you—sharp and derisive. A tear slipped down your cheek, uninvited.
“What, did you ever care?” you asked, your voice trembling on the last syllable, thick with emotion.
But Joel didn’t respond, and the silence ignited a fire in you, something that swirled beneath the surface, ready to boil over.
“Do you know why we’re friends, Joel?” Your pulse quickened, each beat like a drum in your ears. “Because it just works between us. There are no ulterior motives. You know why? Because I don’t like you like that. You’re not even my type, and you never will be. And no, I’m not jealous that you’re dating some woman you’ll probably dump in less than a month, so get the fuck over it and leave me the fuck alone!”
You watched as his gaze flickered between your eyes, uncertainty warring with something darker. Suddenly, with an unexpected strength, Joel tightened his grip on your wrist and pushed you back hard against the wall. The impact knocked the breath from your lungs, leaving you gasping as your back hit the unforgiving surface.
His expression had transformed, those deep, dark eyes piercing you like arrows. His breath quickened, crashing against your face, and you could feel your lower lip tremble as he pressed even closer, pinning you against the wall.
“You don’t know how to lie,” he murmured, his lips almost brushing against your cheek.
The sensation was unbearable; his body pressed against yours, heat radiating off him and melting you inside. You could feel the edge of something primal, something that could tip either way. But suddenly, clarity surged through you. With a burst of strength, you pushed him away, breaking free from his grasp, forcing him to pull back just enough for you to gasp for air.
But the distance felt worse. In his eyes, you recognized something you’d never seen before—desire, raw and unfiltered. It clawed at you, igniting an inexplicable need. A sigh escaped your lips, and like a match struck in a dark room, it was enough to set off an explosion. In an instant, Joel lunged at you, and you found yourself wrapped around him, mouths colliding in a desperate kiss filled with moans and the urgency of your racing hearts.
With a loud thud, Joel kicked the front door shut, his hands moving feverishly down your body, fingers skimming your thighs, slipping beneath your dress. He caressed your skin before squeezing your ass hard, drawing a moan from your lips that echoed in the small space between you. You clung to him tighter, his hands fitting around you as if they were made for this very moment.
He pulled back for a breath, the sound wet and chaotic against the walls of your home, and then his lips descended down your neck, unraveling what little sanity you had left. A moan rumbled in his throat as your hands tangled in his hair, tugging gently to tilt your head back, giving him better access to the tender spot just below your ear, your blood pulsing beneath his hungry mouth.
Joel seemed to want to devour you whole; his hands roamed erratically, trembling as his mouth kissed and bit your jaw, pressing your bodies together in a way that felt impossibly intimate. When you lifted your right leg and wrapped it around his side, he was quick to respond, hands securing your thighs, lifting you effortlessly onto his hips, burying his face against your chest.
Another moan escaped you, and he pulled you down just enough to find your lips again. “Joel,” you whispered, breathless as you parted from him, pressing your forehead against his, eyes searching his.
“Tell me to stop and I will,” he said, his voice low, almost broken, each word laced with a vulnerability you’d never heard from him before. “Do you want me to stop?”
“No,” you replied in a small, desperate cry, feeling the heat radiating from him, the thin fabric of your underwear igniting a fire deep within you.
You were dying of thirst, and he had just asked you if you would refuse a sip of water. Was he mad? You wanted to drink it all.
No sooner had you answered than Joel pulled you off the wall, striding toward the stairs with a confident grace. You lowered your legs cautiously, meeting his lips again in a frantic, wet kiss, his tongue exploring your mouth with urgency.
You walked to your room with the agility of one who knows where to step, and once inside, you grabbed the shirt you had angrily grabbed earlier and lifted it up his body in a desperate attempt to rip it off. Joel raised his arms, letting the fabric pass over both of you and then fall to the floor, and as quickly as your hands returned to his chest, he kissed your neck again, desperate, pressing his fingers into the tender flesh of your waist, seeking a physically impossible closeness.
His hands found your thighs once more, fingers gripping and kneading with a measured intensity that sent electric shivers through you. As he moved lower, his fingertips brushed the thin fabric of your underwear, inching closer to where you ached for him, squeezing you tighter as if to draw you in.
In a single, decisive motion, he grasped the hem of your dress and pulled it upward, the fabric sliding along your skin as he lifted it away, tossing it aside with a casual disregard that only heightened the tension in the air. He took a step back, his gaze roaming over you, from the soft curve of your face down to the tips of your toes, a look of hunger that felt almost consuming.
You weren't wearing a bra (your dress didn't require it) and your breasts fell beautifully in front of him, hard nipples and soft skin. Your chest flushed with warmth, a rosy hue creeping into your cheeks as you swallowed hard, feeling vulnerable yet exhilarated when he stepped closer.
“I’ve always loved that dress,” he said, his voice trembling with an emotion that was both reverent and raw.
“I know,” you replied, a smile curling at the corners of your lips, the moment igniting an intimacy that made your heart race.
His eyes swept down your body again, glittering with an unmistakable lust, and when he closed the distance, standing right before you, your breath caught in your throat.
His hands slid around your waist, firm yet tender, pulling you into him with a deftness that sent a thrill coursing through you. In one seamless motion, he lifted you off the ground, your feet barely grazing the floor as you instinctively stood on your tiptoes, the world narrowing to just the two of you.
Joel’s eyes darkened with a hunger that left you breathless, and he leaned in, his lips finding one of your breasts with a soft kiss that felt both electrifying and reverent. The warmth of his mouth sent a rush of heat through your body, and before you could gather your thoughts, he nipped your nipple gently, a teasing bite that sent chills racing across your skin.
His teeth grazed you just enough to elicit a gasp, a shuddering reaction that echoed in the space between you. But he didn’t linger on the sharpness of that moment; he quickly replaced the sensation with the soothing warmth of his lips, enveloping you entirely.
He sank to one knee, lowering himself until his lips brushed your stomach, the warm sensation sending ripples of desire coursing through you. His face lingered dangerously close to where you needed him most.
Joel placed his hands on your hips, fingers gripping the elastic of your underwear, his gaze locking onto yours for a moment that stretched into eternity before he slowly began to lower it, the fabric sliding down your legs and pooling at your feet. You felt his breath hitch at the sight of your now bare center, the anticipation thickening the air between you as he inched closer, finally brushing his lips against your mons pubis.
“Precious,” he murmured, and the warmth of his breath washed over you like a caress, drawing a small, needy moan from your lips. His hands parted your legs slightly, his fingers digging into your thighs, holding you firmly in place.
You cupped his face gently, as if afraid you might break him, and then, without warning, Joel licked his lips and plunged forward, his mouth connecting with you in a surprise that made your eyes flutter shut. You tangled your fingers in his hair, tugging him closer as he devoured you, his tongue working its magic as he sucked and kissed you whole, with an urgency that left you breathless.
He growled into you, the sound reverberating through your body, and you felt weakness seep into your legs, trembling under the weight of his relentless attention. Joel was eating you like a hungry man, tasting you and soaking in your juices with a fervor that felt primal, kissing you as if his life depended on it.
“Fuck,” you gasped, feeling every muscle in your body tighten as a building pressure coiled inside you.
He pulled away for just a moment, his eyes darkened with lust, a playful smile creeping onto his lips before he returned to you, closing his mouth around your clit, sucking and licking with a skill that made your head spin.
“Ah—Joel, I’m going to—I’m going to—” You struggled to articulate the intensity of what was building within you, your words stumbling over the tide of pleasure washing over you.
His voice vibrated through you, trailing off into a soft, “Mhm.”
You pulled at his hair, tugging harder as a wrenching moan escaped your throat. The world around you faded as his movements grew more frantic, his tongue flicking at you with a desperate fervor. One of his hands released your thigh, and a low groan escaped his lips as his finger found your entrance, sliding inside with an ease that made you gasp.
“Fuck me, you’re so wet,” he murmured, pausing for a moment to take in the sight of you—your cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling with lust. A satisfied smile broke across his face, and you thought he had never looked so gorgeous.
From your point of view, he looked beautiful. His bright eyes worshipped you intently, his mouth and mustache glistened bathed in you, his hair tossed by your hands mingled in all directions. Joel Miller had never looked so good.
Another finger joined the first, and you closed your eyes, surrendering to the sensation as he curled them just right, hitting that sweet spot that made you gasp for air. You gripped his hair again, pulling him closer, and he let out a throaty laugh, clearly reveling in the sight of you completely undone.
You felt his mouth on you again, the warmth of his lips kissing and sucking with an insatiable hunger that left you breathless. The sound of it was utterly obscene, echoing around the room like a carnal symphony, and it drove you to the brink of madness, your mind spinning in a dizzying haze of pleasure.
His movements grew more intense, a rhythm building that sent waves of ecstasy rippling through your body. You felt yourself teetering on the edge, your hips moving in desperate undulations, surrendering to the climax that Joel savored with unrelenting focus. Your fingers clenched around him, digging in perhaps a bit too hard, but he welcomed it, desperate to drink in every last drop of what you were offering, to savor you whole.
With a low grunt, he squeezed your hips before pulling away, the wet sound of his departure from you hanging heavy in the air. You barely registered his rise from the floor, lost in the aftershocks of pleasure, your eyes still closed as the vibrations coursed through you. It wasn’t until his hands gripped your waist that you finally blinked awake, lifting your eyelids to find him gazing down at you, his face mere inches from yours.
He leaned in, capturing your mouth again, a kiss that was both desperate and tender, igniting a fire deep within you. You could taste yourself on his tongue.
Your hands found their way around his neck, pulling him closer as you melted into the kiss. As the intensity built, you let your fingers drift down his chest, trailing lightly until they found the leather of his belt, the sensation sending shivers through you as you tugged him closer.
Joel vibrated against you, a low growl escaping as he nipped at your lower lip while you fumbled with his steel buckle, the sound of it being released becoming your new favorite melody. You unzipped his pants, your heart racing as you slipped your hand inside, finally touching him for the first time.
Your pulse quickened as you wrapped your fingers around him, feeling the heat radiating from his velvet soft skin; big, hot and throbbing in your palm. A rush of desire flooded you, and you pulled away from his lips, dropping to your knees before him, your eyes wide as you took in his form.
There he stood, beautiful and swollen with need, and your mouth watered at the sight. You cupped him gently, drawing him closer to your lips, placing a soft kiss on the tip. Joel closed his eyes at the sensation, surrendering to the moment completely, and you traced your tongue over him, tasting the salty sweetness of his pre cum that made your insides tighten with longing.
With a hint of effort, you attempted to take him fully into your mouth, but he was too large, stretching you in ways you hadn’t expected. Joel lowered his gaze to you, his fingers caressing your jaw as you struggled to adjust.
“Slow, baby,” he urged, his voice silky yet strained, and it sent another rush of need through you. "I know you can do it."
You matched your hand to your mouth, stroking him where you couldn’t quite reach, while your other hand gently caressed his balls, moving in a synchronized rhythm. Joel tensed beneath your touch, his fingers shifting from your face to tangle in your hair, guiding you as he reveled in the pleasure you were giving him.
The sounds in the room became a symphony of pleasure, every moan and gasp echoing off the walls, and you watched as Joel's pleasure climbed. The image was enough to drive him over the edge; your pink, swollen lips covered him and his cock glistened with your saliva, dripping from your chin with every move you made. Your teary eyes looked up at him desirously, and he could take no more; his gaze was filled with a primal hunger that threatened to unravel him. He finally withdrew from your mouth with great reluctance when he felt his stomach tighten, a low complaint escaping your throat in protest.
His breathing was heavy, and a flush colored his cheeks as he lifted you effortlessly, holding you at the waist, his lips finding yours in a heated kiss. In one swift motion, he laid you back onto the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight as he moved closer; Joel kneeling and settling between your legs which you instinctively opened for him.
You needed him, you needed him to fill you whole. You had never needed anything as much as you needed him at that moment. And as if he was reading your thoughts - or maybe he needed you as much as you needed him - he leaned in, taking your mouth with his once more, his moans blending with yours as he lost himself in you.
Your hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer as he deepened the kiss, the taste of him igniting a fire in your veins. You felt him positioning himself at your entrance, his heat pulsing against you, and an intense sigh shot through your chest as Joel entered you in one thrust, burning and stretching you around him.
“Oh God,” he groaned, burying his face into the crook of your neck, the warmth of his breath sending shivers down your spine. His right hand traveled to your left leg, lifting it and resting it high on his shoulder, while without hesitation, his other hand mirrored the movement with your right leg, bringing you into a position that felt both intimate and vulnerable. You were completely folded under him.
A cry escaped your lips as Joel began to move on top of you, his face hovering just inches above yours, the heat between you palpable. No one had ever penetrated you so deeply; it felt as though he was everywhere, filling you completely, every inch of you alive with sensation.
Joel's right hand gently squeezed your neck, seeking your mouth for a kiss as his movements took on a more urgent pace. The rhythmic collision of his hips against your buttocks created a beautiful sound that echoed off the walls, each thrust punctuated by the soft, desperate gasps that slipped from his mouth. Your own cries mingled with his as your body tightened again, your hands moving frantically up and down his back, your nails digging into his flesh, leaving little marks that he would surely wear like badges of pleasure.
A broken sound escaped from Joel, raw and primal, as he sank his face into the crook of your neck once more, increasing his thrusts with a fervor that felt animalistic, as if the world outside had fallen away and this moment was all that mattered. He fucked you into the mattress with an intensity that left you breathless, as though he were trying to ground you both in this fleeting reality, where nothing else existed except for the two of you entwined together.
You melted around him, your juices mixing with his as you enveloped him completely, and just when you thought you couldn’t take any more, he lifted his head, your forehead resting against yours, his wide eyes locking into yours. You had never seen them so dark, so filled with intensity and strength.
And then it hit you: It was Joel, your Joel, the one who had been your best friend for four years, and here he was, fucking the life out of you like no one ever had before. What could possibly come after an experience like this?
“I thought you didn't like me,” he said, his voice choppy, strained with effort. A smirk played at the corners of his swollen lips. “Such a bad liar, baby, look at you.”
You growled in response, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him towards you with a mix of force and anger. Your lips found his in a kiss that was anything but patient, igniting a spark between you. You felt him tense above you, one of his hands quickly moving to your center, exerting immense pressure as he leaned his weight on his other arm, holding you captive beneath him.
His fingers found your clit, tracing gentle circles that made your back arch involuntarily, another wave of pleasure building inside you. Your mouth was still on his, consuming him completely, when your second orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave. You felt your insides tighten around him, squeezing him with a ferocity that pulled him closer to his own climax.
Joel gasped into your mouth, and the intensity of it sent your vision spiraling into darkness for a brief moment, the sensation so strong it felt as if the world had collapsed around you. When your breathing finally steadied, you found his hot body pressed against yours, moving in tiny tremors, quickened breaths brushing against your jaw.
He stayed inside you for a few moments longer, savoring the closeness, your hands continuing to caress his back, each touch a silent promise. Then, slowly, he pulled out of you, leaving you feeling achingly empty, his cum trickling from your entrance.
He fell limply beside you, his body slick with sweat, and pulled you close to him, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. His breaths, still heaving, crashed against your damp skin, wrapping you in warmth. Unable to muster the energy to move, you let your eyes flutter closed, surrendering to a deep, exhausted sleep that you would not remember when you woke up...
No, you didn't remember any dream, Because when you opened your eyes the next morning, you stirred in place and your muscles ached pleasantly, reminding you of the night before. And as you stretched your arms across the bed, your fingers grazed the sheets, feeling an emptiness beside you.
When you looked to your sides, the realization hit you hard.
part ten of the neighbors series. i hope everyone who has been reading so far enjoys this chapter, because i definitely shed a tear or two during the writing process. one of the more difficult things i've had to write because that writer's block hit me good and hard multiple times throughout this, but i am pretty proud of what came out of it! mwah, love you all... please come cry about this with me ok thank u 🖤 oh and a big big big thank you to @persephone-girl for always being there for me when i'm ranting about how i don't know what the hell i'm doing and for reading over the parts i was struggling with. ¡te amo, cleo!
javier peña x f!reader. ~10k word count. (oops) the angst we've all come to know and love, canon typical violence (please proceed with caution), feelings are confessed, anything procedural that occurs comes from the small knowledge i have and just pure vibes (let's suspend our belief real quick), translated spanish, mateo is a piece of shit, reader is going through it, any typos/grammar mistakes are of my own doing and i apologize in advance, if i missed any other tags pls let me know ok thx.
The sharp buzzing of your pager against the kitchen table jolts you out of your book. You frown, sliding a ribbon into place to mark your page before rising to see who’s paging you this late.
Mateo glances over from his spot on the couch, his eyes narrowing slightly as he watches you. “¿Quién te llama tan tarde?” (Who is calling you so late?)
“No se,” (I don’t know) you pluck the device from the table and squint at the screen. A number you don’t recognize flashes, accompanied by the name of a local hospital.
You blink in confusion, picking up the landline and dialing the number, tapping your fingers against the countertop as you wait.
A brisk receptionist answers, eventually redirecting you to someone who can actually help you in English.
Your Spanish is good but not that good.
“Javier Peña is here and you’re listed as one of his emergency contacts.”
Your heart drops into your stomach and your grip tightens on the receiver. “Is he okay? What happened?” Your mind races through a dozen worst-case scenarios.
“He’s alright,” the nurse assures you, “Much less intoxicated than when he was brought in. He was involved in an… altercation at a bar. We need someone to sign his discharge papers before he can leave.”
The knot of anxiety loosens slightly, but in its place comes a flare of exasperation. Of course. A bar fight? You rub at your eyebrow, closing your eyes.
You’ve done everything possible to create distance between you and this man, and still, somehow, he finds a way to pull you back in.
“Hello? Are you still there?”
You snap out of your thoughts and clear your throat. “Yes—sorry. I’ll be there shortly.”
Hanging up, you let out a sharp breath. Why do you keep doing this? Even though you tell yourself you’re just being a good person, there’s a part of you that knows better… that secretly wonders if you’re glad for an excuse to see him again.
You straighten up and head back to the living room where Mateo is lounging, and his eyes shift to you expectantly.
“¿Quién fue?” (Who was it?)
“The hospital downtown. Javier’s been injured and I need to go help him.” You move around the room, grabbing your things.
You feel the shift in the air when he mutes the television and stands, his brows furrowing. “Javier? Your neighbor? The one who nearly ruined our first date?”
You pause, bending to put on your shoes, catching the sharp edge in his tone.
“Yeah,” you admit, trying to sound nonchalant. “I’m listed as one of his emergency contacts, so…”
His body language shifts into something more rigid. “I don’t know how I feel about that.”
“What do you mean?”
“My girlfriend is being called out in the middle of the night to pick up some malparido who’s clearly into her. That’s what I mean.”
The snort that escapes you is involuntary. “You’re being ridiculous. We’re just friends.” Barely that anymore, you think. That word feels like a fragile label for whatever exists—or existed—between you and him. But Mateo doesn’t need to know the messy, complicated details.
You’ve deliberately kept it that way to avoid exactly what’s happening now.
“Friends,” he repeats, the word heavy with doubt. “No me gusta.” (I don’t like it)
“It’s a good thing I don’t need your permission.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Then what did you mean?”
“You don’t see how strange this is?”
You let out a breath, straightening your posture as you meet his gaze. “I don’t know what to tell you, Mateo. All I have to do is sign his discharge papers and call him a cab home. That’s it.”
“It’s not your responsibility. He’s not your responsibility.”
You blink at him, taken aback slightly. He’s always been steady, easygoing, and this possessive edge is new—unwelcome. Jealousy, you realize. You understand it to a degree, but it makes you wary.
“I know that—”
“You don’t see me playing knight-in-shining-armor for some random woman I barely talk to anymore.”
“Javier is not just some random guy—” You cut yourself off with an exasperated sigh, hating how defensive you sound, feeling uncomfortable with the turn this conversation has made.
Mateo’s expression darkens, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Exactly,” he mutters bitterly. “He’s not some random guy. Y ese es el problema ¿no?” (And that’s the problem, isn’t it?)
You can feel the heat rising in your face, a mix of anger and guilt twisting in your gut. “We’re just friends.” You reiterate, trying to sound as resolute as possible. “You can believe that or not, but it’s the truth,” you retort, ending your side of this argument before grabbing your bag from the entryway table.
“Are you coming or not?” you ask without looking back.
There’s a long, agonizing pause that makes your heart pound in your ears. For a moment, you think he might refuse, that he might dig his heels in and escalate this further. But then he just sighs, shuffling to gather his own things.
“Yeah, I’m coming.”
The nurse ushers you through a brightly lit hallway and into a larger room lined with hospital beds, each one partially hidden by flimsy curtains that do little to offer privacy. At the very end, you spot Javier.
He’s perched on the edge of a bed, his broad shoulders slumped forward. His arm is wrapped in gauze, a deep gash on his eyebrow held together with fresh stitches. His lip is swollen and split, a constellation of bruises littering his face, one eye swollen shut.
He looks like he’s been through hell.
“Javier, oh my god!” Your voice comes out squeakier than you intended as you rush toward him. You stop short, your hands hovering awkwardly in the space between you, instinct screaming to pull him into a hug. But the injuries hold you back.
Even with the ache radiating through his body, the sound of your voice and the sight of you standing there softens the edges of his pain, offering a brief, soothing reprieve. He can’t believe you actually came.
“What happened?” You ask, your voice cracking with worry despite your efforts to keep it even.
Javier looks up at you, his gaze glassy but warm, a tired smirk tugging at the corner of his injured mouth. “Guys talkin’ shit at the bar,” he mutters, his voice raspy and slightly slurred. “I’m fine.”
He doesn’t mention how he courted the violence, drunk and bitter, until it exploded into a fight he couldn’t win. Three guys dragged him outside, taking turns landing blows.
The shameful truth is, he relished the pain. It was sharp, tangible—more real than the numbness he’d been drowning in with booze and meaningless sex.
It was a culmination of all the bad decisions, every scar his job had etched into his soul, and the emptiness he couldn’t seem to escape.
“You are not fine, Javier,” you snap, your frustration spilling over as you gesture to the mess of bruises and bandages covering him. “You got the shit beat out of you.”
That earns you a low chuckle, though it quickly morphs into a wince as he presses his uninjured hand lightly to his ribs. “Always so dramatic,” he teases, his gaze sweeping over you. “You look good.”
Your cheeks warm despite yourself. How he’s able to be a flirtatious bastard all the time is lost on you. You cross your arms over your chest. “Don’t laugh. I’m serious.”
“I know you are.” He grins wider, which only makes him wince again. “That’s why I’m laughing.”
You let out a sharp breath, your emotions roiling—frustration, worry, and relief that he’s fine.
“I handled everything up front,” you say firmly, needing to regain control. “We just need to go outside and wait for your cab.”
Javier’s expression falters, his brows pulling together. “You’re not coming back home with me?”
The casual way he says it makes your stomach flip. You bite the inside of your cheek, choosing your next words carefully. “I’m going home with Mateo. He drove me here.”
For a moment, Javier is quiet. Too quiet. You watch as his body stiffens, his bruised jaw clenching tightly.
“He’s here?”
“Yes,” you reply as you shift your weight from one foot to the other, dropping your arms to your sides. “He’s waiting in the lobby.”
Javier swears he’s never sobered up so fast.
The urge to tear through the room rises, and he almost gives in to the intrusive thoughts, but instead, he tamps it down, the only outward sign being the sharp scowl twisting his swollen, beaten features.
“Couldn’t leave him at home?”
“Excuse me?” Your brows shoot up.
“I don’t need an audience for this.”
“An audience? He’s my boyfriend, Javier. Of course he’s here. This isn’t even about him,” you’re feeling déjà vu from your argument earlier.
No one really prepares you for how dramatic relationships can be.
“This is about you—about you acting out and dragging me into it. You show up at my place drunk, claiming you miss me after ditching me for months, fall asleep at my door like I’m some kind of lifeline for you. You pull me in so many different directions, and it’s exhausting.”
Javier’s mouth opens like he’s about to fire back, but then he deflates. The irritation in his eyes dims, replaced by something that looks a lot like regret.
“I don’t know how else to tell you that I’m sorry.”
You roll your eyes, looking away from him, partially relieved that Mateo wasn’t allowed back here, or this confrontation would have spiraled into something much uglier.
“Try by being sincere. Every time you apologize it feels like you’re only doing it to save your own ass.”
“Because I was. For the longest time.” He admits, gingerly slipping off the bed, slowly walking over to you and you swallow harshly as the distance between you decreases. “Then I realized how much I took you for granted and I’ve been falling apart since.”
Why does he have to make everything so complicated? Why does the apology you’ve craved for months suddenly feel like the hardest thing you’ve had to hear?
You cross your arms over your chest again, trying to create some kind of barrier between you and the honesty radiating off him. You don’t even know what to say.
Javier inches closer, his voice softening further. “I’m sorry for treatin’ you like shit and for being a terrible friend. I just... I need you to know that I really mean that, and I will do whatever it takes to make it up to you… if that’s something you even want from me anymore.”
You look at him then, really look at him—the bruises, the stitches, the exhaustion lining his face. There’s no wall of deflection in his eyes this time, no trace of the usual excuses he uses like armor. Just unguarded sincerity.
You rub your temple, trying to soothe the headache forming.
“I appreciate your apology,” you finally manage to find your voice. “And that you recognize what you’ve done wrong. But it’s going to take more than just words to fix this.”
The admission feels dangerous, like opening a door you’re not sure you’ll be able to close.
Is it even a good idea to let him try to fix this? The memory of the argument earlier replays in your mind, and you know without a doubt there will be more fights like it if you allow Javier back into your life.
Mateo made his feelings about him abundantly clear.
But beyond your boyfriend’s disapproval—and that glaring red flag of jealousy you haven’t entirely processed yet—there’s the deeper question: can you handle this? Can you handle being just friends with Javier? The last time you tried, it nearly destroyed you.
And if he does follow through? If he becomes the person you’ve wanted him to be this entire time? That might be worse, because you don’t know if you’ll be able to keep your feelings in check.
The storm of thoughts threatens to overwhelm you, so you silence them, focusing instead on the immediate task: getting him home safely.
Javier’s expression softens at your words. Relief flickers in his eyes, subtle but unmistakable. “I know. I’ll be better.”
You let out a heavy sigh, toying with the pendant around your neck as you try to ground yourself. “Come on,” you say after a beat, resigned. “Let’s get you out of here.”
He follows you out of the room, each step betraying just how much pain he’s in.
When you step into the waiting room, Mateo is standing by the entrance, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. His dark eyes sweep over Javier, taking in the full extent of his injuries, before landing on you.
There’s no mistaking the irritation simmering beneath his calm facade.
Javier straightens despite the visible discomfort it causes him, his sore muscles screaming at him. His dark gaze meets Mateo’s, and for a moment, the two men size each other up.
You can practically hear the things they’re not saying. Mateo’s scorn is written all over his face—This is the guy? The one who’s causing all this bullshit? And Javier’s defiance is just as clear—Yeah, I’m the guy. What are you going to do about it?
“Mateo,” you say, your voice cutting through the charged silence, “this is Javier.”
“I remember.” Mateo’s tone is clipped, his eyes narrowing slightly as they linger on Javier’s injuries. “You look like hell.”
“Thanks.”
“Let’s wait for the cab outside.” You quickly add, anything to keep these two and their manly, dick measuring competition at bay.
As you lead the way, the two men follow like a shadow, heavy and unavoidable, their stares burning into your back.
“Oh—I forgot to grab your meds. Wait here,” you quickly pivot back toward the sliding glass doors before either of them can protest.
The moment you’re out of earshot, Mateo takes a step closer to Javier, his gaze hard and unyielding. “No sé cuál es tu obsesión con mi mujer,” (I don’t know what your obsession with my girl is) he begins to confront him, “but that shit ends tonight. Basta con estas tonterías de ser contacto de emergencia o de andar con ella, fingiendo ser su amigo. I can see right through you.” (No more of this emergency contact bullshit or hanging around her pretending to be her friend)
Javier’s jaw tightens, and a muscle twitches in his cheek. He’s already had his ass handed to him once tonight, but the temptation to go another round—this time with Mateo—is almost too good to resist.
He tilts his head slightly, his eyes narrowing. “Yeah? Then maybe you should be the one hittin’ the road,” he retorts, his tone like gravel. “Keepin’ her locked up at your place like she’s some fuckin’ doll that doesn’t have a life of her own to live. Eso no es amor, es control.” (That’s not love, that’s control)
Mateo snorts, a humorless sound that sets Javier’s blood boiling. “Locked up?” he echoes, his lips curling into a sneer. “Le doy todo lo que necesita. Está feliz conmigo—ya no es el desastre que era cuando andabas por aqui. Cree que no me doy cuenta, pero no soy idiota. Desde que desapareciste de la faz de la tierra, está contenta. No necesito que regreses y me lo arruines. Stay the fuck away from her.” (I give her everything she needs. She’s happy with me —no longer the upset mess she was when you were around. She thinks I don’t notice, but I’m not an idiot. Ever since you dropped off the face of the earth, she’s been content. I don’t need you coming back and ruining it for me)
The words hit Javier harder than any punch he took earlier that night. He knows there’s some truth to them. Hell, he’s been kicking himself for months over how he left things with you.
But Mateo’s entitled delivery makes his fists clench, his chest puffing out in barely contained fury. It takes every ounce of willpower not to lunge forward and break his fucking nose.
Before either of them can escalate the situation further, you reappear, a white paper bag in hand. You stop short, glancing between them, your brows furrowing at their postures.
“Instructions are on the bag,” you say, handing it to Javier. “Your cab should be here any minute.”
Javier takes the bag, his eyes darting to you briefly before landing back on Mateo. His fists relax slightly, but his shoulders remain rigid.
You shift uncomfortably, the atmosphere heavy and you wonder what you just walked in on.
Mateo steps closer to you, sliding his hand into yours and pulling you to his side. You let it happen, not fully grasping that this isn’t just affection—it’s a display of dominance. He’s making a point, staking his claim on you in front of Javier.
Javier notices. Of course he does. It burns him up inside, but he bites down on the simmering anger, knowing now isn’t the time to say anything. He’s just been given a sliver of hope to fix things with you, and he’s not about to jeopardize it by getting into it with your asshole boyfriend.
Moments later, the cab pulls up to the curb. Javier exhales slowly, steeling himself as he moves toward the car. He tries not to wince as he slides into the backseat, his body protesting every movement.
“I’ll see you around,” you tell him softly, still standing at Mateo’s side. His arm has snaked around your waist now, and Javi’s stomach twists at the sight.
He doesn’t respond, just nods, his expression unreadable. The door closes, and as the cab pulls away, Javier’s head falls back against the headrest.
He knows this isn’t going to be easy. Fixing things with you, proving he’s deserving of your friendship—it’s going to take a lot of fucking effort.
A nagging doubt then creeps in: has he set himself up for failure?
The room is stifling, the warm glow of the desk lamp barely cutting through the haze of cigarette smoke and exhaustion. Papers are strewn across the table, maps, routing numbers, and satellite photos spread out like the world's most maddening puzzle.
Javier leans back in his chair with his eyes closed, pinching the bridge of his nose while Trujillo flips through pages, his brows furrowed in concentration.
“I keep seeing the same routing number attached to some of these shipments,” Steve mutters, ashing his cigarette into an overflowing tray. He leans forward, his tone carrying a spark of determination. “Something’s telling me we should check it out.”
It feels like it’s been months of running after ghosts while Escobar and his men continue to outpace them. “Half of these are fake accounts set up to throw us off,” Javi states. “Even if there’s drug money in ‘em, they don’t give a shit. It’s collateral. They’ll make that back in days.”
“It’s still worth checking out,” Steve counters, unbothered by his partner’s irritation. He taps the paper. “Could be our needle in this fucked-up haystack.”
Javier exhales heavily, rolling his neck like he’s trying to shake off the weight of his own weariness. He has no desire to chase another dead end tonight. “You handle it. I’ll stay here with Trujillo, see if we can find another angle.”
Steve shrugs, already slipping on his coat. “Fine by me. Need some fresh air anyway. Smells like ass in here.”
Trujillo snorts, his laughter muffled behind his fist, but Javier doesn’t even crack a smile. His focus is already back on the satellite photos sprawled across the table—grainy images of the barrios where Escobar’s operations are most active.
He traces the outline of one, his coffee mug dangling precariously from his other hand, its contents spiked with enough liquor to numb the ache of his lingering injuries.
The hours stretch thin, blending into each other, the occasional sound of shuffling papers or Trujillo’s half-snore the only break in the silence. Javier barely notices, remaining focused to find anything that could give them the upperhand.
When Steve returns, the sound of the folder slamming onto the table jolts Trujillo awake. He blinks blearily, mumbling something incoherent, while Javier looks up, his expression more bored than curious.
“What’d you find?” he asks, his tone flat, tired.
“Open it,” Steve says, a sly edge in his voice.
Javier grabs the folder with little enthusiasm. But the moment his eyes land on the photo inside, his entire body stiffens. His jaw tightens, and his chest constricts as a surge of panic bolts through him.
It’s Mateo.
Steve keeps talking, his words distant and muddled as Javier stares at the picture. “Just like that account is attached to the shipments, he’s attached to the account. The bank he works at is owned by some powerful and shady people. I’m almost certain he’s on Escobar’s payroll. At this point—who isn’t?”
The rest of Steve’s explanation fades into background noise as Javier processes what this means.
For months you’ve been involved with someone who has ties to one of the most dangerous men in the world.
It can’t be a coincidence. Mateo sought you out. You work at the American embassy—not in a high-ranking position, but enough to get the attention of the wrong people.
That night at the hospital… it wasn’t just jealousy. It wasn’t just him ‘staking his claim’, telling Javi to stay away. Mateo knew. He knew that if Javier got too close, he’d find out.
Now all of the violence, the lies, the endless cycles of chasing men like your boyfriend have spilled over into your life, staining the one good thing he’s tried to keep untouched.
“Javier.” Steve snaps his fingers in front of his face, jolting him back to the present.
“What?”
Steve narrows his eyes. “What do you think we should do?”
Javier exhales through his nose, rubbing his lips together as he stares down at the photo again. His mind is already spinning with strategies, balancing the need to act against the risk of tipping Mateo off too soon.
Then he thinks about how you’ll react when he tells you. He knows you’ll need more than just his word. He’ll need proof. Otherwise, you’ll think he’s doing this just to sabotage your relationship.
“Tail the guy,” he finally says, his voice steadier now. “Follow him around, gather intel. We need to be sure we’re not just jumping the gun because it fits the narrative we want it to fit.”
Steve nods, but Javier barely notices. His only priority now is making sure that you remain safe while they think of a plan to bring this man in.
“Cariño, hold up.” Javier’s voice cuts through the cool night air as he jogs toward you. You’re halfway to the entrance of Mateo’s building, keys in hand, when you stop and turn, startled to see him.
“Javi?” Your brows furrow, confusion flickering across your face as you take in his familiar figure—black button-up shirt, jeans, and those scuffed boots that have somehow become as much a part of him as the shadows he carries. “What are you doing here?”
Things between you two aren’t as strained as they were, but they’re far from how they used to be. Those easy conversations and shared meals feel like a distant memory, replaced by brief, polite interactions at work and the occasional glance that lingers too long.
At least you’re acknowledging that he exists again.
Javier hasn’t pushed, though. He’s been careful, letting things progress naturally, giving you space while silently yearning for the warmth you once offered so freely.
But right now, his usual restraint is gone. “There’s no easy way to say this, so I’m just going to tell you.” He glances around the semi-populated area then gently takes your elbow, guiding you away from the open street to a nearby alleyway.
Your heart sinks. You don’t know what he’s about to say, but the hardened look in his eyes tells you it’s not good. “What’s wrong?”
He reaches behind him, pulling out a stack of folded papers he had tucked into the back of his jeans. He holds them out to you, his expression unreadable, as if bracing for impact. “Mateo is working for Escobar,” he says bluntly.
For a moment, all you can do is blink at him, your mind scrambling to process. Slowly, you take the papers, your hands trembling slightly as you unfold them.
The photos hit you first: Mateo in various locations, surrounded by men you don’t recognize. Beneath the images are detailed reports, routing numbers, bank transactions—a web of evidence you don’t want to believe.
“I’m sorry—what?” You let out a laugh, but it’s strained and hollow, a defense against the disbelief clawing at your chest. “Are you serious?”
“The bank he works at launders money for Escobar’s operations,” Javier explains, his voice steady but tense. “Fake accounts, hidden transfers, branches overseas—he’s tied to all of it. We’re building a case now, but—”
“Stop.” You cut him off, shoving the papers back into his hands. Your head shakes instinctively, refusing to entertain the possibility. “No. No way. Mateo would never. He’s always talking about how much he hates those men, how they’ve ruined this country. He wouldn’t work for them, Javi. He hates them. And honestly? I’m kind of hurt you’d even accuse him of this.”
The man Javier is describing—some slimy criminal playing a dangerous game with the cartel—doesn’t resemble the Mateo you know, the Mateo you’ve spent nearly a year forcing yourself to feel something for. And now that some feelings are sticking, here comes Javier with this metaphorical anvil, dropping it right over your head.
Your brain scrambles, frantically searching for some explanation that could make it all untrue.
You’ve seen his disgust at the violence that plagues this country, the way his jaw tightens when the news shows another bombing or assassination. You’ve heard his impassioned speeches about wanting to see real change, about how the corruption needs to end for there to be any hope.
Your chest tightens as the thoughts contort inside you: What if you’re wrong? What if Mateo’s perfect facade is just that—a facade? It feels impossible, a cruel betrayal by the universe itself.
Because if it’s true, then you’ve let yourself fall for a lie. And you’re not sure how you’ll cope with the weight of that.
Javier’s face hardens, his frustration nipping at him. He says your name firmly. “This isn’t about some petty rivalry. I’m not making this up. It’s real. He’s dangerous.”
But you shake your head again, denial eclipsing reason. “You’re wrong. This is just…” You exhale sharply, the words tangled on your tongue. “It’s absurd. You don’t like him, so now you’re trying to drag him into this?”
A flicker of pain crosses his face at your lack of acceptance, but it’s gone in an instant, replaced by sheer exasperation. “This has nothing to do with how I feel about him,” his voice rises slightly before he reins it in.
He steps closer, his hands gently gripping your forearms to stop you from walking away. “I’m not lying to you. You have to trust me. Mateo isn’t who you think he is.”
“Much like you, right?” The words escape before you can stop them, cutting deep and twisting in the space between you.
His jaw twitches. “Cariño, por favor—”
“Let go, Javi.” Your voice wavers, but your resolve doesn’t.
He wants to shout, to demand you reconsider, to tell you how these things usually end. But he doesn’t. The thought that you’re safer because of your government ties is the only thing keeping him in check.
He stares at you for a long moment, his grip loosening before he finally lets go. “Fine,” he says, “don’t believe me. But you’ll see soon enough. Just…” He swallows hard, “be smart. Be safe. If something happens to you…”
He trails off, looking down, his thoughts drifting elsewhere. You don’t know about the ghosts that haunt him, but you can see the weight of them now, heavy in the lines of his face. “Por favor, cuídate.” (Please take care of yourself)
You straighten your shoulders, masking the turmoil inside with a veneer of indifference. “I’ll be fine. Goodbye, Javi.”
Turning away, you walk back toward the building without a backward glance. Your steps are steady, but your chest feels hollow, your mind buzzing with too many thoughts to make sense of any of them.
Behind you, Javier stands in the shadows of the alley, watching until you disappear through the doors of the building.
His hands curl into fists at his sides, frustration and dread curling in his gut.
What happened earlier with Javier clouds your line of thinking as you lie naked beneath the silk sheets of Mateo’s bed, his lips lazily dragging across your shoulder before finding their way to your mouth, kissing you passionately.
“Join me in the shower?” He mutters, his large hand massaging your thigh before it trails up to cup your breast.
You offer him a tight-lipped smile, hoping it disguises the unease you’re beginning to feel. “Yeah, just give me a second and I’ll be there.”
He doesn’t think anything of it, kissing you again before slipping out of bed. You listen as the bathroom door shuts and wait for the faint hiss of water hitting the tile.
Wrapping the sheet around yourself, you rise quietly, your pulse pounding in your ears. The small voice in your head that’s screaming at you to stop is drowned out by the rush of adrenaline as you start rifling through his belongings.
Nothing stands out—just the neatly arranged trappings of his life, curated to look perfect. But perfection doesn’t leave room for secrets.
If he’s hiding something, it wouldn’t be here. Your gaze shifts to the hallway where the closed door of his office is.
Tiptoeing down the corridor, you push the door open and slip inside, the sheet still wrapped tightly around you.
The air in here feels heavier, like the room itself is holding its breath. You move quickly, sifting through drawers and shelves, your heart a riot in your chest as you search for something—anything—to prove or disprove Javier’s accusations.
Then you find it: a loose bottom in one of the desk drawers. Your fingers fumble as you pry it open, and there it is—a leather-bound ledger, hidden away like a dirty secret.
You bite your lip, hesitating for just a moment before flipping through it. Familiar initials, dates, and sums that match too closely with what Javier showed you earlier. Names you’ve heard on the news, men associated with violence and destruction.
Your stomach turns as the realization washes over you—Javier was right.
You’re so caught up in the revelation, that you don’t hear when Mateo curiously cuts his shower short after you failed to join him, padding down the hallway until he’s at the door of his office, catching you red handed with the ledger in your possession.
“What the hell are you doing?”
His voice slices through the air like a whip, and you flinch, clutching the damning item to your chest. Turning slowly, you meet his glare, the heat of his anger so palpable it makes your skin prickle.
“What is this, Mateo?” you ask, trying to keep your voice steady, heat flooding your face, panic building at the base of your spine.
He steps into the room, his wet hair dripping onto his shoulders, his eyes dark and dangerous. “Why the fuck are you going through my things?”
“You need to explain yourself right now,” you demand, though your hands tremble. “Or else—”
“Or else what, lindura?” His voice drips indignation as he closes the space between you in an instant. “You gonna call your friend at the DEA? Snitch on me?”
Before you can answer, he crosses the room in two long strides. The ledger is ripped from your grasp, and his hands are on you, shoving you roughly against the wall. Your cheek presses against the cool surface, and he yanks your arms behind your back, his grip on your wrists unrelenting.
The cool silk of the sheet clings to your skin, but it does nothing to shield you from the shame burning through your body. His breath, hot and sharp with fury, ghosts over your ear as he leans in close. “You had no right to go through my things.”
“You lied to me,” you spit back, struggling against his grip. “You’re working with those monsters—you’re just like them!”
He laughs bitterly, the sound lacking humor. “You don’t know shit about how this works.” He presses harder, keeping you pinned. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“I understand enough to know what you are,” you hiss, your voice breaking. “That ledger proves everything. The accounts, the shipments—everything Javi said was true.”
At the mention of Javier, his grip tightens painfully, and you let out a soft gasp. “Javier.” The way he spits the name sends a shiver down your spine. “Of course, this is about him.”
“You’re deflecting,” you accuse, though your body betrays you, trembling against the wall. “If you’re innocent, explain it to me. Tell me I’m wrong.”
Mateo lets out another harsh, humorless laugh. “Wrong? Wrong?” He releases one of your wrists, only to grab a fistful of your hair, forcing your head back until your neck strains and you wince. “Do you have any idea what you’ve just done? Sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong? You’ve put both of us in danger.”
“I’m not the one working with murderers!” Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, but you refuse to let them fall, refusing to give him the satisfaction. “You lied to me, Mateo. You’ve been lying this whole time.”
His jaw clenches, and for a moment, you think he might actually hurt you. Instead, he yanks you back from the wall and spins you around to face him, his hold on you still bruising.
“This world isn’t all black and white like you think it is. People like me—we do what we have to, to survive.”
“Survive?” you repeat, disbelief lacing your words. “You chose this. You chose to work for men who ruin lives, who destroy families. You’re just as bad as they are. You’re profiting off the misery and destruction of others. That’s not survival—that’s greed.”
Mateo’s face twists with fury, his hand flying up like he’s about to strike, and you brace yourself for the hit, but he stops himself, his chest heaving.
For a moment, the room is filled with nothing but the sound of your ragged breaths.
He steps back, releasing you abruptly, and you stumble, clutching the sheet tightly against you.
“You know too much. I can’t risk you running off telling them everything, especially if they’ve already been tipped off. Fuck!” He swipes at his desk, sending a glass trinket flying and shattering against the hardwood floor.
You try not to let fear swallow you whole, but it’s hard not to—especially when you know how brutal these things can end.
You remain silent, watching Mateo pace the room with a towel wrapped around his hips, not daring to say anything because you don’t want to be on the receiving end of his anger again.
He doesn’t let you leave his apartment for three long days, the hours stretching endlessly under his watchful gaze.
Being held in his penthouse—perched high above the city like a gilded cage—only amplifies the suffocating isolation.
The thought of trying to escape crosses your mind repeatedly, but you know better. Running would make things worse. Right now, staying put and waiting for Javier to come through is your best, and only, option.
You can’t stop replaying the moment he tried to warn you, the worry etched into his face, the edge of desperation in his voice.
You’d brushed it all off, blinded by your need to believe Mateo was different. That he could be something good.
You should have listened to him.
Now you see the truth. He wasn’t special; he was just another man playing a role. You hate yourself for letting your heart cloud your judgment so easily.
Calling in sick to work is a delicate operation. Mateo looms nearby, arms crossed, glaring at you as you speak to your supervisor. You carefully mask the tremor in your voice, saying all the right things to ensure no suspicions are raised.
He keeps his own phone calls confined to the balcony, speaking in rapid-fire Spanish that’s too muffled and too quick for you to decipher. You strain to catch even a few words, pressing your ear to the glass, but it’s futile. The conversations are long, tense, and only heighten your paranoia.
You’re not sure what his plan is, but since the initial explosion of anger and aggression when he caught you with the ledger, he’s been disturbingly composed.
His calmness is almost off putting.
He finally approaches you one evening, the sun dipping low behind him, his voice is unnervingly steady. “You can go.”
You blink, sure you’ve misheard him. “What?”
“You’re not a threat. Too low-level for anyone to care about. By the time you’re home, I’ll be gone.”
His nonchalance unsettles you, and you hesitate as he disappears down the hall. When he returns, he’s carrying your shoes and bag, as though this were a casual parting.
“So that’s it? You’re just letting me leave after keeping me here like a hostage?”
“I had to make sure everything was in place first,” he explains. “I couldn’t have you running your mouth before things were handled.”
His packed suitcase in his closet flashes in your mind, along with his endless phone calls. Maybe he really is more worried about disappearing than dealing with you.
But the cartel doesn’t let loose ends walk away. Your heart pounds as you weigh whether this sudden freedom is genuine—or a trap.
You slip on your shoes and sling your bag over your shoulder, the need to escape drowning your caution. Still, you pause, unable to shake the uneasy feeling settling in your bones.
“What?” Mateo’s eyes narrow as he studies you. “You don’t believe me? Want me to drop you off myself?” He steps toward you, and you instinctively retreat.
“Why were you even with me?” you ask, the words spilling out before you can stop them. “Was it my job?”
He tilts his head, his gaze cold and calculating. “No,” he replies, his tone devoid of emotion. “I was attracted to you. Then you mentioned your job, and I figured, why not? But you turned out to be useless for that. Didn’t mean I didn’t enjoy the perks—companionship, a warm bed…”
The insinuation in his voice makes your stomach churn. “So you used me.”
“As much as you used me,” he counters, a ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips.
Your chest tightens and your gaze flits down to the floor. His detached demeanor cuts deeper than any heated argument could. When he says your name, it pulls your attention back to him like a leash.
“Leave.”
The word releases you, your body moving before your mind catches up. Stumbling toward the door, your trembling hands barely manage to turn the lock. The moment it opens, you bolt, refusing to look back.
Your necessities are in your bag, everything left behind purely materialistic.
You know you can’t go back to your apartment. They know who you are now, and no matter how insignificant Mateo says you are, you can’t risk staying.
Your fingers dig into the strap of your bag as you mentally map out an escape plan. You’ll go straight to Javier. He’ll know what to do. He’ll keep you safe.
Upstairs, Mateo leans against the window, the burner phone pressed to his ear. “Ya se fue,” (She’s gone) he says, his tone devoid of emotion. “Hagan lo que quieran con ella, pero no le disparen.” (Do whatever you want with her—just don’t shoot her)
Javier has been restless all night, unable to shake the weight of worry that had clung to him since returning from his assignment in Medellín.
The information about your sudden “illness” hadn’t sat right with him. Too convenient, too vague. He hadn’t pressed his team tailing Mateo for more than the facts—they’d seen nothing suspicious—but the absence of evidence did little to calm him.
So when the muffled sounds outside his door reach him, he’s on his feet in seconds.
He swings open the door to find you struggling to unlock yours, your entire body trembling as you fumble with your keys. Relief washes over him so suddenly, it nearly buckles his knees. “You’re okay.”
The second his voice cuts through the silence, something inside you begins to break. It’s soft, concerned, carrying a weight of relief that only makes you feel heavier.
The ache that has swallowed your body whole now reaches your chest, blooming into something sharper. You feel like crumbling right there in the hallway, letting the floor catch you because you don’t think you can hold yourself up for much longer.
This pain is a hum that pulses through your entire being, dull in some places, jagged and relentless in others. It numbs you in strange ways, yet it’s all you can feel, consuming every fragile thread of strength you have left.
You don’t even know how you made it back, how your trembling legs carried you through shadowed alleys and along dimly lit streets. Survival instinct? Perseverance?
It all happened so fast.
You stepped off the bus from Mateo’s place, unaware of the storm waiting to meet you. A few minutes of walking was all it took. They came out of nowhere, grabbing you roughly and dragging you into the shadows. Two of them—large, brutal—landed punches and kicks like you were nothing more than a punching bag.
The pain blurred into one endless wave, but their words cut even deeper. They spoke mockingly, almost laughing, about assaulting you in ways that made you wish they would just pull a gun out and end it all right there.
When you finally fell limp under their blows, you heard one of them mutter something. A boot nudged your side—testing, checking—but they didn’t bother to confirm. No pulse, no breath. Just assumptions. They left you there like discarded trash, their shadows disappearing into the night.
It took minutes, maybe hours, before you could even think about moving. You waited, your breath catching on sharp pains that confirmed what you feared—broken ribs.
The air burned in your lungs, and your head spun so violently, it was hard to tell if you were standing or lying down.
Eventually, with no other choice, you dragged yourself upright, ignoring the protests of your battered body.
The world tilted as you took your first step, and then another. Every ounce of strength you had went into putting one foot in front of the other.
When you finally reached your apartment door, you were shaking so hard it was nearly impossible to hold your keys.
Trembling hands fumbled with the lock, missing again and again. Your vision swam, blurring the keyhole into an indistinct smudge.
And then there’s Javier.
You can’t bring yourself to look at him. He says your name, but you don’t respond, your focus locked on the useless, agitating hands that can’t seem to do anything right. How could you possibly move on from this?
You’re just standing here, struggling to breathe, struggling to exist, as the weight of everything presses harder and harder on your broken soul.
His relief is short-lived. Something’s wrong.
The second his voice reaches you, your whole body seems to collapse inward. You clutch the door frame for balance, your breathing ragged.
Javier’s stomach twists as he takes in your state—your disheveled hair, the cuts on your hands, the way your shoulders slump as if the weight of the world has been dropped on them.
He steps closer. “Hey,” he says softly yet firmly. “Look at me. Mirame.”
You don’t. Your head shakes faintly, and the motion makes you wince.
It’s not purposeful ignoring; you’re hurt. He notices it now, the stiffness in the way you hold yourself, the shallow rise and fall of your chest like every breath is a struggle. His jaw clenches. What the hell happened to you?
His plea is more urgent now. “Cariño, please. You’re worrying me.”
Your lip quivers, and slowly, you start to unravel—one tear falls, then another, then another until they’re streaming freely down your cheeks.
He can’t hold himself back anymore. In two strides, he’s in front of you, slipping between you and the door, his large frame a protective shield.
Still, you refuse to meet his gaze, your silence loud and barbed.
Javier’s jaw tightens, his hand twitching at his side. It is taking every ounce of restraint not to reach out and cup your face, tilt it upward, make you look at him.
The tension is unbearable, the space between your bowed head and his searching eyes buzzing with unsaid words.
“Please,” he whispers, his voice cracking. “Look at me.”
Finally, you do. And it breaks him.
Your face is battered—one eye nearly swollen shut, a deep gash across your cheek, your lip split, nose still bleeding.
The vulnerability in your gaze hits him like a freight train, and he fights to keep his rage at bay. His nostrils flare, his entire body tensing as red creeps into the edges of his vision.
Every mark on your face feels like a personal attack.
This isn’t the time to lose control—not when you need him steady. Not when you’re crumbling right in front of him. You’re here. You’re alive. And right now, that’s all that matters.
His grip is careful, as though you might shatter beneath his touch, as he gently cradles your face into his hands. “Did he do this to you?” He has to know, though the answer seems to be glaringly obvious.
The sob tears from your throat like a wounded animal’s cry, raw and unrestrained, echoing down the hallway. It shakes you to your core, unraveling the fragile composure you’ve been clinging to.
Before you can hit the ground, Javier is there—solid and unyielding—catching you in his arms and pulling you carefully against his chest then guiding you into his apartment.
“Shh, it’s okay. I’ve got you,” he whispers, his voice cracking under the weight of his anger and helplessness.
The pain hits you all at once and you cling to Javier like he’s a lifeline, allowing him to move you until you’re sitting on his couch and he’s crouching in front of you.
Through choked cries, you manage, “Two men... they pulled me into an alley and did this.” The words spill out in fragments, each one more pained than the last. Your whole body quivers, and your heart races so wildly that you feel like you’re about to have a heart attack.
“We need to get you to a hospital.” He is woefully underprepared to deal with you in this state, you need proper care and he needs to deal with the fury that’s engulfing him by finding this piece of shit to beat his teeth in for what he’s done to you.
Your eyes widen. “No,” you croak, your voice hoarse from crying. “They’ll know they didn’t kill me. I can’t, Javi. I can’t.”
This is the hardest thing he’s ever had to do–remaining calm and fucking collected right now, suppressing the rage that’s clawing at his chest and threatening to spill out in a way that would terrify you more than you already are.
His mind spirals, circling back to that same godforsaken question: Why does it always come to this? First Helena, now you. This job—this life—it’s a parasite, sucking the light out of anything worth a damn.
Why can’t his penance be his own? Why must it reach everything he loves?
Fuck, maybe Connie knows enough to help you in the time being. If not, he’d find a way to make sure you got the care you needed while flying under the radar.
He’d tear down the goddamn world for you if he had to. Move heaven and hell, break every rule in the book—none of it matters if it means keeping you safe.
He looks at you again, seeing the fear trembling on your lips, and something solidifies within him. No hesitation. No second-guessing.
I won’t let them take anything more from you, he swears silently, his gaze softening despite the storm raging inside him. “I’ll take care of it,” he says aloud, his voice steadier now, resolute.
He starts to rise, intent on getting help, but your hand darts out, catching his wrist with trembling fingers, even though the motion sends a fresh wave of agony through your ribs. “Please,” you whisper, your voice barely audible. “Don’t leave me.” The sheer terror in your eyes is enough to tear him up from the inside out.
“Never again.” He promises, reaching over for the phone on the end table with one hand while the other stays on yours, dialing the familiar number.
Javier leans against the kitchen counter, his arms crossed and his jaw tight, listening as Connie explains your injuries.
The words feel like punches themselves—broken ribs, bruises all over your body, stitches across your cheekbone, but nothing that needed immediate intervention.
When he finally forces himself to ask, his voice is gruff, barely above a whisper. “Did they…”
Connie’s face softens, the professionalism in her demeanor giving way to quiet sympathy. “No,” she says firmly, meeting his eyes. “I asked her. I didn’t see any bruising or signs of trauma around her pelvis. She says it didn’t happen, but we won’t know for sure until she gets a kit ran.”
The tightness in his chest doesn’t ease, even with her answer. The mere thought of those men doing that to you has his fists clenching so hard his knuckles ache. His fury simmers low but steady, like a kettle on the verge of boiling over.
He nods curtly, his voice rough with gratitude. “Thanks for coming, Connie. I owe you one.”
She waves him off, already heading toward the door with her medical bag slung over her shoulder. “It’s the least I can do. You make sure my husband gets home safe all the time. Just… make sure she rests, takes the pain meds. No heavy lifting, no unnecessary stress.” She glances back at him, her eyes full of meaning. “Let me know if you need anything else.”
When he closes the door behind her, he exhales slowly, trying to shake off the weight pressing down on his chest. The apartment feels too quiet now, and his eyes drift toward the closed bathroom door where you’re still inside.
He hesitates, rubbing the back of his neck before knocking gently. “You good?” he asks, his voice softer than usual, almost tentative.
There’s a long pause before he hears your voice, quiet and weary. “Yeah… you can come in.”
Pushing the door open, Javier steps inside, his boots scraping softly against the tile. The sight of you in the tub stops him cold.
You’re hugging your knees to your chest, your arms wrapped tightly around them despite the obvious strain it puts on your ribs. The water is cloudy, tinged slightly pink from where Connie had cleaned your wounds. Steam curls faintly in the air, the room heavy with the scent of lavender soap.
His chest tightens again, a mix of anger and something else entirely. You look so small, so vulnerable, your face drawn with exhaustion and pain. Your head tilts slightly, your damp hair sticking to your cheeks as you glance up at him, your expression guarded.
“Don’t look at me like that,” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper.
“Like what?”
“Like I’m broken.”
Javier’s throat works as he swallows hard, dragging a hand down his face to mask the guilt flashing across his features. “I don’t think you’re broken,” he says finally, his voice rough but steady. “I think you’re strong as hell.”
You huff a soft, humorless laugh, resting your chin on your knees. “Doesn’t feel like it.”
He takes a careful step closer, his hand brushing against the edge of the sink as he leans back against it, his eyes never leaving you. “You survived,” he says quietly, his voice thick with conviction. “That’s strength.”
For a moment, you don’t respond, your gaze fixed on the water as if it holds answers you can’t quite find. Finally, you sigh, your arms loosening slightly from around your knees. “You don’t have to stay.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” Javier says firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument.
The silence stretches between you like a fragile thread until your voice breaks it, soft and raw. “I’m sorry for not believing you.”
Javier’s head snaps up, his expression hardening—not with anger, but with the kind of fierce protectiveness that has become second nature to him. “Don’t,” he says sharply, the words thick with conviction. He shakes his head, his voice softening but no less intense. “Don’t you dare apologize, cariño. None of this—none of it—is on you. This is on men like them, who run through life hurting innocent people for their selfish, fucked-up reasons.”
Your face crumples, and you press your trembling lips together, trying to stave off the tears threatening to spill over again. “I was stupid,” you choke out, the words a blade against your own heart. “I thought—God, I thought he was just going to let me go. He made it seem like… like I was nothing but a minor inconvenience. And then…” Your voice falters, the memories clawing at you, and you shut your eyes tight, forcing a deep breath the way Connie had just taught you.
Inhale. Hold. Exhale.
Seeing you like this does something to Javier that he’s never quite felt before.
He’s seen grief, fear, and pain—hell, he’s caused more than his fair share—but this? This helplessness, this guilt? It’s a hollowing thing, gnawing at his insides with ruthless efficiency.
He thought what happened Helena had broken him, but this is different. This is you. You. And he’s here, but it feels like it isn’t enough.
“What’s going to happen now?” you ask, barely above a whisper, as though afraid of the answer.
He doesn’t answer right away. His gaze drops to the tips of his boots, jaw tightening.
The logical answer is simple: those bastards who hurt you should be found, arrested, and thrown behind bars to rot. But he’s not naïve. Justice doesn’t always come cleanly. More often than not, it doesn’t come at all. And the thought of leaving it up to the system? Doing nothing would be more beneficial somehow.
Ever since Connie showed up to treat your wounds, an idea has been gnawing at the back of his mind.
He could visit Berna… one of his more resourceful informants, and get everything he needs to track those motherfuckers down. Handle things his way.
But he can’t tell you that, especially if he decides to follow through with it.
“You’re going to stay with me until I can guarantee that you’re safe,” he says finally. “Or, I can arrange for you to go to a safe house—”
“No.” The word comes sharp and immediate, your eyes snapping open to meet his. Despite the pain radiating through your battered body, you sit up slightly, holding his gaze with surprising resolve. “I’d rather stay here. With you.”
He exhales a long breath, nodding slowly as he scratches at his jaw, considering his next words carefully. “Do you remember that night you got drunk with Maria from HR and almost threw up in my car?”
The memory hits you, sharp and vivid. It was after you and Javier had mended things following the night he stood you up for Helena. You cringe a little at the thought of how self-deprecating you’d been then, how you’d spilled your guts—both figuratively and literally—once you got home.
This unexpected shift catches you off guard. For a moment, the ghost of a smile tries to tug at your lips, though it’s swallowed quickly by the weight of the night. “Yeah,” you murmur. “One of the worst hangovers I’ve ever had.”
Javier chuckles softly, the sound low and warm. “Tequila’ll do that…” His voice trails off as he thinks about the confession you’d made that night—about your discomfort in your own skin, your doubts about whether you even belonged here. He remembers how, in return, he’d told you then how much you meant to him, how much this job weighed on his conscience.
“I should’ve told you then. That I loved you.”
The confession rams right into your heart. Tears spill freely, and you bury your face in your arms, your entire body shaking.
As tender and sincere as it is, his profession doesn’t soothe you.
You want to feel comforted, to let his words wrap around you like a shield against the horror of the night, but instead, they do the opposite.
The timing feels wrong, the weight of his love pressing down on wounds too fresh to bear it. It feels like trying to breathe through shattered ribs—too much, too soon, and it hurts more than it heals.
Fuck. shouldn’t have said that—not now, not when you’re at your most vulnerable. He stands frozen for a moment, unsure if he should move closer or stay where he is. His hands grip the edge of the sink so tightly his knuckles turn white.
Finally, you lift your head, your face swollen and red. “Don’t say that just because of what h-happened,” you stammer, your voice cracking. “I don’t need you to feel obligated to feel some type of way because of it.”
“This has nothing to do with what happened tonight,” Javier says firmly, your name falling from his lips. He pushes off the sink, crossing the room to crouch beside the tub.
Neither of you seem to care about your state of undress—it’s not about that. His gaze locks on yours, steady and sure.
“It’s how I’ve been feeling for so long now,” he continues, his voice low but full of conviction. “And I’ve fucked it up so many times along the way when I should have just been honest. But I was so scared—scared of hurting you, of not being able to give you all of me. Of not being the man you deserve.”
You blink at him, your mind swimming in the gravity of his words.
They hit you like waves, powerful and unrelenting, pulling you under even as you struggle to stay afloat in this overwhelming moment.
Javier loves you. Despite the scars he carries, despite his mistakes, he’s offering you a truth that feels too big to hold right now. It’s not just one-sided; it never has been, and that realization aches in a way you weren’t prepared for.
“Javi…” you whisper his name, a sigh that escapes like a breath you didn’t know you were holding.
One of your arms unwinds from around your body, trembling as you reach out and rest your hand on his where it clings to the edge of the tub. The warmth of his skin against yours feels grounding, even as everything inside you is unraveling.
His gaze locks onto yours, those soulful brown eyes glinting with hope and desperation under the soft bathroom light. He leans closer, as if every ounce of him is hanging on what you might say next.
“Do you mean that?”
“With all my fuckin’ heart.”
Your heart lurches painfully in your chest, conflicting emotions tearing you apart. “I can’t even begin to fathom that right now,” you admit, your voice breaking.
“And I’m not expecting you to,” he says quickly, his grip tightening on the porcelain edge of the tub. “I just needed you to know. I guess what happened tonight finally put my ass in place. Made me realize how much of a dumbass I’ve been. Te amo, cariño. If you don’t feel the same way, that’s fine. But I couldn’t keep it in anymore.”
You want to tell him everything—how you’ve carried feelings for him from the very first day you met, how his mere presence lit up spaces you didn’t know were dark. How you’ve loved him in ways that scared you, in ways you tried to push down. But the words stay trapped, locked behind the barricade of pain you’re still trying to process.
“I wish we could have had this conversation before all of this.” Your thumb brushes over the back of his hand in a tentative, instinctual show of affection, and his whole body seems to soften under the touch.
“Me too,” he admits, “But we can’t change the past, as much as we want to. Whatever happens after this… we’ll get through it. Together.” His voice lowers, a quiet promise lingering in the air. “I meant it when I said I’m not leaving you.”
For the first time tonight, you feel a fragile flicker of safety, of something unbroken, even if you’re not ready to hold it just yet.
You nod, biting your lip as tears spill over yet again, and Javier’s hand shifts slightly beneath yours, his fingers brushing against yours in silent reassurance.
For now, that’s enough.
tag list for my works can be found here, so if you're interested— pls check it out 🖤
imagine moving into your new apartment and finding out that javier peña is your next door neighbour 🤭
tags: f!reader, friends to lovers i think, sprinkle of angst, mutual pining, alcohol consumption, throwing up/vomiting mentioned (if you're squeamish to that kind of thing), javi being javi, untranslated spanish, smut, p in v sex, overstimulation, there are feelings involved, unbeta'd, no use of y/n, if i missed any other tags pls let me know ok thx.
~ 4.2k w/c - gif found on pinterest - masterlist
a/n: i just want javier peña to look at me... is that too much to ask for?! this is tropey asf and not what i was initially thinking of writing when i got this ask—but i like how this lil one shot turned out. i hope you do too, bestie! 🖤
You’re in the middle of unpacking boxes in your new apartment, surrounded by a mess of your own doing, when a sharp knock on the door startles you. You weren’t expecting anyone.
Wiping your hands on your jeans, you head to the door and swing it open to reveal a striking woman. Auburn hair, sharp eyes—she’s undeniably beautiful, but her expression is less than friendly.
Her eyes narrow as she sizes you up. “¿Y tu quien putas eres?” she demands.
Before you can get a word out, she’s already pushing past you into your apartment, not waiting for an invitation. “¿Donde esta Javier? Malparido tramposo. ¡No te escondas de mí!” she continues, storming through your space like she owns it.
You stand there, dumbfounded at the absurdity, watching her move, her fury palpable. Your Spanish is still novice, at best, so you don’t really understand what she’s saying.
“Uh, I think you have the wrong—” you start, but she cuts you off again.
“Wrong, my ass.” She replies, her Colombian accent thick. “I know he lives here. All the Americans do—”
Your brain finally catches up and puts two and two together. She’s looking for Javier Peña. Your colleague and now, apparently, neighbor.
You’ve been quietly, hopelessly crushing on the agent since you started working at the embassy. And now you’re standing in the middle of your half-unpacked apartment while some furious woman is ranting about him.
You’re about to speak again when, as if summoned by the chaos, Javier himself strolls past your open door in the hallway. The woman halts, her eyes following him like a predator tracking its prey.
You see her face shift from righteous fury to utter confusion. It hits her finally—she’s in the wrong apartment, like you tried to tell her.
She mutters something you can’t understand, barely meeting your eyes before storming out, slamming the door behind her.
You stand there, blinking, still processing what just happened. If that was any indication on how things around here will go, at least you know you won’t be bored.
It’s later in the evening when there’s another knock at the door. You’re almost hesitant to answer, unsure if you’ll be met by another beautiful woman scorned, so this time you make sure to look through the peephole before blindly opening it.
It’s Javier.
You glance down at your clothes, suddenly self-conscious. You’re not exactly at your best, sweaty and disheveled from moving all day. Definitely not how you pictured running into him outside of work.
You take a deep breath, trying to pull yourself together, then open the door, “Hey.” You greet him, a little shy.
He leans casually against your doorframe, that signature smirk playing on his lips. “Sorry about earlier,” his deep voice sends a shiver down your spine. “Not the best way to be welcomed into the neighborhood.”
He glances past you, noticing the half-unpacked boxes scattered around your apartment, and you’re mortified for a second, wondering how messy everything must look through his eyes.
You laugh, though it’s a little shaky. “I, uh… didn’t know you lived next door.”
Javier grins, giving you a devastatingly handsome smile that you’ve only seen when he tries to bribe his way through some of the other girls at the office. “Yeah, been here since I moved to Bogotá,” his eyes linger on you, but you don’t notice with how you’re focused on not making a fool out of yourself.
“Well I hope you and your… friend worked things out.”
He exhales through his nose in an amused laugh. “Somethin’ like that,” he says, sounding almost entertained by the whole thing. “I owe you for that inconvenience.”
Your heart stutters and you hope, no—pray, that your eyes haven’t morphed into hearts with the charming way he’s looking at you.
“It’s fine, really—“
“No, no. I insist. It was rude. The least I can do is make it up to you.”
Knowing he wasn’t going to back down, a stubborn man through and through, you give him a slight nod, trying to play it cool even though your nerves are buzzing. “Okay… sure, fine. You owe me.”
His smirk softens into a half-smile, a little less cocky. He pushes himself off your doorframe, straightening up. “Alright, cariño. I’ll see you around.” The word rolls off his tongue as if he’s said it a thousand times to you, but it lands right between your legs, sending warmth to your cheeks.
“Have a good night,” he adds with that enamoring gravelly voice of his.
You manage to mumble a goodbye, watching as he walks down the hall, his presence making the air feel electric. You’re left standing there, alone with the heavy realization that your harmless work crush just became a lot more dangerous.
Living next door to him is going to be torture.
Months go by, and torture would be an understatement.
You’ve developed an odd, friendly relationship with him. It’s not exactly what you imagined when you first laid eyes on him at the embassy, all brooding intensity and effortless charm, but it works.
You exchange casual greetings in the hallway, little snippets of small talk when you bump into each other at work.
It’s... normal. Comfortable, in its own way. But every time he says your name, with that gravelly edge to his voice, something flutters in your chest.
He’s even taken it upon himself to help you with your Spanish, which is as endearing as it is embarrassing. On the days when you can steal a few moments to talk, he’ll have you practicing phrases, repeating them until he’s satisfied with your pronunciation. Sometimes, when he’s feeling particularly amused, he’ll leave a sticky note on your door with a new phrase scribbled on it for you to learn.
It’s become part of your routine. Him giving you little bits of language, you trying to impress him with how quickly you can pick it up. You tell yourself it’s just a… fun thing, nothing more.
Then there are the nights when you’ve made too much dinner. You know that man doesn’t eat. Not properly, anyway. So you bring over a plate, standing awkwardly at his door until he opens it, shirt half-buttoned and hair tousled, like he just rolled out of bed.
“Brought you something,” you say, trying to ignore the way your pulse quickens as his eyes flicker to yours, a mix of surprise and amusement.
“Thanks, cariño,” he takes the food from you with that half-smile that makes you feel like a damn schoolgirl.
But it’s not always like that. There are times when he’s away for days at a time. Out doing who knows what—your level of work doesn’t intersect with his at all.
His return comes with whispers around the office or in the form of news broadcasts that seem to be reporting nothing but atrocities as of late.
In the dead of night, you’ll hear the sound of his boots echoing through the enclosed hallway, a sure sign he’s finally back. You wonder what he’s seen, what he’s done while he was gone. The thought keeps you restless sometimes, but you never ask. He doesn’t offer, either.
And then there are the women.
You hear them through the thin walls—his low voice, their laughter, the unmistakable sounds of them fucking. The rhythm of their pleasure reverberates through your apartment, impossible to ignore.
Every time it happens, you’re reminded of the rumors you’ve heard around the office. The whispers about Javier Peña, about how good he is in bed, about how women fall over themselves to spend a night with him. Now, you know firsthand that they’re true.
It stings more than you’d like to admit, considering how you feel about him but knowing that he doesn’t see you as anything but a friend.
You’ve caught glimpses of him after his flings, too. You kind of wish you could wipe from your memory, if only to keep your sanity.
It’s during different times of the day, really, when he’s leaning casually against his doorframe like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He’s shirtless, skin still damp from a shower or maybe from the sweat he’s worked up, and his jeans hang sinfully low on his hips. The soft light from the hallway casts shadows over his golden chest, highlighting the faint beauty marks that map his body.
You do your best to keep your eyes averted, pretending you’re not affected, pretending you don’t notice the way his muscles flex as he stretches, or how his dark hair is tousled in that perfectly messy way. But your throat tightens every time, your stomach flipping at how effortlessly good he looks. It’s not fair how someone can make post-coital exhaustion look so damn attractive.
He’s usually saying goodbye to one of the lucky girls, tossing a wink their way, or brushing his fingers through their hair as they share a final kiss.
You tell yourself it’s just Javier being Javier, but it’s impossible to ignore the way jealousy twists in your chest when you see them, all blissed-out and satisfied, practically floating down the hallway after a night with him.
You turn your head, pretend you didn’t just catch a glimpse of him looking like some kind of god, and hurriedly unlock your door before he notices you staring.
And sometimes, when you least expect it, he catches you.
You’re fumbling with your keys, doing your best to mind your own business, when his voice cuts through the silence. “Hey,” he calls out, casual as ever, and you freeze. Your hand stills on the doorknob, and you force yourself to look up.
Javier is standing there, half naked, leaning against his door as if he has all the time in the world.
You try to swallow the lump in your throat, “Hey.”
“You alright there, cariño?” he asks, voice low and rough, like he’s barely holding back a laugh after watching you struggle with your keys.
“Yeah, I’m fine. Just had a long day.”
He hums, his stare lingering on you, and your heart pounds in a way you can’t quite control. But then, as if nothing’s changed, he shifts back into that familiar, teasing grin.
“Okay, don’t work too hard. Can’t have you burnin’ out before me.”
It all comes to a head one night at the bar near your place. You’re out with a secretary from a different department, downing margaritas like they’re water. You’re tipsy—no, you’re drunk, and the world is spinning just a little too fast.
That’s when you see him. He walks in like he owns the place, scanning the crowded space until his eyes land on you. He acknowledges you with a jut of his chin and you smile drunkenly at him, waving, before you’re brought back to the conversation with your friend.
He’s here for work, meeting one of his informants—a very pretty, very obvious, working girl. You hate how seeing him with her swirls the green in your drunken heart.
Maybe it’s the tequila talking, maybe it’s the months of pent-up frustration, but when Javier approaches as your coworker excuses herself to the bathroom, checking to see if you’re alright, your mouth runs faster than your brain.
“Don’t worry about me,” you slur, waving him off. “I’m sure you’d have more fun with her,” you add, nodding toward the woman with a sharp, sarcastic edge. “Probably more your type anyway.”
Javier raises an eyebrow, his expression shifting into a playful uncertainty, head tilting slightly. “What?”
You don’t know how to respond. Honestly, you’re not even sure you can form a coherent thought right now. All you know is that you’re in way over your head, and he is standing way too close.
But that liquid courage surges through your veins and the words are tumbling out of your mouth.
“It’s obvious, Javier,” your frustration is crystal clear, despite the way your words run into each other. “The kind of company you keep. They’re more fun,” You gesture vaguely toward his booth. “I’m just… here. A bore that’s drunk on a Wednesday night. It’s why you came to check on me. Why you’ve been overly nice.” Your words sting, even as they leave your lips.
The alcohol amplifies every insecurity you’ve kept buried.
The playful look on his face vanishes, replaced by hardened disbelief. His brows furrow, and for a moment, he just stares at you, like he’s trying to figure out how you could possibly think so little of yourself.
Instead of giving you an answer, he just reaches for his wallet in the back pocket of his jeans. “Come on,” he mutters, “I’m taking you home.”
You snort, shaking your head, another wave of dizziness washing over you. “See? Taking pity on me. Again.”
He rolls his eyes, unfazed by your drunken resistance. “That’s not what this is,” he pulls out a wad of cash and drops it on the bar top to settle your tab.
He makes sure your friend is taken care of, telling the bartender to call a cab for her. Then he goes to dismiss his informant—a woman he definitely had plans to sleep with. She seems surprised, but Javier brushes her off and hands her some money.
Your drunken mind can’t quite comprehend that he’s choosing to deal with you instead. As he guides you outside, you make it difficult, stumbling and resisting as he tries to steer you toward his car.
“I can walk, Peña,” you grumble, though your legs aren’t exactly cooperating.
“Sure you can,” he says dryly, his arm wrapped around your waist to keep you upright. “You’re making this real easy.” He comments sarcastically.
You’re so going to regret this tomorrow when you’re fighting a hangover at your desk, thinking of how you just fucked up this friendship.
But right now, you can’t focus on anything but how warm his large hand feels against your side as he helps you into the passenger seat.
Your head lolls against the window, and you groan softly. “You didn’t have to do this, you know. You could’ve stayed with her.”
Javier slides into the driver’s seat, glancing at you as he starts the engine. “Everything you said back there was bullshit,” he says bluntly, pulling out of the parking lot. “You think I pity you? That I only talk to you because I feel bad? You really don’t know me at all.”
His words are cutting, but not in a cruel way. He sounds… disappointed. “I like spending time with you,” he continues, quieter now, more serious. “It’s not some charity case. You make me feel normal. When I’m with you, it’s like the rest of the shit I deal with doesn’t exist.” The faint hum of the radio fills the sudden silence.
“You… you’ve got this smile that makes me feel a little better about myself.”
The sincerity in his voice sobers you up just a little, enough for your foggy brain to process what he’s saying. You turn to look at him, eyes wide, but before you can fully grasp it, your stomach lurches.
“Oh no,” you groan, clutching your middle. “I’m gonna be sick.”
He glances at you, and in an instant, he’s speeding up, making it to your complex faster than you would’ve thought possible. He parks hastily, helps you out, and practically carries you to your apartment. The second the door swings open, you make a beeline for the bathroom, barely making it in time to empty your stomach into the toilet.
You hear him lingering by the door, then the sound of running water as he fills a glass in the kitchen. You hate that he’s seeing you like this—pathetic, drunk, and embarrassed.
When you finally sit back, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, Javier is there, handing you the glass of water. His expression is soft, more concerned than anything.
“Drink,” he orders gently, crouching next to you. His voice is soothing, and for a moment, the embarrassment fades under the warmth of his presence.
You sip the water, avoiding his gaze, but he’s not letting this go. “You okay?”
You nod, not trusting yourself to speak.
He sighs, settling beside you on the bathroom floor. “You’re not a bore. Don’t say that shit.” His voice is firm, but there’s an undercurrent tenderness beneath it.
Your head is swimming—not just from the alcohol, but from everything that’s happened in the last hour.
You lean your head back against the wall, the glass of water in your hand almost empty. With a soft sigh, you begin to speak, your tone hesitant.
“Sometimes… I just feel average, you know?” you admit, glancing at Javier from the corner of your eye. He’s sitting quietly beside you, his long legs stretched out in front of him, gaze focused on some point on the floor. “Like there’s nothing more to me than this mediocre job, answering phones, filing papers. I mean, I didn’t move all the way to South America just for that.”
You pause, trying to organize your thoughts. “That’s why I transferred here. I thought maybe… maybe I’d find something more. Maybe I’d find me.” You laugh bitterly, shaking your head. “But ever since I got here, it’s been nothing but monotony and homesickness. I don’t even know if this is where I’m meant to be.”
The words hang between you. You’ve never said this out loud to anyone, never let yourself be so transparent.
Javier doesn’t say anything right away, and it makes you think that maybe you’ve said too much. But then, you hear him sigh softly, his shoulders slumping as if your rambling has hit something deep within him.
He’s silent as he digests your confession, and you’re about to apologize for oversharing when he finally speaks.
“I get it,” he replies, low and rough around the edges. He shifts beside you, resting his arms on his now bent knees while he stares at the floor. “You’re not the only one feeling that way.”
You blink, slightly taken aback by his agreement. You hadn’t expected him to relate—the sharp, confident DEA agent who always seems so sure of himself. He glances at you, offering a wry smile. “You’re not average,” his voice is firmer now, like he’s trying to make you believe it. “It takes time to figure out who you are, what you want. And if it feels like you haven’t found that yet, that doesn’t make you less than.”
There’s an irony in his words, and he lets out a soft chuckle, shaking his head. “I should probably take my own advice,” he admits.
Your heart flutters at his reassurance, but you can see it in his eyes—there’s more. Something heavier sits in his chest, pulling him down.
“What about you? What’s weighing on you?”
Javier sighs again, leaning his head back against the wall like you. “This job,” he says simply, but you can hear the exhaustion in his voice. “It’s… confusing. Difficult. Half the time, I don’t know what the hell I’m doing anymore. I thought I’d come here, do some good, but it’s just…” He trails off, his jaw tightening. “I’ve lost myself in all of it. The work. The women. Because I don’t know what else to do.”
Your chest tightens as he speaks, hearing the vulnerability in his words. He’s always seemed so unshakeable, but now you can see the cracks in his armor, all that he’s been carrying. And then he turns to look at you, his expression softening.
“But you,” he says quietly, “you’re the one thing that keeps me grounded in all this shit.”
You look down, not believing that he’s actually saying this to you. You have to be dreaming.
“Your smile, the way your eyes light up when you’re happy. Shit, even the way you butcher half your Spanish words with that accent of yours.” He chuckles, and despite the heaviness of the moment, you can’t help but laugh with him.
The tension breaks for just a second, and when you finally meet his gaze again, your breath snags. He’s already staring at you, his beautiful brown eyes gleaming.
You quickly look away out of habit, your heart hammering in your chest, but then he calls your name softly. “Mírame, cariño,” he says, all gentle and insistent.
You swallow hard, forcing yourself to do so.
“I’m not just telling you this to score. I mean it.”
And you don’t doubt it for a second. However, the moment is too heavy, too intense for your tequila-soaked brain to handle. You can taste the lingering bitterness of the alcohol, your throat feels raw, and your head is already starting to pound. You’re too disoriented to fully process this moment that’s happening.
“I know,” you nod, picking at your cuticles, “I just don’t think right now is the best time to have this conversation.” Your words are punctuated by a hiccup and you bring your hand up to cover your mouth in fear of accidentally throwing up again.
Javier’s lips twitch with amusement, but he works his jaw, nodding in agreement. “You’re right. Not the best time,” he concedes, though the way he says it tells you he wanted this conversation to happen—needed it to.
“I just had to tell you. And if you genuinely feel like you don’t belong here then go home.” He tells you softly, though his cadence and the softening expression on his face say otherwise.
You glance at him, your lips curving into a weak smile. “While I do feel lost, I think half of all this is the margaritas’ doing,” you admit, your voice a little hoarse.
“Tequila’s dangerous like that,” he agrees with a small laugh, shaking his head.
You take a deep breath, forcing yourself to push through the embarrassment still swirling around inside of you. “I’m sorry about what happened at the bar,” you say quietly. “I didn’t mean to be so self deprecating.”
He waves off your apology, his expression relaxed. “It’s no problem.”
“Thank you for bringing me home, and for… opening up like that… I know it wasn’t easy.” Your voice softens as you say it.
He gives you a small smile, but his eyes linger on you like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. “You make it easy,” he says finally, the words leaving his mouth like a confession.
You sit there on the cool bathroom floor, your heart stumbling all over the place. Leaving isn’t an option anymore. Not when Javier Peña looks at you like this. Not after realizing that you mean so much more to him than you could have ever thought possible.
Javier hovers above you, his gaze locked with yours, filled with desire and adoration. Your legs are tightly wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer, deeper, feeling every inch of him as his hips move suavely while he fucks you.
His breath is hot against your neck, biting and licking at your skin. You can barely keep your thoughts straight, your mind clouded with the pleasure he’s stirring in you, the rhythm of his body guiding you to that edge again and again.
He leans in, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispers, his voice a low growl, “You feel so good, baby. I can feel how close you are... all for me.”
Your body clenches around him in response, a soft whimper escaping your lips as the pleasure tightens inside you, building and building. It’s the fifth time tonight he’s coaxed this out of you, and you don’t know how you’re still holding on.
His weight presses against you and your nails dig into the broad expanse of his broad shoulders, pulling him impossibly close. His chest, warm and slick with sweat, crushes against yours, and the hairs at the base of his cock graze your swollen clit with every thrust, sending shockwaves through you.
You gasp, your voice trembling with each word. “Javier... I can’t... it’s too much.”
But he doesn’t stop, doesn’t relent, instead he grins down at you, a wicked spark in his eyes, pressing his lips against your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth—kissing you everywhere he can reach while his other hand keeps your jaw locked in place, fingers denting into your skin.
His lips finally find yours in a messy, urgent kiss, swallowing your moans as your body tightens around him again. You’re lost in what he’s giving you, your world spinning as your orgasm tears through you, leaving you a trembling mess beneath him.
His hips stutter as he groans your name, his cock twitching inside you while he comes. He stays there, still buried inside, his body heavy and comforting as the world fades back into focus.
When he finally pulls away, his touch softens. He’s gentle as he plants tender kisses on your forehead, your nose, your lips. His hand caresses your naked side, soothing you as your breathing slows. He shifts then, pulling you close into the safety of his arms, his body wrapped around yours.
“I’ve got you, sweetheart. Just relax.”
He stays with you, his hand tracing lazy circles on your back, murmuring soft reassurances until you’re completely at ease, your body melting into his.
started a tag list for my works here, so if you're interested— pls check it out 🖤
Would someone be interested in very long (and I mean VERY LONG) ff about gladiator II Marcus Acacius x OG character where she's from a reign that has been conquered by him and to not be sold as sex slave she dresses up as a man and ends up as a disguised gladiator and in a way or another she meets and gets to know him and eventually fall in love with him and she doesn't know how to feel anymore cause she's supposed to hate him for what he has done to her country and city but still she can't deny her feelings for him.
Pros:
Lots of plot twist
Lots of angst
Complex characters
Slow burn
Enemies to lovers
Sweaty Pedro Pascal in roman armor
Cons:
We try to be as historical accurate as possible but a few things are not precisely identical to reality (we pretend)
If your interested comment below so I'll know to tag you when I'll publish the first chapter I'm writing
IN THIS CHAPTER THERE WILL BE NO INTERACTIONS BETWEEN MARCUS ACACIUS AND EMAN
(and they won't interact in the next two chapters, because we need character development)
Because Eman, that's her name, has to do a few things before meeting her man, for now that's what will happen, I was thinking about keep writing until she meets him, but I've reached 9.5k words, I feel like this needs to be a whole chapter itself.
Summary:
Eman is an Egyptian woman who gets deported to Rome after the roman legions conquer her home, to avoid becoming a sex slave she dresses up as a man, ending up becoming a gladiator, there she'll meet Marcus Acacius for whom she'll have mixed feelings.
Words count:9.5k
TW:
historical inaccuracy
Violence
Blood
Sadness
(let me know if I missed something)
Eman.
Faith.
One name, one certainty.
One certainty that was abruptly stolen by her soul when the romans invaded her village.
It was a calm little town, Meidum was the name, alongside the Nile river, were children could play and life could prosper.
Nothing relevant ever happened there, life was slow, providing the reign what the city could offer, working, praying for prosperity and just living in peace with one another.
For centuries life had been that way, until the menace of the Roman's coming started to spread through the reign.
They had been warned a long time ago, men and women, even children at a certain point, were trained to fight against the foreign enemy.
But no one could expect this.
Blood everywhere, death, pain and no mercy nor respect for the vanquished.
There she was.
Holding in one arm the corpse of her child and in the other the dying body of her mother Marwa.
"Eman leave us here"
She couldn't speak, nor breath, nor anything apart from sobbing and panicking.
Everything was stolen from her within a few hours.
How could that be?
How could gods let that happen?
The gods she had been named after, she had prayed to protect her hometown, to protect her son.
He had been struck by a roman arrow while trying to flee the soldiers, he had been running to his grandmother who was hit by another soldier.
That was how she found them, hugged to one another, her child dead and her mother soon to join him.
"Eman!"
Last straws of energy of her mother trying to call her woke her up from that paralysis.
She caressed her cheeck, looking in her eyes.
"Eman, leave us here, run away!"
"I can't leave you here"
She said through sobs and tears.
"they'll find you alive and us dead, you'll have a much worse destiny then us if you don't leave!"
Her mother's words ignited a new fear, as if that was even possible.
"please my daughter, leave us! Save yourself!"
She held them as tight as she could, to remember as vividly as possible their features and shapes.
"I miss you Femi I love you mom" she said through tears.
She kissed them both on the forehead and left them there.
The feeling of the loss of their weight in her arms gave her much more pain then any roman spear, blade or arrow could procure her.
She started running, trying to hide herself through the ruins of the town, but the more she made her way through, the more she heard the Romans getting closer.
What could she do?
She heard the stories of other women getting mistreated, violeted and raped by those monsters.
Never could she let those demons get to her dignity, better dead by an animal then alive property of the romans.
She had to think fast, really fast.
By the voices she heard she knew they were about to find her, that they were all around the ruins she was hiding in.
What could she do?
She thought she could kill herself, but no, that was cowardice and she was no coward, she had to face her destiny and venge her beloved family.
In the rush of the moment, she thought that, whatever might happen, if they thought she was a man, she could live a little longer, and maybe try to ascape.
She took a piece of a broken vase and used it to cut her hair as hastily as possible and a piece of fabric she found nearby, she quickly ripped it in stripes and wrapped it around her torso in case they made them strip her clothes off.
She found a male robe covered in dust just under a few wooden planks that had fallen from the ceiling.
She put it on just in time before a roman soldier entered the ruins of the what once was a home.
"Exi Nunc!"
She couldn't understand quite clearly, she knew a few words of Latin, but not enough to comprehend what the man in front of her was saying.
"Nunc!"
She looked like an animal caught stealing something, blocked and shocked in front of the soldier.
The man shouted something outside and soon another one arrived, they took her by the arms and dragged her outside.
She tried resist and escape them but one of the two hit her on the calf with his heel.
She fell down and they started laughing.
At that moment she felt a fire ignite in her.
She felt as if she had to take as much as romans head as she could, one for every person who had been killed for their greed of power.
They dragged and put her with a group of men, standing and cuffed to a chain.
She figured out that, since she was surrounded by men, they believed she was one herself.
She was tense that her cover could be blown, that they could discover and kill her instantly, however the fact of joining her family tempted her, she had to seek revenge.
Her train of thoughts was stopped by a man wearing black and red armor, he was better dressed and older then the others, she reckoned he probably was the commander, he took a flag, and installed it in the ground.
"in nomine Romano has fines vinco"
When he finished his sentence, he gestoured to the soldiers and they threw fiery torches on the dead bodies that had been collected in front of the survivors.
All those people burning in seconds, maybe minutes.
Being stabbed by a thousand blades would've hurt less then seeing her mother and son burn to nothing.
As if the agony of loosing everything wasn't enough, her knees gave in at the vision.
She felt as if someone had ripped her skin, muscles and bones off and with them, took her heart out of her ribcage.
Not only they took their lives, also their right to get to the afterlife.
Knelt to the ground and started sobbing and crying again, praying the gods to let them in the afterlife even if their body were being burned to ashes.
Inside of her all she felt was hurt, misery, it was the cruelest torture they could ever perpetrate on her, no spear could shatter her heart any harder then seeing the people she loved and the place she used to call home destroyed in mere moments.
She started praying through the tears and with her the other men she was with, some prayed for their wives, some for their children, some for their friends, some even for themselves.
Homeless, conquered and captivated, the only thing left to them was faith.
When all the bodies before them were turned to ashes and their nostrils were full of the disgusting smell of death, the soldiers gestured them to stand up and as they did, the roman legions created a queue with the conquered at the end, still chained to the rope, they started walking in the direction they were led to by the soldiers who held the rope.
Eman knew she had to be smart, smarter then them to beat and kill the romans and flee.
"if you don't understand when people speak, you don't have a say in what they want to do with you"
Her father's words echoed in her mind, Ahmed was his name, he was a smart man, he knew that in a fight, strength is rarely what determines the winner.
Her thoughts started drifting.
Covered in dirt she was disheartened for loosing in the training fight between her and baba.
He knelt right in front of her daughter and looked her in the eyes
"why a man can beat a lion Eman?
Eyes of a child looked at him full of curiosity
"I don't know baba"
"even if a lion is stronger, braver and fiercer, a man can create a spear, a lion can't"
Remembering those sweet childhood memories with her father gave her a warming feeling.
"Eman you're strong, but you also are very intelligent, and even if strength might fade with time, what you have here..."
He gently caressed her head.
"is the strongest weapon you'll ever have, use it"
He held out his hand and helped her stand up.
"Your Ahmed's daughter aren't you?"
A male voice brought her back from the past
"don't talk, I don't know if they understand"
"they don't"
"who are you"
Only then she had the courage to lift her head up and look at her interlocutor, she didn't quite remember who he was but she knew she had seen him somewhere.
"I'm Abrax, son of Abasi, my father and yours were friends, they died together defending the borders of kemet, I'm sorry for your loss"
She now remembered him, he was few years older then her, he was one her father students.
He had grown since then, he was now a tall strong man, with dark eyes and black hair.
"I now remember you, I'm glad your alive"
She neared her chained hands to his to hold them in sign of support, as if this little motion could make this journey to hell less hurtful.
"what are doing here among all us men?"
"I know stories of women being sold, raped and killed, I thought that if they believed I was a man I could have more possibilities to escape"
He looked at her with tenderness.
"there's no escape from where we're going"
"where are we going to?"
"Rome"
"how do you know that?"
"I heard them"
As a lightning striking her, she remembered, when the rumor of the romans invading kemet started to spread in the country, her father started teaching latin to people, so if they had to fight, they would have at least understood what the enemy was saying.
At the time Femi was a newborn, she didn't have the time to attend classes.
If she knew back then what she knew in that moment, she would've went with her son in one hand and the other closed in a punch ready to hit whoever said she didn't belong there.
"so you know their lenguage"
She looked at him with a sparkle of hope in her eyes.
"I do, your father taught us"
She hoped in that moment for him to be as human as possible and not tell her stupid theories about how women should not learn as much as men but just help her.
"In memory and honor of my father, I plead you to teach me the lenguage of those monsters"
Her voice was crackling a bit, breaking from the need of crying.
"As your father once helped me, I'll help you, daughter of Ahmed"
"thank you, may the gods protect you"
.......
If you want to get tagged in the next chapter comment below
Warnings: slow burn, age gap, masturbation, wet dreams, heavy kissing, sultry flirting, dry humping, fingering, angst, fluff, oral sex, cum eating,,,
Summary: an undeniable warm summer vacation in Bogotá. simply trying to get away from your nosey, boring parents and live for once, you meet a man who impresses you beyond where your imagination could ever take you.
an: you guys must know by now that I am indeed a whore for Pedro Pascal and all his characters…. I hope you guys will love this story as much as I loved writing it.
Summary: You're a small-town waitress in a highway town in Arizona with a standard, safe life. You never really thought you needed more -- until you met Joel Miller.
Warnings: Joel is a consent king in this one. No age gap mentioned (make it your own). Self-deprecation. Toxic coworkers. Attempted assault (not by Joel)/nothing too graphic (please be responsible about what you consume). Joel beats up a bad guy. References to blood and first aid. Alcohol. Pet names. Flirting/slow burn. Objectification of Joel by readers coworker. Inexperienced reader. Body hair. References to taste of vagina. Smoking/cigarettes (it's bad, don't do it). References to shitty past hookups. Oral (f receiving). Praise kink. Size kink. Rough sex. Sex on a desk. Just a really passionate, filthy fuck. Creampie (shocker, I know). No use of Y/N, no use of daddy. TLOU au. Reader has no physical descriptions apart from female anatomy.
W/C: ~8K. Sorrrrrrry, not sorry?
A/N: Hi, hello. It's been a hot minute since I've been here! I took a hiatus for the past few months because life was, well, life and I was busy getting married. Happy to be back. This one was inspired by a drive through the Arizona desert. Special thanks to @syd-djarin for being a slut with me on this one.
Masterlist | Read on AO3 | Notifications | Read Joel's POV
Humans rely on cooperation, communication, and mutual aid for survival and well-being. Without that, it’s like being cast adrift in a hostile sea without the safety net of community and companionship.
You know this.
And so that’s why you stay, that’s why you’ve always stayed.
Even if most of your days feel lonely, at least you have the comfort of predictability.
++++
"I’m goin' on my break, Tracy," you call out, tossing the words casually over your shoulder as you grab your hoodie and a pack of American Spirit cigarettes from behind the counter. Sometimes you think the only reason you still have the damn vice is for the excuse to step out of the suffocating walls of the grease-drenched building they call a restaurant.
Tracy responds with a touch too much of feigned enthusiasm, pouring a steady stream of black liquid into the mug of the customer sitting in the booth before her.
With a nod of acknowledgment, you slip out the restaurant's back door, the hinges creaking softly in protest as you step into the crisp Arizona air. The sun hangs low in the sky, casting long shadows across the dusty ground as you light up your cigarette, the flame dancing in the breeze.
As you inhale deeply, the familiar taste of tobacco fills your lungs, calming your nerves and grounding you in the present moment. Leaning against the weathered brick wall, your thoughts drift as wisps of smoke curl lazily into the sky.
In the distance, you can hear the faint sound of laughter and chatter drifting from inside, a comforting reminder of the community that surrounds you. Here, amidst the tumbleweeds and endless blue skies, is a place you’ve called home since you ran away from yours at sixteen. It’s not much, but it’s something. Something is always better than nothing, right? People know you by name when you go to the grocery store, and know your order at the only coffee shop in town – big-city girls don’t get that.
As you take one last drag from your cigarette, you try to summon feelings of gratitude for what you do have, but as the smoke dissipates into the desert air, a lingering sense of restlessness gnaws at the edges of your mind.
It's only when you stamp out the cigarette in the dirt below, watching the embers fade into darkness, that you dare to entertain the notion that perhaps you could have more.
++++
You step back into the restaurant, and your eyes adjust to the fluorescent lights above, a stark contrast from the natural light of the sun. Carefully tucking your hoodie away and readjusting your apron strings, you prepare to dive back into work.
As you glance around, you notice Tracy frantically pacing back and forth behind the bar, her demeanor tinged with a hint of frazzled energy. It's not the busiest you've ever been, but for her, every customer that walks through the door feels like a tidal wave of chaos – especially when it’s just you two on the floor.
With a sympathetic smile, you nod in understanding as she thrusts a stack of menus into your hands, followed by a piping hot coffee pot. "Be a doll and go take table three’s order, will ya?" she says, her voice tinged with urgency. Before you can even acknowledge her request, she’s off, stacking her forearms with plates, yelling that she’ll be right there honey to the patrons by the door.
You make your way over to the table, weaving through the maze of booths and tables with practiced ease. As you approach, you notice a lone figure sitting hunched over in a worn leather jacket, eyes fixed on the menu in front of him. He sits up to full height and adjusts himself in the booth, eyes still on the sticky plastic in front of him, giving you a full view of his side profile.
Fuck – he’s gorgeous. Handsome in a way that unmoors you.
Rugged, weathered charm exudes from him. He turns to look at you and oh. His salt-and-pepper curls frame a face weathered by sun and wind, a beard streaked with grey adding an air of distinguished maturity. His eyes are soft and brown, enveloped by small creases in the corners.
Your thighs come flesh with the edge of the table, and with the coffee pot in hand, you can't help but feel a flutter of anticipation in the pit of your stomach, settling there like a stack of pancakes eaten way too fast.
Clearing your throat, you offer him a tentative smile. Get a grip – he’s just another customer, you silently plead with yourself.
"Hi," you say, your voice a little softer than usual. "Can I get you something to drink?"
As his eyes meet yours, a brief but intense connection crackles between you. There's something in his gaze, a depth that you can't quite decipher, leaving his thoughts shrouded in mystery. His face remains stony, and unreadable, like the weathered cliffs that dot the desert landscape.
Your breath hitches in your throat as you follow his eyes drifting down your chest, lingering for a moment on the nametag pinned to the worn cotton of your uniform. Heat rises to your cheeks under his scrutiny. You wish you would have opted for your cleaner uniform this morning. You’ve never been one to care too much about your looks, mostly because nobody looks at you, not really. All catcalls from drunk men in bars and the occasional flirty customer. But you’re suddenly hyper-aware of the attention he’s giving.
His eyes finally settle on the coffee pot in your hand, a subtle shift in focus that breaks the spell of tension between you. "Just coffee, darlin'," he says, his voice honey-thick, low, and raspy like the rumble of distant thunder.
You nod silently, the words caught in your throat as you turn to pour him a steaming cup of coffee.
“You let me know if I can get you anything else,” you whisper, letting the corners of your lips turn up into a small, cordial, smile.
“Just coffee for me today, sweetheart, thank you.”
Walking away, you can’t help but notice the feeling of the weight of his gaze lingering on you long after you do.
He sits in silence, nursing his coffee with a quiet intensity that commands attention. His presence seems to cast a shadow over the room, drawing the gaze of both patrons and staff alike. You steal glances at him between customers and try not to read into the fact that his eyes are usually on you by the time you find him. He’s not staring – he couldn’t be – why would he be? You shove the thought down and focus on your tasks at hand, him calling you sweetheart playing like a broken record in your mind, over and over.
Tracy, usually bustling about with the frenetic energy of a hummingbird, is unusually attentive to him. She stops by his table more often than necessary, refilling his cup with a gentle touch and addressing him with a warmth you've rarely seen her reserve for anyone else. You swear you even saw her push her tits up behind the wall before going out to him – but you can’t blame her, you’d probably do the same if you had as much to work with as she does.
As you work behind the bar counter, wiping down tables and clearing plates, Tracy tries to engage you in conversation about the mysterious stranger. "Been a long time since we've had a man like that in here," she says, a hint of gossip in her voice, wrapped pretty in a bow of objectification. She reminds you of a praying mantis, attempting to draw in her prey before she eats him.
"Yeah," you murmur, not quite wanting to talk about him, especially not with her.
Excusing yourself, you slip into the bathroom, the wooden door offering a momentary respite. Leaning against the slightly sticky surface, you close your eyes and take a deep breath, trying to regain some semblance of composure. But despite your efforts, you can't shake the feeling that something has shifted. Looking at the reflection in the mirror, you can’t help but feel the twisty weird tug that pools in your lower belly, and the uptick in your heart rate. You attempt to fix your hair and pinch your cheeks to add some volume to your face. You slip on a touch of chapstick and assess yourself. This is so fucking stupid. He’s a customer. Just a customer. You’re just bored, horny, and alone.
But maybe he is, too?
No. Stop.
After a moment, you emerge from the bathroom, only to find his table empty, a worn $20 bill – more than enough to cover his check – left behind as a silent farewell. Your heart sinks at the realization that he's gone, slipping away like a ghost in the night. Shit.
You didn't even catch his name, and now he's just another fleeting memory, a stranger passing through your life like a whisper in the wind. And though you try to convince yourself that it doesn't matter, that you'll forget about him by morning.
But when dawn breaks the next day, he’s the first thought that crosses your mind.
++++
The days turn into weeks, each blending seamlessly into the next in the endless cycle of small-town life. But amidst the monotony of routine, there's a flicker of anticipation that ignites in your chest every time you step foot into the restaurant – the hope that he might, too.
Stupid, silly little small-town girl.
You’re in the middle of bussing a rather messy table, throwing empty plates and glasses into a bucket after the lunch rush when the sound of bells above the door and heavy boot steps echoes through the restaurant. Not looking up from the table, you yell out take a seat wherever you want, throwing the final pieces of flatware into the bin. Raising it to your hip, your attention finally snaps to the customer and fuck –
You freeze there.
His hand lifts in a simple greeting.
His presence is a magnetic force that shifts the air in the room. Clad in the same worn leather jacket and a dark tee, he exudes a silent, sturdy confidence. You know nothing about him, but you feel like you’d trust him with your life.
“Oh, hi. Um, go ahead and take a seat, I’ll be with you in just a second, just gonna drop this in the back,” you say, trying to hide your smile, your excitement.
He’s a customer. Not a bored and horny customer. Just a customer.
As he settles into the booth next to the window, you can't help but feel a rush of excitement coursing through your veins. You greet him again with a smile, your voice warm with genuine affection, and he nods in return, his gaze lingering on you for just a moment longer than necessary.
But before you can exchange more than a few words, Tracy swoops in like a hawk, eager to monopolize his attention. She's quick to bring him a menu, bring him a coffee, and offer him a selection of homemade pies, her enthusiasm bordering on overwhelming.
You watch from afar, a pang of frustration chewing at the edges of your composure like a moth to cloth in an old closet. It's as if Tracy has staked her claim on him, leaving little room for anyone else to form a connection. And yet, despite her best efforts, you can still feel the weight of his attention on you, a silent reassurance that you're not alone in this silent dance of whatever the fuck this is.
You think that maybe it’s all in your head – maybe he is into Tracy, and you’re confusing his affection for something it’s not. It wouldn’t be the first time. Lord knows you’re no stranger to having one too many vodka sodas and pining after the affection of the first person who looks at you, crying in the passenger seat of a truck of some guy who gave you attention hours before.
Lord know how many nights you check your phone every three seconds just to be disappointed. Too busy begging for the love of someone who doesn’t want you, and never will. Yet you’re just so hopeful. Hopeful that one day it might not feel this way, hopeful that someone will want you back.
You wonder if you want so desperately to be seen, that you’d twisted every lingering glance, smile, and hello, for something it’s not.
When you enter the dining room, your heart once again sinks when you notice him rising from his booth, getting ready to leave. His eyes catch yours and you give him a small wave goodbye. He holds yours while he tucks something under his coffee cup, giving you a nod, letting you know that he wants you to pick it up. His face is unreadable when he eventually walks out.
Walking over to the table, you notice cash tucked neatly under an empty coffee mug. But you notice something else, too. A worn business card for Joel Miller, CEO of Miller Brothers Contracting. It’s a simple card, just his name and an email on the front. But when you turn it over, you’re surprised to find a phone number scribbled on the back.
Maybe it’s not all in your head.
++++
Later that night, standing in the dark alley of the restaurant, the cement damp from the afternoon rain, Tracy's words hang heavy in the air like a dense cloud of cigarette smoke. You listen in silence as she talks about him, her tone laced with a confidence that borders on arrogance.
"I think I'm gonna ask him to get a drink," she says, her voice carrying a hint of excitement. "I think he's into me. I mean, come on, who else stops in and only orders coffee, and leaves a tip like he does? Even caught him looking at my ass once."
Her words cut through the stillness of the desert night, harsh and abrasive in contrast to the quiet solitude that surrounds you. Tracy has always been one to flaunt her looks, to revel in the attention of men like Joel who pass through the diner's doors. There aren’t many.
But as you listen to her speak, a knot forms in the pit of your stomach, a silent warning that this pursuit of Joel may lead to heartbreak for one or both of you. You've seen the way he looks at you, the way his eyes linger on you when he thinks no one else is watching. You slip your hand into the apron and thumb over the paper of his business card.
You want to warn her, to tell her to tread carefully, but the words catch in your throat like smoke caught in a breeze. Instead, you offer her a weak smile, masking the turmoil brewing beneath the surface.
"Yeah, Tracy," you say, your voice tinged with forced enthusiasm. "Go for it. You deserve someone who appreciates you."
But as she stubs out her cigarette and heads back into the restaurant you can't help but smirk knowing he gave his card to you.
It’s finally your turn to be wanted.
But you don’t call, or text him. You want to, you do, but you don’t know what to say, or where to begin. You’re so out of practice when it’s something that matters. It’s easier to pretend he still wants you if you don’t break the illusion—or that’s the lie you tell yourself, anyway.
++++
Some weeks later, you find yourself alone in the empty restaurant – Tracy having called out for the night. It’s slow. Way too slow. The late hour weighs heavy on your shoulders. George, the cook, went home almost an hour ago. You work to check off the tasks on your list before you leave for the night, and eventually accomplish everything except filling the salt shakers.
You could have sworn you turned off the neon open sign and locked the doors until the familiar sound of bells chimes through the empty restaurant.
“We’re closed,” you yell out, twisting the final cap on the last salt shaker.
Your eyes flicker up to find a large man stumbling through the door, his presence heavy with the unmistakable scent of whiskey and cigarettes. He doesn’t look so good, his skin is pale and damp, eyes glassed over.
You rise from your booth, a sense of unease prickling at the back of your mind as you approach him. Despite your better judgment, you tell him to take in any booth of his choice, while you head behind the bar to grab him a glass of water. When you set it down in front of him, he bristles at your gesture, his words slurred and tinged with aggression at the fact that you brought him fucking water. Your patience wears thin as he rebuffs your offer, his tone sharp and abrasive.
"Just trying to help you out here" you snap, a hint of irritation creeping into your voice. You’re not sure where the irritation is coming from, but it feels right – natural – a built-in defense mechanism. But instead of backing down, he responds with a menacing snarl, his hand shooting out to grip your wrist in a bruising hold. Panic surges through you as you try to pull away, his grip tightening with each futile attempt.
"Let me go," you plead, the fear evident in your voice as he rises from the booth and crowds you against a nearby table, condiments spilling over the edge of the table. His hands move to grip your upper arms with a forceful intensity. You stumble slightly, the weight of his presence pressing down on you like a suffocating blanket, your head turned to the side to avoid having to look at him. “I’ll tell you what, you little bitch –”
You feel the rapid beat of your pulse, the thrum of blood in your veins. You struggle against the man. Your inner voice screams danger, but just as you feel the panic rising in your chest, the familiar sound of chimes rings through your ears. Within seconds, a new figure looms into view, his broad frame casting a shadow over the scene unfolding before you – to you. With a swift movement, he pulls the man off of you, his voice a growl of warning as he asserts his dominance.
“I’d think twice if I were you before you try and win this one,” Joel says, voice low and threatening.
It's him.
Relief floods through you at the sight of him, a silent thank you echoing in your mind as he stands between you and the aggressor. And as he faces off with the man, his protective stance speaks volumes. Your mind goes a little fuzzy from the adrenaline as you watch the man struggle in his grasp, followed by a slur of cuss words, ultimately ending in Joel punching him in the face, the harsh sound of bone to face.
It shouldn’t turn you on, the violence of it all, but it sort of does. The outward display in your defense appeals to the primitive, underived part of your brain, the way a knight would defend a maiden’s honor.
He drags the man out of the establishment, and you hear him tell him to get the fuck out and never come back.
He locks the door and turns to face you. Your arms come up to grab yourself in an instinctual hug, your body is a little shaky from the interaction. Without saying anything, he walks over to you, bringing both of his hands to the sides of your arms – the same place where the man had grabbed you – but his touch feels different. Gentle, reassuring, safe.
“You alright?” he says, a deep crease between his brow as he looks down at you, his eyes filled with concern.
“I’m alright – tha,” your words break a little, and you start to feel hot tears cling to your lashline, “thank you,” you manage to blurt out, avoiding looking at him in the eyes, not wanting him to see yours all teary.
He brings a hand up to cup your cheek and uses the edge of his thumb to tilt you up to look at him. You bring your hand to meet his on your cheek and notice a sticky sensation under your palm. You grab his hand and bring it down to your eye level, noticing the blood on it, a giant split down the middle of one of his knuckles. Jesus, if his hand looks like this, what must that guy’s face look like?
"You're hurt," you say, the tears in your eyes now replaced with genuine concern. "It's okay, don't worry about it, doesn't hurt," he reassures, but you can tell he's probably lying.
"We've got a first aid kit in the back. Let me clean you up," you insist, nodding towards the rear of the room.
"It’s alright sweetheart, you don't have to, really…" he protests.
"You just defended me. Bandaging your knuckles is the least I can do to thank you," you tell him firmly, leaving no room for refusal.
Interlacing your fingers with his on his left hand, you guide him through the restaurant.
Navigating through the kitchen, smelling of oil and french fries, you caution him to watch his step on the freshly mopped yet always greasy floors.
In the small office, you flick on the light switch and rummage through the cabinets until you find an old first aid kit tucked away in the back. Joel leans against the desk, quietly observing you. "Ah, got it," you say with a hint of excitement that you found the kit, a little surprised there was even one stashed away. Though most of the bandages and finger condoms are missing, there's still plenty of gauze and alcohol wipes.
He stands silently, watching as you work to open the kit, his eyes fixed on you, particularly when you rip open the alcohol wipe with your teeth. "This might sting a bit," you warn, meeting his gaze with genuine care.
“You can make it up to me later,” he whispers. His tone, the intention behind his words sends an exciting zap down your spine. There’s shared silence. As you’re patting the blood on his knuckles, that same feeling of raw want, painted with uncertainty, settles in your stomach.
“Can I ask you something,” he says, and you flick your eyes up to meet his for a moment before lowering them back down his hand. You let out a soft mhmm in response, knowing his question before he’s even asked it.
“Why didn’t you call?”
The boldness of his question stops you. You close your eyes and take a deep breath.
“I wanted to. I mean, I almost did – I typed out so many texts to you it’s borderline embarrassing,” you pause for a second to grab the gauze from the counter behind him. You lean in close enough to catch the scent of him – cedarwood and fresh cotton, the earthy scent of desert dust clinging to his clothes.
“I guess I’m just not used to being wanted. Don’t know how to do this kind of thing. I’ve been alone for so long, and I guess, I don’t know, Joel,” you affix a little piece of tape to the gauze, before dropping his hand, all finished.
You stand before him, looking at his chest and the bare skin on his neck that’s dotted with freckles, avoiding his eyes.
“I didn’t want to embarrass myself. Not sure why a guy like you would even want a girl like me to call him anyway…” you trail off, letting out a small cough to hide the emotion creeping up in your throat. Have you always been this self-deprecating?
His hands float up to your hips, and he tugs you in closer to him, body weight still propped up against the desk, his thick thighs bracketing yours. You still avoid his eyes, your gaze fixed on a button on his shirt in front of you.
“Look at me, sweetheart.”
The bandaged hand trails up over the side of your body, and his fingers land under your chin, his thumb tilting you up to look at him. You’re sure you must look like a mess, eyes tired from a long shift, mascara smudged from your tears. How pathetic you must look. The pad of his thumb caresses over your lips and you hold your breath.
There’s so much he could say, so much he wants to say. He wants to build you up, to tell you that you’re worthy of the whole world. That you’re beautiful and kind, and that any man would be lucky to have you. He doesn’t even have to deeply know you to know those things.
But he can tell from the look in your eyes that it’s not what you need right now. He’ll tell you someday. He’ll tell you every day if you’ll have him.
But no.
Right now you don’t need someone to tell you how gorgeous you are, you need someone to show you.
“Joel,” you say, your voice just above a whisper. His thumb is still on your lower lip.
“Ki–” Before you can continue, his hand drops, and his lips crash into yours and he groans. He wants to rip you open, eat you raw, to devour every inch of you. You’ve had plenty of kisses, but none like this – none full of such heat, a fiery intensity, a need. He wants you. Joel wants you.
He sucks your bottom lip into his mouth and you let out a little whimper. The sweet sound goes straight to his already hardening cock. He holds you tighter to his chest, thick and capable hands on your hips as he dips his mouth to your neck, kitten-kissing you as delicately as a man his size can. He skims his injured hand underneath your shirt, caressing the skin between your shoulder blades. Your breath hitches in your throat as he nips at your jaw, eliciting a soft moan from you. And oh – he likes that.
“Fuck, baby. Wanna go slow with you, take my time. Do it right,” he says, his voice a little wrecked already and he’s barely touched you.
His hand trails up and pulls the shirt of your uniform down over your breast, exposing the simple lacey bra you’ve had for far too long. You would be embarrassed about him seeing it if you weren’t so aroused, drunk on his touch. You continue to let out little moans as he kisses your neck, and thumbs at your nipple beneath the fabric.
“Wanna show you what you’re worthy of sweet girl, in all the ways,” he groans into your chest.
His words melt into you like butter, making you feel all soft and weak-limbed, fuzzy in a way that’s new to you.
“I want you to fuck me so badly,” you blurt out, lost in the delusion of arousal. The words come naturally for a girl who never really had more than a one-night stand or some shitty fuck from a guy who drank too much whiskey – his dick half-hard, promising he’ll rock your world.
That does it for him.
Joel’s cock is rock hard, with an almost painful stiffness. He wants so badly for you to just fall to your knees in this tiny little office and suck it. He wants so badly to hold the column of your throat while he shoves his thick cock into your wet and waiting mouth, feel him deep down your throat.
But as much as he needs that right now, he knows he has an obligation. To make you feel good. To make you feel good about yourself in every way.
He hopes to god that you’ll chant his name like a prayer when he unravels you like a spool of thread. He can hear it in his head now, as he licks your soft skin and holds you against him. He can’t stop thinking about how pretty you’ll sound when you come for him.
“Patience, angel baby. You’re in good hands,” he purrs. If you weren’t so hazy you might’ve made a joke about him only having one good hand at the moment. He would chuckle at that, you briefly think, before his husky voice speaks again.
“Can I undress you?” he asks. You’ve never been asked that, most of the other men we’re quick just to take your clothes off. Too sloppy, too eager – careless. You’re starting to realize how hot consent is.
You toe off your beat-up sneakers and work to take off your shirt and bra, all while Joel unbuttons your skirt. You wiggle your hips to assist him in removing the barrier. After what seems like no time at all, you’re nearly fully nude in front of him, bare save the thin cotton of your panties. As a reflex, you cross your arms over your chest in an attempt to hide your body, wishing you could blend into the wallpaper.
“God damn, sweetheart. Look at you,” Joel says, taking a small step back and admiring the view. He looks at you like you’re a masterpiece, a piece of art holding court just for him to gaze at.
He gently grabs the arm you’re covering yourself with and exposes your bare chest. Goosebumps collect like pebbles on your skin from the cool air, and your nipples harden from the significance of the moment.
“No need’ta hide from me,” he assures you. You believe him.
You push your chest out to him, for him. He accepts your offering; swipes a calloused thumb across your plush, silky nipple, and crouches to catch the other in his desperate mouth. He groans into your chest the second your nipple meets his lips. You can’t control the deep hum that escapes from your throat. Joel smirks at the sound, lips still attached to your breast.
“Feels so good, Joel,” you moan. You have of course played with your nipples when you touched yourself, but you’ve never had a man pay so much attention to them, to be gentle and firm at the same time.
He trails kisses down the valley of your breasts, across the soft swell of your stomach, whispering sweet praises as he does. You drape your hands over his broad shoulders and thread your fingers through the curls that gather on the back of his head as he works his way down to the band of your panties. Much like your bra, you’d wish you opted for a cuter pair of underwear. Not like you own any anyway, but something tells you he could give two shits about that right now.
On his knees, he places both of his hands on the curves of your hips and holds you steady while he looks up at you. He looks up at you with a softness you’ve never seen in a man, his pupils so dark they edge out most of the brown, his hooded eyes are almost a plea for you to let him continue.
“Can I take these off, baby?” he asks, already hooking his thumbs in the band of them, awaiting your permission.
You pause with your mouth agape a bit, not quite sure what to say. Every fiber of your being wants you to say yes, yes, yes. But you’re nervous – you haven’t shaved, and you remember Tracy saying something about men not liking hair on women, especially not on their pussy — a man won’t even eat you out if you’ve not been properly groomed.
What if you taste weird? What if he doesn’t like it? You’ve only been eaten out once if you can even classify it as such, and he was down there for maybe two seconds before he was rising and wiping his mouth off with the back of his hand, claiming whatever you’re wet enough before shoving his rather average cock into your pussy, paying no mind to you or your pleasure.
“You, um, you don’t have to. It’s okay, really…” you shy away, trying to give Joel an out.
His prominent nose presses into your mound and he moans, moans, at your smell.
“Smell so sweet, need to taste you, sweetheart. I won’t if you don’t want me to, but fuck, I would love to,” he says, the truth behind his voice evident in his tone. His cock twitches against the confines of his jeans.
He suspects you’ve never had a real man take care of you, taking the time to pleasure you to your heart’s content. A damn shame, he thinks.
“O-kay,” you say on an exhale. You’re determined to not let the negative thoughts swirling in your head win.
“I gotcha, don’t worry,” he rasps out, his voice equal parts gentle, and gruff with desire.
He gently tugs the fabric down over your thighs, the fabric gathering at your ankles. You take a small step out of them, and he gently caresses up the back of your calve, and back of your thigh, his hand landing on the curve of your ass. He tightly grabs the flesh there. He gently guides your leg up onto one of his shoulders, and you press back into the wall and lean your pelvis closer to him.
“Fuck, what a pretty little pussy,” he praises, before leaning in to place an experimental kiss on the top of your mound. You let out a soft little sound at the feeling of his lips on your skin. He looks up at you once again, making sure you aren’t uncomfortable, before once again returning his attention to your cunt.
He gets bold with his kisses, and once you’re comfortable with his mouth on you, he glides the middle finger of his non-bandaged hand through your wet slit before flipping it so it’s wrist up, pausing with the pad of it right at the entrance of your tight hole. You look down at him with lusty doe eyes and bite your lower lip in anticipation, still a little nervous. He looks at you and gently nudges the nip in, he holds it there for a brief second, before fully thrusting it up into your core, holding your gaze as he enters you. You gasp.
“Fuck angel, you’re tight,” he moans as he continues to feel you, eventually putting his mouth back on your pussy, his lips sealed around your puffy clit. His large finger pumps in and out of you as his tongue flicks and swirls where you need him the most.
“More,” you moan, “Fuck–please, Joel, give me more,” you mewle.
“That’s my girl, gonna stretch you out, get you nice and ready for this cock,” he whispers against your wet skin as he slips another finger in, one you greedily accept. He devours you, licks at you like you’re the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted. It’s so precise, so overwhelming, so fucking good.
Heat pools in your lower abdomen, and the world goes a little fuzzy at the edges of your vision. You’ve had an orgasm before, you think, but you don’t remember it feeling like this.
You moan as he sets a relentless pace with his mouth and fingers, slowly tightening the coil inside of you in a way you’ve never felt before. Time slows for a brief moment and your vision goes white, little specks of light dancing behind your eyelids, heat rushing up to your chest and cheeks.
Until –
“Holy shit, yes, I’m coming, oh my god, don’t stop,” you unravel for him, a babbling mess of pleasure, he holds you steady as he works you through it. And when he’s satisfied that you’re satisfied, he gently hoists your leg off of his shoulder and rises to his full height.
“Such a good girl for me, you come so pretty,” he whispers against your neck, nipping at your jaw until his lips find yours. You taste yourself on them, feel the wetness in his beard. He slips his tongue into your mouth and you moan. It’s so hot to taste yourself on him, dizzying that he’s not wiping it away. He wants you. Joel wants you.
The daze of your release wears off, hurling you back down to earth. Joel kept his promise, he did show you what you’re worthy of. No more mediocre, subpar sex for you. You are worthy of that. Deserve that and more. It’d be rude of you not to return the favor.
On jelly-like legs, you begin to kneel before him, wanting nothing more than to be a practitioner of pleasure, to elicit another good girl from him. He stops you before your knees touch the floor.
“You don’t want me to suck your cock?” you ask, feeling a sting of rejection.
“Oh angel baby, I would love to feel those sweet little lips of yours wrapped tight around my cock, hold your throat as you choke on me,” he coos.
You bring your palm to cup him through his jeans and he groans, your hands trace over the thick shape. He’s big. You watch as his jaw tightens and his head falls back as you work over him. You can’t help but feel excited when you feel a damp spot on his jeans, the place where his pre-come has gathered.
“But there’s something I want more right now. Feel what you do to me?” he says, pressing your hand harder down onto him. “Need to feel that sweet, tight cunt of yours around me first,” he says with intensity, an urgency in his voice. You make quick work of undoing his belt buckle and slip off his jeans and boxers in one swoop.
Truly seeing him, the sight of his heavy cock in all its glory, makes your mouth water a little.
“Yo–you’re so big,” you say, a little intimidated. He grabs you by the hips and holds you tight against him, his cock pressed between your bodies against the bare flesh of your tummy. You think you might actually feel him there when he’s inside you at this rate.
“It’s okay, sweetheart. You can take it,” he says, using one hand to grab the back of your thigh and tapping the other. You get the memo. He lifts you and spins you around so you’re sitting on the mahogany desk behind you, your damp skin sticking to the mess of customer receipts and supply lists underneath you. He stands between your legs, holding himself by the base, pumping himself slowly up and down his length.
“I’m on birth control,” you say, blurting it out. “And I’m clean, you don’t have to use a condom, I mean, if you don’t want to.” And shit – that’s music to his fucking ears.
“Okay. Open your legs wide for me, baby. Wanna see you,” he says, and you do. He juts his head down and spits onto it, using his fist to work it onto himself. You hold your legs open in a V, bracing yourself with your arms behind you. Your ass hangs slightly off the edge of the desk, just enough for him to have full access and view of your glistening slit.
He positions himself at your entrance and gently pushes his hips forward so the tip of him is inside of you. He pauses there, giving you a second to adjust. Your heart throbs in your chest, and your eyes flicker closed.
“Eyes on me, baby. Wanna see you as I take what’s mine,” he says, his voice a wreck. When you open them, he sinks even deeper. Halfway inside of you, he pauses again.
“Okay?” he asks. You nod.
You can tell he’s holding back, not wanting to hurt you. And while you may be out of practice, you know your body was made for this. You feel so full, so content, you just want to feel all of him. After he’s confident you’re ready, he pushes his hips forward once again, fully burying himself deep inside of you.
Your pussy walls clench against him, and your jaw goes slack. You were right, you do feel him in your tummy. He’s so fucking big, but god, it feels good. It’s like he’s stuffing and filling all of the lonely spaces that have been hiding inside of you for so long. Like he was made for you.
He sets a slow and steady rhythm at first, dragging in and out of you. You can tell he wants to fuck you harder, deeper. You can tell that he’s waiting for you to take it there, to give him that permission.
“You can fuck me harder, Joel. ‘M not gonna break, I promise,” you coo. His hand at your hip flexes tighter, and that’s all he needs.
“Shit, c’mere,” he says, helping you off the desk, steading your legs. He flips you over and presses you against the desk, your bare breasts flesh against the cool wood, your hips perfectly positioned at the edge, bent over and waiting to once again be stuffed.
He stands behind you, angles your hips up slightly, and once again buries himself in you.
“Such a perfect cunt,” he groans, beginning to set a relentless pace. Something about this angle does something for you, too. His cock fits just right, pushing and gliding over the spongey spot inside of you that makes you see stars. He holds your hips tightly as he pumps in and out of you, eliciting throaty moans from you. The air is filled with the filthy wanton sound of skin slapping against skin.
“I –” you mew, “I think I’m gonna come again,” you say, breathless.
“Come for me, baby. Be the good girl I know you are and show me how pretty you are when you come on my cock,” he says, a little out of breath, voice deep.
Good girl. Pretty. Come for him.
And you do. Your pussy pulses around him as the wave of your orgasm takes over you, your mind hazy and filled with nothing but the thought of the way he fills you just right.
His movements begin to slow. You can tell he’s close.
“Where do you want me, baby?”
“Inside, please. Want you to fill me up, make me yours,” you rasp, beg.
After a few more thrusts of his hips, he begins to stutter and slow. He pauses buried to the hilt inside of you and groans as his cock paints your insides with thick ropes of come.
He holds you there, both of your breaths coming a little ragged, his body shaking and jolting a little. You feel him pulse inside of you. You’re not sure you’ve ever felt this content, utterly blissed out from the feeling of him – all of him – deep inside of you.
When he pulls out, you let out a small moan, a little sad your pussy has nothing to clench around anymore. He tells you to stay there for a second before he returns with a handful of paper towels from the kitchen to help clean you up.
He kisses you again. It’s different this time, not as intense as the first few, but just as hot, just as passionate. The same pull you felt the moment he first entered the restaurant.
He helps you get dressed, and you fasten his belt buckle for him and check the gauze on his fist. You both stand there in silence, not quite sure where to go from here, until he offers up.
“Wanna smoke?”
++++
“So, how long have you lived here’?” he asks, holding open the lit zippo from his back pocket to you. With the cigarette dangling between your lips, you steady it between your fingers and lean in, the dim glow of the fire illuminates your features.
“Too long,” you mumble, taking a big drag. Now you get why in movies after a really good sex scene the characters always want a cigarette. You watch as he lights his own.
“And you, where are you off to next?” You don’t want him to leave.
“Not sure, the contract job my brother and I have in the county over ends in a week or so. Was thinkin’ it might be nice to head south, maybe Austin,” he responds, smoke dancing in the air around him.
Your stomach twists a bit at the thought. Don’t go.
“Although, ‘M not so sure anymore. Starting to think I might have a few things I need to take care of here first,” he says, shifting his gaze from the ground until his hooded eyes find yours.
He gives you a subtle wink. You smile.
You stand there in comfortable silence, leaning up against the wall next to him, taking in the crisp desert air, enjoying being next to him.
And when it’s time to go, he offers you his hand and a ride home. You accept.
But this time when you stamp out the cigarette, watching the embers fade into darkness, you fully entertain the notion that not only could you have more.
You will.
Especially if Joel has anything to say about it.
END
Or if you want, you can read Joel’s POV here.
Tagging some moots cuz I'm sure Tumblr will probably fuck my engagement on this one since I haven't posted in forever :/
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curriculum vitae noun cur·ric·u·la vi·tae Latin. the course of one’s life.
Pairing: Javier Peña x Reader (fem; no y/n)
Word Count: 3.4k
Rated: E | Warnings: NSFW – semi-explicit sexual content, l*ve m*king. Feelings. Domesticity. 18+ only.
Chapter Summary: In this chapter, Javier returns to Los Angeles to spend New Year’s Eve with you.
A/N: My plan to have this chapter our at the start of the month didn’t pan out, but here is the NYE chapter. Finally! I hope that you all enjoy it and are having a wonderful start to 2021. Thank you, as always, for reading and supporting this story. Sending lots of love!
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CV Masterlist | My Masterlist
… . …
Chapter Seventeen
As you stood outside gate C14, you tightened your grip on Sunny’s leash. With a wagging tail and shining eyes, she pulled in every direction, determined to greet every passing traveler.
“Hey,” you whispered, “I know you’re excited but be good before they kick us both out.” You weren’t exactly sure if she was supposed to be there but sometimes it was better to ask for forgiveness rather than permission. She made a displeased whining noise as she sat down next to you. “Don’t you want to see Javi?” Her ears perked up at the familiar name. “I thought so.”
You glanced back at the gate through the crowd of people. There was still no sign of any disembarking passengers. You took a deep breath and tamped down your own excitement, deciding to crouch down next to Sunny and pet her rather than stare at the empty gate. Your affectionate touch calmed the both of you.
curriculum vitae noun cur·ric·u·la vi·tae Latin. the course of one’s life.
Pairing: Javier Peña x Reader (fem; no y/n)
Word Count: 4.1k
Rated: M | Warnings: References to sexual content and a little fooling around that honestly pretty tame by this story’s standards. Angst. Mild language. 18+ only.
Chapter Summary: In this chapter, you and Javier help each other through a hectic week of final exams.
A/N: Remember when I promised the next update wouldn’t take a month? My bad. I think it’s probably obvious at this point that fic updates will be scattered and random compared to a few months ago. Everything is entirely dependent on my school schedule which is chaos at best. I will be a tease though and warn you that these two are going to slut it up in the next chapter so… 😏 Thank you for sticking with me! I love you all to pieces.
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CV Masterlist | My Masterlist
… . …
Chapter Fourteen
“Why are you eating by yourself?”
At the sound of his voice, your head snapped up from the container resting on your lap still mostly full of reheated leftovers you seemed to only be absentmindedly pushing around with your fork. You looked almost dazed, as if you’d forgotten where you were.
“Oh, um, apparently Beverly is stuck at home with two sick kids,” you explained, shaking yourself out of your fog. “I just needed to get out of my office.”
Javier nodded slowly before quirking a brow. “Mind if I join you?”
“You don’t have to ask,” you answered, trying to hide the smile pulling at your lips with a bite of your lunch.
Chapter Summary: In this chapter, you and Javier have a rather unconventional first date.
A/N: Well, I am posting this much later than I expected today but technically it’s still Sunday where I am so it counts. If you take a look at the work count you’ll see why it took me the entire day to finish this bad boy. But, I think it’ll be worth your while…
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CV Masterlist | My Masterlist
… . …
Chapter Ten
Much like the last couple of years, you spent Halloween trick-or-treating with Bev and her children through their neighborhood a short drive from campus. Her family always welcomed you with open arms. Especially during holidays that you would’ve otherwise spent alone. And with two elementary-aged kids – dressed as the red and pink Power Rangers, respectively, and rambunctious toddler enjoying her first Halloween walking, she’d definitely needed your help keeping them all in sight after her husband was called into work.
After trekking what you thought felt like half of Los Angeles and then consuming an inordinate amount of candy, the kids crashed – hard. Even Sunny was exhausted from chasing them around all evening and had fallen asleep at the foot of Emma’s bed. She was wonderful with all three kids but seemed to hold a special affection for the youngest. That left you and Bev sprawled out on her living room couch sharing a bottle of wine and digging through their buckets of candy for anything that looked like chocolate. Between your extra-curricular activities and her ongoing job interview, the two of you had missed most of your shared lunches the past week and had quite a lot to catch up on.
“How’s your little Javier problem going?” she asked as she bit into a full-sized Milky Way bar. She’d claimed it as her own, insisting the kids only needed the mini versions.
