Frankie Foxhole

This is a sideblog of sidelit

[frankie-foxhole]

Welcome

This is a side blog to my main blog that is Professor Quirrell fics and meta, @sidelit.

I don't monitor or do anything on this blog aside from post a weekly Frankie Morales serial.

Here are all the installments of The Neighbor Stories:

Get Bent

Leftovers

Something Good

Hot Space

Habits & Almosts

Soft Landing

[ppcu-find-n-rec]

Hi :) I would like to recommend "Like a Song Stuck In My Head" by @berryispunk ! It’s the first Frankie fic I’ve ever read and it is still to this day my favorite one ! It is so special and will probably stick to you for a while 💕 Readable on her Tumblr or on ao3 : https://archiveofourown.org/works/66062083/chapters/170239090

Berry is TRULY the Frankie GOAT.

Thanks for reccing!!!

[frankie-foxhole]

This is my favorite Frankie story of all time. Try it if you haven't already!

[rhapsodyofdarkness]

Before It Ends

pairing: Frankie Morales x f!reader

tags: angst, established relationship, allusions to smut

summary: Time is watching. Frankie is counting. Morning will bring an inevitable farewell.

a/n: My humble contribution to Frankie February, hosted by @grogusmum. For this piece I used: • Title prompt: Before It Ends • Dialogue prompt: “I lost an hour, and it left fingerprints.” • General prompt: Countdown from Week 1. I am joining the party late, but it's never too late to celebrate our favourite pilot. ⏳🚁 🧢 

word count: ~ 1,3k

The countdown starts without a sound.

Frankie notices it in the way the night feels tighter than usual, like the walls have leaned in to listen. It's like the night has learned how to count. It does it quietly, without numbers, without mercy. It's in the soft click of cooling pipes. In the faint hum of the city outside. In the clock on the dresser, glowing red like a wound that refuses to close, breathing slowly, cruelly, forward.

Frankie knows this night is a container. A fragile thing. Whatever fits inside it will be all that remains.

You’re asleep when he comes back to the bedroom, curled on your side, hair spilled across the pillow like something he’s already lost. He stands there longer than necessary, memorizing the rise and fall of your chest, the exact shape of your mouth when you rest. As if his mind could photograph you and keep you safe somewhere he could still reach.

He knows he has to leave before morning. He’s known for days. Not because he loves you less, but because he loves you too much. He thinks of all the ways he could stay. All the versions of himself you would accept. How you would look at him and say you don’t need him healed, don’t need him light, don’t need him whole. Just here. Just yours.

That is precisely why he cannot.

There are ghosts in him that do not sleep.

There is a darkness that knows how to swallow stars.

And you are made of morning.

You wake when he sits beside you, the mattress dipping under his weight. You smile immediately, half-asleep, instinctive. That smile is the most precious thing he owns.

“Hey,” you murmur.

“Hey,” he whispers back, gently tucking a stray lock away from your eyes.

You pull him down with you and press your forehead to his chest, fitting yourself like you belong there. His arm comes around you on reflex, muscle memory stronger than resolve. He breathes you in, slow and deep, like oxygen he’s about to lose access to.

The clock clicks over another minute.

Then Frankie shifts you, making your back touch the soft sheets and he presses his forehead against yours. Breath to breath. This close, he can almost pretend the world will not resume.

He kisses you slowly, reverently, as if each kiss is a sentence he’s trying to memorize. As if loving you completely, without reserve, might somehow be enough before it ends. You respond the way you always do, with trust. With your whole body. The way you open to him is not urgency but belonging.

You make love like people who are not afraid of time. No rush, no hunger, just closeness layered on closeness. Skin against skin, mouths finding familiar paths, hands learning nothing new and somehow everything again. Frankie gives himself to you without armor, without restraint. Not perfect. Not whole. Just him.

He presses kisses into your hair, your temple, the corner of your mouth, like he’s leaving parts of himself behind on purpose. Frankie holds you as if touch alone might be enough to explain everything he cannot say. He makes love to you like he's trying to pour himself into memory. He gives himself without holding anything back, not his body, not his heart, not the quiet terror that lives behind his ribs.

For one night, he lets himself be exactly who you believe him to be.

Later, you rest against him, your head on his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear. He strokes your hair, slow, rhythmic, like a prayer that has forgotten its words.

The clock glows. The numbers change. The countdown continues at its relentless pace. He feels like he has lost an hour somewhere along the way. And that it left fingerprints all over him.

You fall asleep again. Peaceful. Unaware of the shape the morning will take, but Frankie stays awake, savouring his last moments next to you, memorizing the shape of your eyelashes against your cheek, the small crease between your brows that only appear in dreams.

He thinks, not for the first time, that love was a dangerous thing to give someone like him. That it was like placing a candle inside a room he knew would eventually catch fire.

When the imminent dawn begins to stain the night sky in bruised violets and thinning indigo, veins of rose and pale gold slowly unfurling at the horizon, he feels it the way he used to feel a runway lighting up beneath him. Not salvation. Not freedom. Just inevitability.

The sky looks like a departure. And he knows that once the light fully breaks, there will be no turning back. He knows there is no more time left to pretend the night can be persuaded to last, so he disentangles himself from you with infinite care, as if you were made of glass. The absence of your weight is immediate, brutal. He dresses in the dark. Then he writes the note at the kitchen table, the pen shaking like it knows what it’s doing.

He leaves it where you’ll find it first thing in the morning. Where the sun will touch it before you do.

At the door, he pauses and looks back once, just once.

The clock clicks.

Frankie steps into the dark before it can finish counting him down.

****

You wake to a quiet that feels wrong.

The bed is cold where he should be. For a moment, you think it’s a trick of sleep. Then you see the note. Folded once. Your name written in his messy, familiar handwriting. You sit up. The room sharpens. Light leaks in through the curtains, pale and unforgiving. You don't know why, but your chest tightens before you even open it.

Mi amor,

If you are reading this, I have already done the one thing I promised myself I never would. I have left you without giving you the chance to stop me.

I know you would have tried. You would have looked at me the way you always do, as if I am salvageable. As if loving me is not a risk but a certainty.

That is exactly why I had to go.

You deserve a future that does not require endurance. You deserve mornings that arrive gently, not ones that feel like aftermath.

I have spent too long pretending that the things inside me are temporary storms. They are not. They are seasons. And I will not let them become yours.

Loving you has been the only honest thing I have ever done without flinching. Being loved by you has been the closest I have come to believing I could be more than what follows me.

But love is not meant to be a battlefield you have to survive.

I am leaving because I know, one day, I would watch the light in you dim from trying to hold me together. And I would never forgive myself for that.

Please do not come looking for me. If I stay, you will choose me over yourself. And I need you to choose you.

Last night was not goodbye. It was gratitude. It was me giving you every part of me that is still capable of tenderness.

If there is another life where I am not made the way I am, I will find you first.

Until then, let me be the love you survived, not the one that broke you.

And please, remember me kindly. Not as the man who left, but as the man who loved you enough to.

                                                            ~Frankie 

The paper slips slightly in your hands. Your ears fill with the sound of the clock in the living room, in the opposite end of the corridor. The old analog one Frankie once joked was too loud, but he still kept it because he said it remembered him to his childhood.

Tick tock

The world has not paused out of respect. The room has not held its breath. Morning has arrived exactly on schedule, indifferent to the fact that your life has just been interrupted mid-sentence.

Tick tock

The clock keeps going.

Your world doesn’t.

thanks for reading 💜

main masterlist

tags: @berryispunk @sidelit @librosylove

[berryispunk]

tacos at midnight

frankie morales x gn!reader

-`♡´- read on ao3

-`♡´- tags: meet-cute, falling in love, first dates, fluff, (1) kiss, bad humor, anti-valentine's day (kind of), soft!Frankie, mutual pining, no physical descriptions of reader (it's you!) summary: Two cynics, one overdecorated restaurant, and a pair of stolen balloons later it turns out love hits different when no one’s pretending. word count: ~ 2,8 k a/n: I don't like V-Day either, so I guess that's pretty much a self insert. But I still wanted to have a tiny something for the pilot (tiny she said and it's almost 3k words, oh well) I hope whoever reads this feels loved in some shape or form. And please remember that love is not only romantically, it's also friendship. It’s found family. It’s choosing someone gently. Big consensual hug 🤍🫂

You never liked Valentine’s Day. Not even when you still believed in love, back before your heart got broken in ways that rearranged you permanently. It always felt loud and sticky and performative. Too many roses. Too many promises people couldn’t keep.

This year wasn’t supposed to be any different.

Except for the minor detail that you were seeing someone now.

You hadn’t meant for that to happen. Hadn’t meant for him to matter.

You were so unprepared for Frankie.

You met him in the most uncinematic way possible—by baptizing him in iced matcha.

It was a random Tuesday afternoon at the little café down the street, the one with the chipped ceramic mugs and plants that were either thriving or dying dramatically. You’d been distracted, phone in one hand, drink in the other, and when you turned too fast—green everywhere. His white T-shirt, his jeans, the floor. You gasped like you’d committed a crime.

He just stood there, blinking, dripping, looking like a very large, very confused forest spirit.

“Oh my God. I am so sorry. I will pay for your coffee. I will pay for your shirt. I will—”

He’d huffed out this quiet, reluctant laugh. “It’s just matcha.”

“No, it’s assault,” you insisted, already fishing for your wallet.

You bought him a coffee to make up for it. He sat down across from you, mostly because you refused to leave until he accepted the peace offering. And somehow, within fifteen minutes, you were talking like you’d known each other longer than a spilled drink could justify.

He was brooding. You noticed that immediately. There’s a weight to him, like he’s always carrying something he doesn’t talk about. His answers sometimes come slow, like he’s filtering them through storms. But when he smiles—when it’s real—it’s like the clouds part just for you.

And the thing that caught you off guard wasn’t that he was handsome. It was that he made you feel steady. Good. Safe in a way you weren’t used to. Like you didn’t have to perform. Like you could just exist. No matter how much luggage you carried with you, and by God, you had plenty of it. 

He softens for you. You’ve seen it. The way his voice drops when he asks if you got home safe. The way his big hands hesitate before touching you, like he’s afraid you might disappear if he moves too fast. The way he’s watching you like you’re some rare phenomenon that stumbled into his life and he still doesn’t believe you are real.

It’s not official. There’s no label yet, no grand declaration. 

But it’s important.

Important enough that when he texts you tonight—I’ll pick you up at seven—your stomach flips. Important enough that you stand in front of your mirror longer than you’d like to admit, changing tops twice, telling yourself it’s casual while your heart hums like it knows better.

*****

When you arrive at the restaurant he picked, a little fancier than expected, something immediately feels off. You never understood the need to spend unnecessary money to impress you. All you need is good company and Frankie has proven to be exactly that.

But tonight? Everything is red. Heart-shaped balloons hover from the ceiling like they’re staging a coup. Roses on every table. The air smells aggressively sweet, like sugar and obligation.

You stop in your tracks. He does the same.

Frankie glances around at the roses, the couples leaning too close, the syrupy atmosphere. There’s a flicker in his expression—discomfort, maybe. Like he doesn’t quite belong in curated love. And you’re still looking at him when the waiter appears out of nowhere.

“Good evening, lovely couple. Did you two have a reservation?”

Frankie stiffens almost imperceptibly. His jaw tightens, just slightly, before he clears his throat.

“Yeah. Morales. 7:30.”

The waiter smiles, tapping on his tablet. “Ah, yes. Since it’s Valentine’s Day, we have a special menu tonight. Are you interested in—”

As if choreographed, you both go, “No.”

Your lip twitches.

The waiter blinks once, recalibrates. “Alright then. Follow me.”

He leads you to a table in the far back, which you’re immediately grateful for. At least here, the performative love feels muffled. You sit opposite each other. Frankie tries to sink into his chair and immediately two—no, three—balloon strings catch on his shoulders. One brushes against his cheek like it’s testing him.

His nostrils flare and he pretends it doesn’t bother him, but it very clearly does.

You bite back a grin. “Do the balloons attack you, Frankie?”

He huffs, pushing one away only for it to drift back down again. “Obviously. Personal vendetta. They saw me walk in and chose violence.”

Despite the darker cast in his brown eyes, his lip twitches.

Small victory.

He adjusts in his chair again, another balloon grazing his hair. “Sorry,” he mutters after a second, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “I didn’t even realize it’s… today. It’s a lot.”

You nod, glancing around at the red everywhere. “Yeah. It is.”

A beat.

“People treat it like a national holiday,” you sigh. “When in reality it’s mostly marketing and toying with the guilty conscience of cheating partners.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “Straight to the point, I see.”

You shrug and he leans back a little, a balloon brushing his shoulder again. “I like that.”

“No need to sugarcoat facts,” you say, fiddling with your napkin. “Why do I need a special date to prove I love someone? You can do that every other day if you actually mean it. Not because it’s February 14th.”

He hums in agreement. “Yeah.”

For a moment, the noise around you fades, then he surprises you.

He rubs the back of his neck, gaze dropping to the table. A little sheepish, despite his build.  “I did it once.”

You blink. “Did what?”

“Valentine’s Day. Senior year.” His mouth twists faintly, like the memory tastes bad. “Made a card. Handmade. Spent, I don’t know, three nights on it. Drew stupid little hearts. Wrote this whole thing about how she made English class bearable.”

You stare at him, suddenly very still.

“What happened?”

He lets out a dry laugh. “She read it in front of her friends. Like, out loud. Mocked the whole thing. Said it was ‘intense.’ Asked if I thought we were in a rom-com.” He shrugs one shoulder. “Swore I’d never do that again.”

Something tightens in your chest.

“That’s awful, Frankie.”

“It was high school,” he says quickly, like he’s minimizing it for your sake. “Kids are mean.”

“Yeah,” you murmur. “They really are.” You bite back what else you want to say, because high school had been one of the worst times in your life, but tonight is not the time to unfold that.

You hesitate, then snort softly. “One of my exes brought me flowers once. Big bouquet. Made a whole scene about it.”

Frankie’s expression darkens just slightly, eyebrows scrunched. “And?”

“And then he went home and slept with his assistant.” You lift a shoulder. “So. Love, but make it efficient.”

Frankie exhales sharply through his nose, not quite a laugh. “Jesus.”

“Exactly.”

For a second, you both just sit there in the ridiculous red glow of the room, surrounded by balloons and curated romance and people clinking glasses to forever.

But then Frankie reaches across the table. Not dramatic. Not rehearsed. Just his hand, big and warm, palm up. You look at it for half a second before you place yours in it.

He squeezes once, thumb brushing over your knuckles, softer than the room deserves.

“I’m not big on grand gestures,” he says quietly. “Clearly.”

“I don’t want grand gestures,” you answer just as quietly. “I want consistency.”

His eyes lift to yours.

There it is again—that softening. The way the brooding edges blur when he looks at you like that. Like you’re not something to perform for, just something to protect.

You give him a small, reassuring smile before leaning back in your chair again.

“So,” you say, nudging the menu with your fingers, “what do we eat? Any recommendations?”

He picks up the menu like it’s written in code, brows pulling together in concentration. “I have no clue. Never been here before.”

The honesty disarms you immediately.

“No?” You narrow your eyes playfully. “I thought you chose this place because you take all your dates here.”

He snorts softly. “Nah. Usually I take them downtown. There’s this taco truck I love.” A shrug. “But if I’m being honest, the last date was… a whole while back. So.”

Your eyebrows shoot up at that.

You close your own menu slowly and lean forward across the table like you’re about to expose government secrets. “So you’re telling me we’re sitting in this rather fine establishment, surrounded by weaponized romance, when I could’ve been eating tacos downtown where the only thing I need to worry about is salsa landing on my shirt?”

Frankie blinks. Then, without realizing it, mirrors your lean, forearms on the table, closer now.

“Would you prefer that?” he asks, suddenly serious. He clears his throat, searching your face. “I didn’t know. I just thought—” He exhales. “I wanted this to be good. Not lousy.”

The way he says it. Like he’s trying. Like this matters more than he intended.

“All I care about is the company, Frankie,” you say softly. “Decent food is just a bonus.”

Something shifts in his face. A lopsided grin appears, almost boyish in its intensity. The one that makes him look younger. Unarmored.

“You really are something else, you know that?” he murmurs. “Is this the point where I can confess I hate places like this?”

You mirror his grin instantly. “Absolutely.”

He worries his bottom lip between his teeth for a second, glances around at the red balloons and couples taking staged selfies. Then he lowers his voice like he’s suggesting something illegal.

“Should we…?”

You look at him for a beat.

Then you nod once. “Please.”

That’s all it takes.

You both stand up almost at the same time, chairs scraping loudly against the floor. A few heads turn, but neither of you care. Frankie grabs his jacket. You nearly bump into a balloon on your way out. He pushes the door open and the cool night air hits your face like freedom.

And as he steps outside, two of the stupid helium hearts snag on his shoulders and drift out with him, strings trailing behind like he’s accidentally stolen property.

You both stare at them for half a second before you burst out laughing. Full, breathless laughter, like you just escaped a crime scene. Like you committed a tiny rebellion and got away with it.

Frankie grabs the balloon strings, trying to untangle himself. “I swear I didn’t mean to abduct these.”

“You’re being hunted by Valentine’s propaganda,” you giggle, reaching up to free one from his collar.

He looks down at you, still laughing, cheeks slightly flushed from the cold and the chaos. The streetlights catch in his eyes. He is so beautiful it hurts.

“Alright,” he says, tossing the balloons back toward the door where they float dramatically inside again. “Taco truck?”

You grin. “Lead the way.”

*****

You both sit on the curb, shoulders almost touching.

The pale yellow light of the streetlamp above you tints everything in that soft, late-night glow—the kind that makes the world feel smaller, safer. Like anything could happen and it wouldn’t scare you.

You don’t talk much.

You don’t have to.

You bump his knee with yours every now and then while you eat, the quiet rhythm of it strangely comforting. It’s easy. Exactly how you hoped it would be.

When you’re done, you tap your mouth with the napkin and wipe your fingers. “These were sooo good. Really. I might even say the best I’ve ever had.”

Frankie’s still chewing beside you. He swallows quickly and drags his thumb along the corner of his mouth, licking off the last bit of sauce.

You try very hard not to stare.

“So,” he says, glancing at you from the side, “you don’t regret ditching the fancy restaurant for criminally greasy and hot tacos?”

“Nope.” You pop the p for emphasis. “Not even a little.”

He leans back on his hands, stretching his legs out in front of him. For a moment it’s quiet again. The city hums around you with cars in the distance, faint music from somewhere down the block and the soft hiss of the food truck behind you.

“I was scared,” he says suddenly.

You turn your head.

“Of fucking this up,” he continues, still looking up at the night sky. The words come out slower now. Careful, like whatever he says next, matters. “But… you make this feel easy. Less scary. You know?”

Something in your chest softens.

You study his side profile in the streetlight that catches the bridge of his nose, the curve of his mouth. He looks younger like this. Less guarded.

“Well,” you say quietly, “I’m glad. Because I kind of think the same.” A small breath leaves you. “I like this. With you. Wasn’t on my bingo card for this year, but I’ll take it.”

He finally turns his head to look at you properly. Rubs the back of his neck in that adorably nervous way.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You scoot a little closer and rest your head against his shoulder. He stiffens for half a second—like he still can’t quite believe this is allowed—then his arm slides around you automatically. His cheek rests against your hair.

“This has gotten weirdly romantic,” he murmurs, voice low, “considering we’re sitting on the street next to a food truck.”

You shift, one hand fisting lightly in the front of his shirt.

“Yeah,” you whisper, looking up at him now. “But it’s good like that, right?”

“Perfect,” he says.

You don’t really remember who moves first.

Maybe it’s you, tilting your head up slightly. Maybe it’s him, dipping down just a fraction. Your noses brush first—soft, tentative, almost shy. You can feel his breath against your lips, warm, smelling faintly of spice.

He pauses there, close enough that your mouths almost touch. His hand slides up from your shoulder to the back of your neck. Steady. His thumb rests just under your ear, fingers warm against your skin.

“Quick question,” he murmurs, lips ghosting over yours but not quite kissing you yet. “Would you mind kissing me even if I still taste like hot sauce?”

You can’t help it, you smile against his mouth. Bright.

“I think I can survive that.”

“Brave,” he mutters.

Then he closes the remaining distance.

The kiss is slow at first. Testing. His hand at your neck grounding you, thumb brushing gently against your skin. Your fingers curl tighter into his shirt as you lean into him. 

And yes, he tastes like salsa and heat and something warm and unmistakably him.

It’s not polished. It’s not cinematic in any way, it’s better.

He exhales softly against your mouth, and when he deepens it just slightly, you feel it all the way down to your toes. Not rushed or hungry. Just certain. Like this is how the night always was supposed to be. 

When you pull back, your noses brush again. Foreheads touching, you bite your lip slightly.

He’s smiling. Not the guarded one. Not the half-smirk. The real one, contagious.

“Just so we’re on the same page,” he murmurs, thumb still warm at the side of your neck, “that was a good kiss, yeah?”

You hum like you’re seriously evaluating it. Tilt your head, pretend to consider.

“A solid 10 out of 10.”

His laugh is low and pleased, vibrating right through you. “Good. I was aiming for at least a nine.”

“Overachiever,” you tease softly.

He leans in again, presses one more softer kiss to your lips, just because he can now. Like the first one unlocked something simple and steady between you.

As you part, just slightly, enough to look at him properly again, you feel the thought settle quietly in your chest.

Maybe you still don’t like Valentine’s Day.

The balloons. The staged declarations. The pressure to perform something grand and glittering on command.

But this?

This feels real. Right, even.

Maybe it was never the date you hated. Maybe it was the pretending. The flowers handed over like insurance policies. The “I love you”s spoken because the calendar demanded it.

There’s no pretending here. No script. Just him, sitting on a curb with you, hair a little messy from the wind, mouth still tasting faintly of hot sauce, looking at you like he’s both surprised and certain all at once.

And for the first time in a long while, love doesn’t feel like something you have to brace yourself for, it feels like something you can lean into.

thanks for reading 💌

main masterlist • ko-fi

tags: (if you don't wanna be tagged anymore, let me know!): @misstokyo7love @sheepdogchick3 @god-is-an-astronaut @sawymredfox @chasingthepoguelife @librosylove @keylimebeag @diabaroxa @beefrobeefcal @greenwitchfromthewoods @katw474 @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 @whirlwindrider29 @yellowbrickyeti @missadangel @cozymochaa @sidelit @simpingforjoel @kirsteng42 @carmillahepburn @peterhollandkait @picketniffler @hotforpedro @thepilatesprincess @perfectpoetrybluebird @theanothersherlockian @inept-the-magnificent @confusedpuffin @rav3n-pascal22 @perpetualharpyresonance @perodjarin @daltoncharm @baronessvonglitter @beezusvreeland @lillaydee @underneath-the-sky-again @whiskeyneat-coffeeblack @angiewatson @vampiredoggies-blog @vickie5446 @titabel @ashleyfilm @finco99 @mariamorales1998 @severedbloodlines

[berryispunk]

fic authors self rec ! when you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to five other writers <3

OHHH. This is my time to shine! *rubs my hands like a fly* Thank you so much for this! 🤍

"Watching the Weather" - They only met once. Two strangers stranded by a storm in Albuquerque. Years, oceans, and letters later, the weather hasn’t stopped following them.

"Like A Song Stuck In My Head" - This story isn't about happy endings. It’s about almosts. About the kind of love that brands you and ruins you and lives in you even long after. (rockstar!Frankie AU)

"Your Home's Only a Town You're a Guest in" - You never planned to return to your hometown but things change when you've got life-changing news and soon you find yourself trying to navigate the past colliding with the present.

"In The Woods (I Knew Your Eyes)" - Recognition feels a lot like fate. (werewolf!Frankie AU)

"Slow Motion" - Best friends. Always there, never quite enough. He broke your heart without ever knowing he held it—until everything fell apart, and the only person he wanted was the one he pushed away.

[frankie-foxhole]

Recommend works by the Mayor of Frankietown!

I cannot recommend these pieces enough, sincerely.

They're exquisitely crafted, deeply emotional, and they require a full box of facial tissues per story. Half for the longing, half for the weeping 🫶

[frankie-foxhole]

Soft Landing

Pairing: Frankie Morales x gn!reader Tags: first kiss, friends to lovers, neighbors to lovers, domestic!Frankie, slice of life Word count: ~900 Summary: A false alarm sends you and Frankie into the stairwell together, where the dark leaves no room to keep pretending. When habit turns into honesty, the thing you’ve both been circling finally happens. Prompt: Day 9 (Trouble) via #BorrowedFromJonah, hosted by @berryispunk & @rhapsodyofdarkness

< Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | You're on Part Six >

The trouble starts when the fire alarm goes off at 10:43 p.m. It's that sharp, insistent chirring that scrapes straight across your nerves and makes your teeth rattle.

Coincidentally, you’re halfway through brushing your teeth when the noise starts.

By the time you make it into the hallway, keys in hand, you already know he’ll be there, because who else always turns up to help when the trouble starts?

Frankie is two doors down, barefoot, holding his phone and his wallet like he grabbed whatever his hands landed on first. He’s squinting at the ceiling, listening.

“Smoke?” you ask.

He shakes his head. “I don’t smell anything.”

The alarm keeps screaming anyway.

You fall into step together without discussing it. The stairwell door is propped open, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. A few other tenants are already filtering down, sleepy and annoyed and keeping their distance from one another.

Frankie stays close, near enough that you can feel the heat of him.

Outside, the night air is thick and damp. Residents gather in loose clumps near the building, crickets and peep frogs piercing the night. Someone mutters about burnt toast. Someone else complains about the super.

Frankie stands beside you, hands shoved into his pockets, rocking faintly on his heels.

“Sorry,” he says quietly. “About this.”

You glance at him, fighting an eyebrow raise. “You didn’t pull the alarm.”

“Yeah, but still.” He rocks onto his heels in the gravel like it's nothing. He's a Florida boy through and through. “Feels like I should apologize anyway.”

You smile, tired but fond. “You don’t have to fix everything, you know. It's not your job.”

Frankie looks at you then, really looks, like he’s deciding whether to believe that, then he shrugs. "Maybe. But I couldn't live with myself if I didn't try."

The alarm cuts off mid-screech, and the silence drops hard.

People start drifting back inside, grumbling. You watch the crowd thin, listening to the night animals cry.

When there's enough room to move, you head for the stairs together. Halfway up, the lights flicker, then go out. The stuffy little stairwell plunges into darkness, thick and immediate.

“Hey,” you say, startled.

Frankie reacts instantly. His hand comes up to your elbow, gentle and steadying. A question.

“Can I?” he asks.

“Yes,” you say, without hesitation.

His fingers close around yours, warm and familiar, and he angles his body between you and the open side of the stairs. It's instinctive and practiced, someone trained by life or profession to protect those close to him. You hear him counting steps under his breath. The sound is low and grounding.

“Just a power hiccup,” he murmurs. “Happens sometimes.”

“I know,” you say. “I’m okay. And I'm going to call the city tomorrow. It's illegal for these emergency lights to be out of order."

He slows anyway and as if shaken by your threat, the emergency lights kick on a moment later. They're dim and amber, casting the stairwell in soft shadow.

Frankie stops, and you stop too; neither of you lets go. All the people who went in ahead of you have shuffled far above or onto their respective floors already.

“You know,” he says quietly, “I’ve been trying really hard not to assume things.”

Your heart thumps as you inspect his solemn face. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He swallows. “But I’m bad at that. Always have been.”

You step closer; there’s barely any space left between you now.

“Frankie,” you say, voice gentle. “What are you assuming?”

“That this,” he gestures between you with his free hand, both helpless and honest, “means something.”

You don’t answer with words. Instead, you lift your other hand and rest it lightly against his chest, feeling the way his breath catches under your palm. His heart is racing too, a sewing machine hum beneath your fingertips.

“It does mean something,” you say.

That’s all it takes. He leans in like he’s afraid you might disappear if he moves too fast, careful to allow every chance to stop him… as if you would.

And you don’t.

The kiss is soft and careful, almost more a question than a claim.

Then it deepens, and you have time to think he smells a little like old leather, musk, and sea salt. His body throws so much heat, the stairwell starts to seem cool.

Frankie exhales against your mouth like he’s been holding that breath for weeks. His thumb brushes your knuckle, grounding himself, grounding you.

When you pull back, it’s slow. Reluctant, but smiling.

“Wow,” he murmurs, forehead resting against yours.

You laugh quietly. “Yeah.”

The lights hum back to life and the evening's troubles seem to resolve as the air conditioning kicks on.

You realize you’re still holding hands, and neither of you lets go.

“You need a walk back?” Frankie asks, hopeful and certain all at once, then motions to his bare feet. "I won't even have to take off my shoes."

You squeeze his fingers and nod. “I'd like that,” you say. "I didn't even finish brushing my teeth."

"I can't help you with that part," he jokes, then runs his hand over his dark hair uncomfortably. "Oh, that was so dumb. Sorry."

You laugh, and this time when you walk the rest of the way up, the shadows are kinder.

At last the habit has changed into something new, something exciting, something that takes your breath away a little.

[sidelit]

We need more Frankie!

Hello, my friend! I'm so glad you're enjoying the Frankie works!

That said, I am a Quirrell blog, which is 99% of the content here. I post one Frankie serial per week, each Friday.

But since you asked with such joy and kindness, here's a one-time exception, an extra Frankie story this week:

• • • • • • •

Neighbors, Habits, and Almosts

Pairing: Frankie Morales x gn!reader Tags: friends to lovers, neighbors to lovers, domestic!Frankie, slice of life Word count: ~790 Summary: Frankie and you fall into something unspoken and dangerously comfortable. Neither of you crosses the line, but the habit of being together is starting to feel impossible to give up. Author's note: This is from a slow burn neighbors to lovers series Prompt: Day 7 & 8 (shadows & habit) via #BorrowedFromJonah, hosted by @berryispunk & @rhapsodyofdarkness

• • • • • • • < Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four > You don’t notice when it starts.

That’s the thing about habits. They form quietly, like dust collects in corners.

At some point, Frankie Morales starts being there.

Not in an overbearing way. He's just… well, present. He's a shape that belongs now.

You catch it first in the hallway.

You open your door in the evening and he’s locking his, keys clinking softly. You exchange looks, small smiles. Sometimes words. Sometimes not. You fall into step together without discussing it, walking toward the elevator like that’s where you were always headed.

It becomes normal. That’s the dangerous part.

Tonight, you’re both coming home late. The hallway lights flicker the way they always do, buzzing overhead. Frankie walks on the side closer to the wall, an old habit you notice now that you’re paying attention. Protective. Unconscious. One less angle to be shot at.

When you reach your door, you fumble the keys. Frankie waits without comment, hands in his pockets, rocking slightly on his heels. Patient. Like he’s got nowhere else to be.

The light behind him throws his shadow across the floor, and it brushes your feet, then lingers there.

“Long day?” you ask.

He exhales, a tired sound that’s halfway to a laugh. “Yeah. You?”

“Same.”

That feels like enough explanation for both of you.

You unlock the door, and it sticks. Because of course it does.

Frankie watches for half a second, then steps closer without asking. He braces the frame with one hand and gives the door a gentle nudge with his shoulder. It opens easily, like it was waiting for him.

You look at him. He looks at the door. Neither of you comment on it. What is there to say? The super is lazy? The landlady is cheap?

“Thanks,” you say.

“Anytime.”

Inside, your apartment is dim. Streetlight spills in through the window, painting everything in soft gold and darkening blues. Frankie stands just inside the threshold, like he’s unsure whether crossing fully is allowed tonight.

You toe off your shoes. He does the same without realizing it, running shoes kicked aside. Another habit forming. Another line blurred.

“Want some water?” you ask.

“Sure.”

You move around the kitchen together like you’ve done it a hundred times. You fill a glass. He leans against the counter. Your shoulders almost touch. Always almost.

He watches you when he thinks you can’t tell. Not hungrily, but carefully. Like he’s memorizing something fragile.

The silence stretches, comfortable and loaded all at once.

“You ever notice,” he says, quiet, “how this place looks different at night?”

You glance around; everything feels closer somehow.

“Yeah,” you say. “I like it better."

He nods. “Me too. It's harder to see the cracks when it's dark.”

The word me rests there, heavier than it should.

Frankie shifts, rubbing his thumb against the edge of the counter. A nervous tell you’re learning to read. He opens his mouth, then closes it again.

“Are you okay?” you ask.

He looks at you then. Really looks, dark eyes moving slowly over your face to read it over. There’s something warm and uncertain in his appraisal, something like he’s standing at the edge of a step he hasn’t decided to take.

“Yeah,” he says. “Just… getting used to things, I guess.”

“Things like what?”

He gestures vaguely between you. To the space, the air, the quiet.

“Well. To this,” he says. It's honest. Bare. Very Frankie.

You feel it too. The way the nights keep ending with him here. The way your apartment holds his shape even after he leaves. The way your body leans toward him without permission.

“Well,” you say softly, “I don’t mind.”

Frankie’s breath stutters. Just once.

“Good,” he murmurs. “Because I think I’d miss it if it stopped.”

The moment tightens, and you are very aware of how close he is. Of how easy it would be to close the distance.

He doesn’t.

Instead, Frankie clears his throat and reaches for his shoes. Old instincts reasserting themselves. Slow. Careful. Respectful to a fault. A man who's had a lot taken from him and refuses to take from others.

“I should let you sleep,” he says, regret threaded through the words.

You walk him to the door. The hallway light spills in again, breaking the spell. His shadow stretches back toward you like it doesn’t want to leave.

“Night, Frankie,” you say.

“Night.”

He pauses, hand on the doorframe, then glances back.

“Hey,” he adds. “Same time tomorrow?”

You smile, warm and certain.

“Yeah,” you say. “Same.”

He leaves.

The apartment feels different after. Quieter, but not empty because you’re already looking forward to the sound of his footsteps.

Some habits are hard to break.

Some you don’t want to.

[sidelit]

Hot Space

Pairing: Frankie Morales x gn!reader Tags: friends to lovers, neighbors to lovers, domestic!Frankie, slice of life Word count: ~850 Summary: It’s after midnight in the apartment building’s rundown laundry room when Frankie Morales, half-dressed and half-asleep, accidentally runs into you. Author's note: This is from a slow burn neighbors to lovers series. Prompt: Day 2, Night via #BorrowedFromJonah, hosted by @berryispunk & @rhapsodyofdarkness

Previous Installments: <Get Bent | Leftovers | Something Good> Frankie doesn’t plan to run into you, that's for sure.

That’s the thing about the apartment building's laundry room. It’s communal, but it never feels social. Especially at night, when the hallway lights flicker and the machines do all the talking.

He’s wearing boxers and a very faded T-shirt he shouldn’t still own, barefoot in flip-flops because he told himself he’d be quick. In and out. Soap, quarters, done. After midnight, sure to be dead.

He didn’t bother fixing his hair. He didn’t bother thinking.

That was the mistake.

You’re already there when he pushes the door open, the fluorescent light buzzing overhead, the smell of detergent sharp and clean. One machine rattles like it’s losing a fight with itself. Another hums low and steady.

You’re leaning against a folding table, sorting clothes with slow, deliberate movements. Like there’s no rush. Like this is just another part of the night.

Frankie freezes for half a second too long.

“Oh,” you say, looking up. “Hey.”

Hey.

Not startled. Not annoyed. Just… there. As always. Your steady, welcoming presence as his neighbor is almost routine by now.

Except not right now.

“Hey,” Frankie answers, shifting the laundry basket on his hip like it suddenly weighs more than it should. Maybe if he holds it just so, you'll not notice he's in his boxers. “Didn’t think anyone else would be up.”

You shrug, a small smile tugging at your mouth. “Couldn’t sleep. Figured I’d get this out of the way.”

He nods. Of course you couldn’t sleep. He knows that look. He lives in it. If anyone knows about not being able to sleep, it's him.

He steps further inside, careful where he puts his feet. The concrete floor is cool. The night presses close through the high, narrow windows. Outside, it’s Florida-dark. Thick. Breathing. The concrete walls are ugly and are sweating as much as he is.

Frankie loads his machine without looking at you too much. He’s aware of himself in a way he hates. The bareness of his legs. The fact that these boxers are soft with age, stretched thin at the waistband. He hasn’t been this exposed in a while, not like this.

You don’t comment. That somehow makes it worse. Or better. He’s not sure which.

The machines thud. A quarter clinks. The room settles.

“You always do laundry this late?” you ask, folding something small and dark, politely not looking.

“Usually,” he says. “Quieter.”

“Yeah,” you agree. “Feels safer.”

You say it lightly, but not joking, and that makes him glance at you.

Frankie then scans the room without meaning to. The corners. Under the folding table. The shadowed space behind the dryers. Old habit. Old instincts. Protect first, ask questions later.

“Watch out for the widows,” he says before he can stop himself.

You blink. “The what?”

“Black widows,” he says, already regretting it. You watch him rub the back of his neck until the skin turns red. A quirk of his discomfort. “You know. They like warm places. Laundry rooms. Especially at night.”

Your eyebrows lift. “You’re serious.”

“Yeah.” He points with his chin as he juggles the laundry basket. “Under there. That table. That’s where I saw one last year.”

You pause mid-fold, then very deliberately move your pile closer to you.

“…Good to know,” you say.

Frankie gives a quiet laugh. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to freak you out.”

“You didn’t,” you say, then add, honest, “Okay, maybe a little.”

He watches you smile, and something inside him loosens a little. Comfort? He thinks maybe. Even in his busted out boxer briefs and old thong sandals.

You wait together for a while, folding. He offers to help you and you let him.

Frankie leans back against a washer a few minutes later, arms crossed. You catch him looking tired. He doesn’t hide it well at this hour.

“You okay?” you ask.

It’s casual, not an interrogation, and that’s what gets him. Life is full of people who will use and abuse, but you're different.

“Yeah,” he says automatically. Then, after a beat, “I mean. Yeah. Just… long day.”

You nod like that makes sense. Like you believe him. Maybe you have to believe him, because every day for Frankie Morales seems like it's long.

The machine whirs, clicks, then stops. Silence rushes in, loud in its absence.

You reach for your clothes. Frankie does the same. For a moment, you both bend at the same time, heads nearly knocking. He straightens fast, muttering an apology.

You laugh, soft. “We’re gonna have to coordinate better.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Team effort.”

Team.

The word hangs there. Not heavy. Just present. He wonders if it's too much, but chooses to own it instead.

As you move to the dryers, Frankie notices how the night feels different now. Less sharp. Less empty. The silence isn’t pressing anymore. It’s shared.

He thinks about how he almost didn’t come down here. How easy it would’ve been to wait. To stay alone with his thoughts.

Instead, he’s here. In boxers. Talking about spiders. Standing close enough to feel the heat from your shoulder.

[sidelit]

Interlude: Something Good

Pairing: Frankie Morales x gn!reader Tags: friends to lovers, neighbors to lovers, domestic!Frankie Word count: ~700 Author's Note: Happy Frankie Friday! Since this Frankie Friday falls on Boxing Day (26th December), I'm declaring it Boxers Day. So Happy Boxers Day to you all! (My dumb Photoshop edit, btw) This is part three of Frankie's 'Neighbors' story; parts one and two are below:Get Bent | Leftovers

Frankie doesn’t sleep.

Not right away, anyway.

He lies on his back in the dark, staring at the faint dust of streetlamp light stretched across the ceiling, but all he can think about is the way his name sounded when you said it.

Soft. Easy. Like it didn’t have to mean caution or apology.

Frankie, come in.

Frankie, stay for dinner.

Frankie, you didn’t let me down.

It shouldn’t echo the way it does, but the apartment is quiet. Too quiet. Frankie has never loved silence. Silence is where thoughts get too loud, too sharp, too deep. Where memories push their way in like unwelcome guests that don't like to leave.

Tonight, he fights off those old memories with newer ones.

He thinks about the drip of water landing on his cheek, cold and humiliating. The way his heart stuttered when your thumb brushed it away like it meant nothing at all. The way he froze, because these days his first instinct is always to brace for impact and worry about fallout after.

But nothing happened.

Nothing except kindness, and Frankie Morales is out of practice with that.

He exhales and rolls onto his side. The sheets are cool (a Florida blessing), twisted around his legs, his T-shirt riding up where he didn’t bother fixing it. He’s still in his boxer briefs, too tired to change, too used to sleeping like this when no one’s watching.

The pillow smells faintly of old detergent, cheap dryer sheets, and open-window breeze. Normal smells. Safe ones. So he should be able to sleep.

But his mind circles back.

The kitchen. The leftovers. The way you sat across from him like he wasn’t trouble waiting to happen. Like eating dinner with him wasn’t a risk.

Your laughter hits him again, warmth blooming in places he forgot could thaw. Hell, places he didn't even realize had frozen over.

When you told him he makes things easy, it burned in the center of his chest.

He wanted to believe it. God, he wanted to. But he’s lived long enough and hard enough to know he makes things harder just by being in the room.

That he keeps himself small and quiet so other people don’t have to work around him.

And yet you said it like it was true, like he really does make things easy. At least for you.

He closes his eyes and breathes deeper, but there’s a flutter under his ribs that won’t settle. Hope. It’s been so long he barely recognizes the shape of it. But it’s there.

A small pulse. A light in the fog. Something to look toward.

He pictures you at the mailbox, smiling over junk mail. He pictures you brushing his cheek without hesitation. He pictures the single, stupid drip of water that made you laugh until he laughed too.

He can still hear your voice. He can still feel the echo of it down his spine.

We fix it together, you said.

Like it's allowed.

Frankie swallows. He isn’t falling yet. He’s just remembering what it's like to feel something warm and uncomplicated and human.

It scares him and it comforts him.

He turns onto his stomach and buries his face in the pillow, fighting a smile he doesn’t even know what to do with. Daydreaming like a kid. Christ, it's been a while since that happened last.

Tomorrow, he’ll pretend you’re just neighbours again. He’ll nod in the hallway, hands in his pockets, voice steady. He’ll try not to read into things.

He’ll fail at that.

But right now, in the quiet dark, he wants to hear you laugh again, to share another dinner. He wants… something with you. Not everything, just something.

A life with a little noise in it.

He lets himself imagine knocking on your door tomorrow, and imagines you smiling when you see him. He'll borrow sugar, or your screwdriver, or some excuse that doesn’t matter.

But borrowing is best, because borrowing means returning.

Frankie breathes again. Deeper this time. Maybe he can sleep now, or maybe he can't, but at least there's a plan: borrow something small and hold onto it like life itself. Then bring it back again. That, he can do.

Finally, for the first time in a long time, the silence isn't hostile.

It's the moment before something good.

tag: @berryispunk

[sidelit]

Leftovers

Pairing: Frankie Morales x gn!reader Tags: friends to lovers arc, domestic!Frankie, not even remotely explicit Word count: 900 Author's Note: Happy Frankie Friday! This is part two of Frankie's 'Neighbors' story. If you missed part one, last week's plumbing fiasco, 'Get Bent', it's here.

The plumber comes and goes. The sink stops leaking. Life should reset to normal, but it doesn’t.

You’re reheating leftovers when there’s a soft knock at your door. Three taps, each one a little hesitant.

Frankie’s knock.

You open the door and find him leaning awkwardly against the frame, hands jammed in his pockets, holding his hat, curls flattened in that way that means he’s been running a hand through his hair for twenty minutes. Maybe more.

“Hey,” he says. Then, before you can respond: “I, uh… didn’t want you thinking I ran off because I was embarrassed.”

You blink at him. You hadn’t assumed anything. Not even a little.

“But you literally said, ‘I’m gonna take a shower because my shirt smells like sink water,’ Frankie.”

He winces. “Yeah. And then I remembered that doesn’t technically count as not running off.”

You step aside and he comes in slowly, like your kitchen has suddenly become an emotional minefield.

He spots the plumber’s receipt folded on the counter. “How bad was it?”

“Seventy-five bucks.”

“Oof.” Frankie presses a palm to his forehead. “That’s like… three breakfasts.”

“You eat three breakfasts?”

“I… no." He puffs a little air from his lips. "But I could. Hypothetically.”

You glance at him. He's still in a gray t-shirt. A fresh one, yes, but it's still a gray t-shirt, which is oddly charming.

"I want to know, where are you eating that breakfast runs you $25 a pop, Mr. Morales?"

"Umm," he pauses to consider, then seems to brighten. "It's at Tortugas, but it's me and Santi. That's why it's $25 a pop."

That means he pays for Santi every time, because he's a good guy. Of course he does.

"I'm billing it back to the landlord anyway," you say. "Maybe she can get the super to do his job."

He gestures at the stove. “So, what’s cooking?”

You hold up a sauce-laden spatula and wiggle it at him. Carefully, so you don't splash sauce. “It's leftover pasta.”

Frankie nods. Then, “Want company? Pasta is always better as leftovers.”

Despite the words, there's nothing casual about the tone he uses. It’s tentative, almost shy, like he’s trying to take up as little space as possible in your kitchen, but has the urge to stay there.

You slide over a second bowl. "I figured that's why you were back."

He washes his hands at the now-not-leaking sink and looks relieved that it doesn’t drip on him this time. He still shakes his hands twice, though. Habit, maybe. Nerves, definitely.

You set the food down and Frankie hesitates again before sitting. For a man who used to fly helicopters for the Army, he sits at your table like he’s afraid the chair might bite him.

Halfway through the pasta he finally says it.

“Listen, I don’t like when I mess things up,” he murmurs. “Not for other people.”

There’s no self-pity in it. Just truth. Plain and painful.

“You didn’t mess anything up,” you say.

His fork pauses, shoulders going still. “It felt like it.”

“Well, the sink didn’t explode. That’s a win. And you learned what a p-trap was.”

Frankie huffs a laugh that sounds a little like surprise and a little like gratitude. “You're a p-trap," he says, shaking his head with a smile. "You always do that.”

“Do what?”

“Make things… easy.” He lifts one shoulder. “For me, I mean.”

You swallow. The air feels warmer than the stove can explain.

“Well,” you say softly, “maybe that’s because you make things easy too.”

Frankie blinks at that. Actually blinks. Like he has to reboot his whole brain to process it. He isn’t quick to assume anything, but he’s quick to feel things.

“I do?”

“Yeah. You showed up with a toolbox because I made a joke over the mail. Most people don’t do that.”

Frankie stares down at his bowl, ears reddening. “It wasn’t… I just didn’t want you dealing with it alone.”

There’s a beat where neither of you says anything. Then he pushes your extra napkin across the table toward you without looking up. It's a small gesture, but it's thoughtful. Familiar.

“You got sauce on your cheek,” he says quietly.

You touch your face, but he shakes his head once

“Wrong side.”

It should be nothing. A neighborly thing. But the way he says it, soft and careful, sends heat crawling up your neck

He notices. Frankie Morales definitely notices.

His eyes linger for a fraction too long before he looks away. It's quick, embarrassed, like he’s afraid he’s crossed a line just by seeing you.

You clear your throat. “So, um… next time a pipe breaks, we’ll call the plumber first.”

Frankie manages a crooked smile. “Or we fix it together.”

“Together?”

“Yeah.” He meets your eyes again, steady this time. Warm. “Might not get it right. But we’ll try.”

There is a shift. Small, unmistakable.

Frankie punctures the silence by taking his empty bowl to the sink. He rinses it like a good guest, hesitates, then turns back like he wants to say something else.

Instead, he offers a tiny, hopeful smile.

“Well, good night,” he says.

“Night, Frankie.”

He lingers in the doorway before going, as if torn between turning around or exiting. Then he makes his choice.

Once the door shuts behind him, the air stays warm, like he's left something of himself behind without meaning to.

Tag: @berryispunk (because you asked last time!)

[sidelit]

Get Bent

pairing: Frankie Morales & gn!reader tags: friendship to lovers arc, domestic!Frankie, contemplative!Frankie word count: ~740

Author's Note: Happy Frankie Friday! This is my first Frankie or Triple Frontier fic, and only my second Reader fic, so please forgive me. It's just a practice run, and all mistakes are mine. That includes whatever butchery I created typing on my phone. You can find part two, Leftovers, here!

You’ve been neighbors a few months now. Long enough to recognize his footsteps on the stairs, long enough to exchange nods in the hallway.

Long enough that helping each other with small things doesn’t feel strange.

A few days ago, you made a joke while standing with him at the mailboxes. A joke about your kitchen sink that he's now accepted as a mission.

That’s how Frankie Morales ends up in your kitchen with a small toolbox and an expression suggesting this leak is somehow his responsibility.

“It’s probably nothing,” he says, kneeling in front of the cabinet like he’s reassuring himself more than you. “Loose connection. Old washer. I’ve fixed worse.”

He’s under the cabinet now. The smells of cleaner and damp wood drift toward you when he opens it.

Frankie's sleeves are rolled up, his Standard Oil cap slightly askew. A flashlight is balanced badly on his shoulder as he looks around.

"Ah ha." He tightens something with quiet determination. “That should do it."

The sink drips. Once. In defiance.

You hesitate. “Frankie? Did you check the p-trap?”

There’s a pause. You can't see him through the wood, but you don't need to.

“…the what now?” his voice drifts back.

“The p-trap,” you say. “The bend in the pipe.”

Silence. Then Frankie scoots back out, blinking up at you.

“Okay,” he says slowly. “I’m gonna be honest. I don’t know what that is.”

You laugh. Not mean, just surprised.

He exhales, then laughs too, ducking his head as he rubs the back of his neck. “Wow. Okay. Good to know.”

You both look at the pipes again.

“…pretty sure the super told me these buildings don’t have those,” he adds.

You glance at the very obvious bend in the pipe. Then back at him.

“Interesting,” you say. "That's looking pretty bent to me."

Something drips again.

“…shit,” he mutters, not loudly. "We should tell that guy to get bent."

Frankie crouches again and works.

The wrench slips. His knuckles hit metal. He goes very still for a moment, holding his breath, then he tries again like stubbornness alone might realign the universe.

You notice the shift before you see it. The confidence draining out in small increments as he exhales. The way his movements get more careful and less sure.

Another drip lands directly on his cheek.

He sighs and scoots out from under the sink, shirt riding up just enough to show the pale strip of skin above his waistband. He notices immediately and tugs it down, ears pink.

“I’m sorry,” he says, sitting back on his heels.

You reach out without thinking and brush the water from his cheek with your thumb. It’s nothing. Just a reflex. Frankie freezes like you touched a live wire.

“It’s okay,” you say. “I’ll call a plumber. A real one, I mean, not the super."

His shoulders drop, but his face doesn’t relax. He looks embarrassed in that specific way that has nothing to do with pride and everything to do with disappointment turned inward.

“I didn’t want to let you down,” he says quietly.

You blink. That hadn’t even occurred to you.

“You didn’t,” you say. “You tried. Hell, I tried."

He swallows. Looks at the cabinet. Looks at his hands. They’re steady now, empty. Then he glances back at you, squinting a little, as if trying to make you out.

"You tried too?"

"I did. No luck," you assure him.

"Wow. And you even knew what a p-trap was," he says, shaking his head. “I used to be good at stuff like this."

This is not defensive, but factual. Like he’s inventorying what still works inside him.

“You’re still good at things,” you tell him. “This just… isn't a helicopter.”

That gets a small huff of a laugh out of him. Surprise more than humor.

“Yeah,” he says. “Guess not.”

He stands, wiping his hands on his jeans, still a little damp, still a little sheepish. The sink keeps dripping. You’ll deal with it. It’s fine.

Frankie lingers, like he’s waiting for judgment that never comes.

Then the sink drips once more.

You look at it. Then at him.

“…guess we’ll call that plumber now,” you say.

He stares at the faucet for a second, then snorts despite himself, and a smile breaks before he can stop it.

You laugh. He does too, quieter, shoulders loosening like that was all it took.

“Yeah,” he says. “Probably.”