Chapter Summary: You return to your hometown where your history with Joel started.
Chapter Warnings --- no beta, fluff, light angst, Idiots in Love, childhood friends
WC: 7.7k
series masterlist, AO3
A/N: Finally another fic is out! I've been busyyy and I know this is not going to be a consistent updating as my previous fic but I will try my best because this was more fun to write.
Also, my favourite football (soccer) team is not performing well since a few weeks ago and it's been depressing yall...im not okay...fuckkk
Hope yall enjoy this one even tho yall may not be soccer fans.
— May 2024 —
"Dad! Let's go!"
9-year-old Sarah stood by the truck, waiting for her dad to get out of the house. She tapped her foot restlessly, annoyed that Joel was taking longer than expected to get ready to go. She was excited to watch her favourite soccer team, Austin Violet Football Club, play the first game of the new season. She was dressed in the home jersey and shorts, pairing them with the team's scarf around her neck, hair styled as space buns with the help of Joel. The club director invited her to watch the game after signing a 2-year contract for the Austin Violet Football Academy—a part of the Austin Violet FC consisting of both men and women.
Sarah was an aspiring soccer player. She fell in love with the game at 6, when her great-grandmother played it on TV while she was babysitting her. Since then, she had been going on and on about soccer, and Joel signed her up for a youth soccer club nearby that honed her soccer skills to be selected for Austin Violet Football Academy. It was the most ecstatic she had ever felt in her 9 years of a lifetime when Joel told her that she was selected to join the youth academy. Nothing could compare to the endearment in his heart when he witnessed Sarah explode with joy.
"The game ain't going nowhere, baby girl. We still got time." Joel said over his shoulder as he locked the door.
Sarah groaned loudly, exasperated, seeing her dad taking the whole time in the world as if he were doing it intentionally. Her shoulders slumped forward, the AVFC scarf around her neck swaying slightly at both ends to her movement. With keys dangling in his hand, he opened the passenger door for Sarah, and she side-eyed him before climbing into her seat, complaining under her breath. Joel sighed heavily, having to deal with her daughter's attitude again.
-----
The Violet Crown Football Stadium was almost packed with thousands of supporters from the home and away teams. Everyone was hyped with the anticipation of the first game, chanting endlessly, as loud as they could. The setting sun painted the field orange mixed with the green grass, blanketing it with warmth. The smell of summer is swaying to the beat of the surrounding air. Sarah looked around in awe, watching the fans around her cheering for the team. She could not help the smile appearing on her face as she immersed herself in the moment.
They were seated in the suites section, which was where other VIPs, players not in the squad, players' family members, or other relevant individuals were seated. The suites were at the middle level, where the game could be clearly viewed. While Sarah was busy scanning everything around her, Joel was on his phone, talking to Tommy about work.
Even though Joel was supportive of her passion for soccer, he did not take the time to be fully invested in AVFC. He knew the rules of the game and only of her favourite player at the time, Kiara King, the striker for Austin Violet women's team. He supported the team in his own way. Without Sarah's love for soccer, he would not have watched soccer but be indulged in baseball instead. There were underlying emotions and memories stuck deep inside him that he did not want to resurface again whenever soccer came to mind.
"Enough about work; Sarah must be real excited about the game," Tommy said.
"Tell me about it," Joel sighed. "She was rushing me until we got in the stadium today."
Joel turned his head to look at Sarah, whose eyes were sparkling with admiration as she watched the players walk out of the tunnel. The whole stadium roared with claps and howling cheers. It was getting harder to hear Tommy through the phone, with the loud noises filling the stadium.
"I know you don't follow the team that much but they signed a new player at the end of the summer break," Tommy updated him with the news.
"Oh, really?" Joel said in a disinterested voice as he looked down on the field. Due to the distance, he could not see the players' faces.
The display screen started to show each player of the home team while the announcer introduced them one by one, starting with the goalkeeper and slowly progressing to the attackers. The stadium erupted with cheers for each of the players that had been introduced.
"You won't believe who their new signing is," Tommy's voice sounded distorted in Joel's ear.
"I'll call you back later! I cannot hear you right now! The game is starting already. Bye!" Joel shouted into his phone before ending the call without waiting for Tommy's response.
Sarah stood in her seat, jumping up and down, shouting excitedly with the rest of the supporters while Joel stared at her lovingly. The announcer started to announce the midfielders and the name he had long forgotten blasted through the stadium speakers, catching his attention back to the screen and confirming his doubts.
There you were, waving to the crowd that welcomed you with big arms and a smile on your face. The smile that played a significant role in his childhood was now back in town. He was confused with the longing he did not expect to feel as he looked at you, guilt on his face. Suddenly, the noises around the stadium died down—muffled in his ears—the long lost memories with you that he continuously tried to lock away flooded his head. He could not erase the image of you, eyes brimming with tears as you turned to leave him 12 years ago. Out of his life. Now, you were back to haunt him.
"Dad! Look! She's wearing my number!" Sarah shook him out of his thoughts, pointing at your jersey number—20–the same as her birthdate.
What kind of a sick game is the universe playing with him, seeing the coincidence of you wearing Sarah's favourite number on your back.
-----
23 years ago, your family moved from Dallas to Austin due to your father's job, and moving into a new home brought you a lot of emotions. You were excited to live somewhere new but also sad to be unable to be with your friends anymore.
It was the first day of school. You were sitting at your table, waiting for someone to sit beside you as your table partner. The kids in the class looked wary as they came in, not knowing what to expect for the first day. A few kids had reddish eyes because they were crying and were not emotionally ready for 1st grade. You were not one of them.
Your father had already trained you to be tough from the get-go. He was teaching you soccer right when you started learning to walk. Little did you know, he did it to live his dream through yours. He was the definition of tough love. He did not go easy on you during his home training. Sometimes, losing his patience, hurling insults and hitting you, but you took everything like a champ because if not, the anger in him would be thrown toward your mom.
Growing up, you witnessed the treatment that your mom got from him. You got in between them most of the time, wrapping your body around your mom to protect her, but what can a small and frail kid like you could do compared to the tall and big figure of your father?
"Hi! I'm Joel. What's your name?"
A voice beside you brought your mind back to the classroom. You turned your head to find a boy with a smile that could light the whole classroom brighter than it already was. His hand is out towards you, expecting a handshake.
"Hi, Joel." You replied, taking his hand as you gave him your name.
"That's a pretty name," he said, his dimples on display as he smiled, which rendered you speechless. Your heart stopped for a beat at that moment, and it felt very strange because it was the first time you had felt that way, especially by a boy.
"Thank you." You thanked him with a shy smile sent his way.
From then on, the two of you were inseparable. He followed you everywhere you went, and you did not mind him at all, enjoying his company. He talked to you about everything, be it his favourite TV show, his favourite animal, or even his embarrassing moments. He was not afraid to tell you about his grandma, who was taking care of him and his baby brother once his mom left after their dad's death the previous year.
You saw his forlorn eyes as he told you the story. You empathised with the amount of hurt in his voice as you listened. In return, you confided in him about your parents. About how strict your father was towards you and how it pained you to see your mother's suffering, not being able to stand up for herself.
You were surprised when he pressed himself against you, arms circling your body. He was hugging you, and you learned that it was his way of comforting not just you but himself as well.
The two of you bonded through the traumas and the amount of time you spent together during and after school. Although, most days after school, you couldn't play with him and the other neighbourhood kids due to your father's intense training sessions, he always filled you in on the things you missed. He always welcomed you like no other kid does. He did not judge you because of the circumstances that you were living in.
Even though he lived at the other end of the street, he would cycle past your house just to see how your training was going in your front yard. Your father had noticed him cycling past a couple of times, but he did not say a word; he only sent his hardened glares towards Joel, which the brave 7-year-old did not cower away from.
There were times when you got distracted by Joel, which resulted in you receiving harsh punishments for not focusing on your training. Tears formed in your eyes from the pain in your body whilst you carried on with the punishments, but that didn't stop you from secretly waving at Joel as he passed by, smiling at you.
On days without training, you joined Joel and the other kids cycling and exploring the neighbourhood. Not afraid to get dirty, you found yourself rolling around in the grass field as you looked at the boys who were playing fights or flying kites. Joel never left your side—always making sure you were taken care of, not wanting you to get in trouble with your father if you got injured while messing around.
Sometimes, he can be too much about the little things—constantly wiping dirt off your face and other parts of your body as if you are not used to it, trying to carry you when you were perfectly fine with walking, or even worse, covering your ears whenever the boys said a bad word which didn't even come close to what you have already heard from your father. You were an independent kid, so you were annoyed when Joel started to treat you like a baby, but you didn't call him out on it, knowing that was just his big brother instincts.
You shared everything about school with your mom whenever you reached home. It was the only time you could comfortably talk with her without Dad's presence in the house. She would coo when you told her about the things Joel did for you, finding it sweet that there's a kind boy out there taking care of you. You complained to her about how Joel was treating you like a baby, thinking she would take your side, but you found her laughing softly at your annoyance.
"I like Joel. He sounds like a good friend, " your mom said softly, caressing your head.
"He is." You nodded your head, looking at her with your big round eyes.
"I'm happy you found a good friend, bubba." She kisses the crown of your head, lips lingering there for a while.
"He found me first, mama." You innocently corrected her, and she just smiled to herself, hugging you tight.
-----
— June 2024 —
Players were lined up in the tunnel, getting ready to get out to the field for the match. According to the positions you play, you were standing in the middle of your team's line, shaking your limbs to rid the nerves away. Each player was allocated a child mascot to walk to the field. There was a girl around the height of your chest, standing beside you. You noticed her staring at you with admiration in her big, round eyes. You instinctively smiled as you bent down to meet her eyes.
"Hi! What's your name?" you asked her in a higher-pitched voice, similar to that you used when talking to kids.
"Sarah," She meekly replied with a bashful smile, still maintaining eye contact with you.
Her smile reminded you of someone, but you could not put a face on it. You ignored the thoughts of her looking familiar to you for some reason.
"Is this your first time being a mascot?"
"Yes," Biting her lip out of being scared.
"You don't have to be nervous, okay? You got me." You reassured her, seeing how nervous she looked.
She nodded her head slowly, trusting you with your words.
"I like your hair, Sarah. It's pretty." Pointing at her space buns as you compliment her, trying to distract her from her overwhelming feelings.
"Thank you. My dad helped me with it." Her eyes widened. She tilted her head towards you to show the work of art her father had created.
"Your dad?! Wow! He did a pretty good job." Your smile grew wider, and you adored how she was bragging about it.
The image of your father crept up in your mind. You cannot help but compare your father to hers. From just hearing that Sarah's father did her hair, you knew that he must be a wonderful dad to her. He definitely adores her so much, even to master the hairstyles for his daughter.
Meanwhile, your father was still psychologically and emotionally abusing you at 30. You were glad to be able to make it to pro, leaving the house, away from his grasp. He will call you after every game—whether your team loses or wins—he will criticise your mistakes. Not once has he said that he was happy and proud of you despite your achievements. After some time, you don't even expect or want to hear that from him. There were times you purposefully ignored his calls, but a few hours later, your mom would be calling as she sobbed, begging you to just listen to what he had to say.
After you left Austin at 18, you told your mom that you would do whatever it took to let her be free from your father. However, she insisted that she loved him too much and could not bear to leave him alone, knowing he would suffer from the fallout. You get that he is the love of her life, but it hurts so much to see the relationship infested with so much toxicity that she thinks it's better to hold on to it instead of letting go.
"Does your dad do your hair, too?" Sarah pointed at your hair, which you had braided.
"No, I did it myself. Is it nice?" You let her touch your hair as you answered her.
"It's so beautiful!" She adoringly exclaimed.
"Aw, thank you!"
You heard the shuffling of the players at the front of the line, starting to move out of the tunnel.
You held out your hand for Sarah to take. "Are you ready to make your dad proud?" You raised your eyebrows expectantly.
She nodded her head vigorously, moving along by your side. The cheering slowly got louder as you walked out, and when you finally stepped into the field, you felt Sarah's hand gripping you tighter. You placed your other hand on hers, caging her hand between both of yours to let her know that you were there with her. You know it's not easy for a kid to walk out to a full stadium that is overwhelming with shouting and cheering.
Eventually, everyone was lined up perfectly, side by side, facing the cameras. The children were standing in front of the players, and you placed your hands on Sarah's shoulders, ensuring she was okay. You noticed her looking up towards the suites section when you followed her gaze. She was probably looking at her father, you thought. However, there were so many faces everywhere that you could not search for and focus on just one person. Hell, you did not even know what her father looked like.
After shaking hands with the opponent team, Sarah and the other kids had to return to the tunnel. Before she went off, she turned to hug you.
"Thank you!" she said while her cheek was pressed in your chest. Her eyes closed as she embraced the moment. You wrapped your arms around her shoulders, swaying her from side to side.
"Well, aren't you our lucky charm? Just watch because we're gonna win this game for sure."
She grinned from ear to ear, slowly letting go of you. Ugh, it's annoying that she looked so much like someone you know, but you don't know who exactly it was.
"See you around, you lil angel" You pinched her cheeks before returning to your starting position.
Sarah must have been your lucky charm because your team won that game. Since then, she has always been in your mind whenever you stand in the tunnel before a game. She had quite an impact on you. You never figured out why she looked familiar to you until the day you met her again.
-----
Joel and Sarah were walking hand in hand through the hospital corridor, the unmistakable sterile scent present in the space weighing heavily on their shoulders. The floor was quieter than usual—visiting hours were finishing in a few hours. Sarah was still in her soccer fit from earlier training while her bag was swaying along on Joel's shoulder. Trudging into the wardroom at the end of the hall, Joel let go of Sarah's hand, who ran inside as soon as she saw her great grandma, Nana.
"Nana!" She shouted, rushing towards the bed.
"Look who it is! My bunny!" Nana excitedly opened her arms, waiting for Sarah's hug.
They stayed embracing each other for a period of time—Sarah pressed her cheek on Nana's shoulder while Nana slowly stroked the back of Sarah's head. Joel witnessed the moment that had been a usual occurrence for him recently.
The first time when he got the call from Tommy on the day Nana was admitted to the hospital, he had almost forgotten how to breathe. His stomach plummeted to the ground-hearing the trembling in Tommy's voice saying Nana could have died if he had been late to come back home from work. He did not know how he got to the hospital with Sarah when his head was clouded with worry. He carried Sarah on his back when they got out of the car and went inside as fast as possible.
It was as if someone had ripped his heart out and left him to bleed out alone when his gaze landed on Nana's lying form on the bed with tubes sticking to her body. Nana was his grandma who literally raised both of the Miller brothers—single-handedly—after her daughter left them in her care. So, to see the person who was very dear to him go through something that horrible—heart failure—altered something deep in him for a while.
It had been a week since she was admitted, and Joel was still processing that. This was the second time she had to go to the hospital because her condition seemed to worsen over time. He knew he had to prepare for the worst scenario sooner or later, but he was still in denial about it all—he didn't want to let go of his constant. In a way, he didn't want to face his abandonment issues from the women in his life—his mom, you and Talia.
"How are you, Nana?"
"Never been better." Nana gave Sarah a cheeky wink.
"I saw you on TV yesterday. I'm so proud of you, bunny." Nana leaned in to kiss Sarah on the crown of her head.
"Did you see her? She was standing with me." Sarah was elated to share her experience as a child mascot with you.
"I did! Did you talk to her?" Nana asked.
"She was so nice, Nana. I like her. I think she's my favourite player now." Sarah's eyes were dreamy as she gushed about you to her great-grandma.
"C'mon now, you change your favourite player every month." Nana's voice was flat as she rolled her eyes jokingly at Sarah
"No I don't," Sarah argued, lying through her teeth. Nana was speaking the truth. Sarah changed her favourite player almost every month according to her mood, but this time it was different. To be physically in the presence of the team and the good impression that you made on her struck a chord in her to choose you as her number one player no matter what.
"Whatever you say, bunny."
Joel was already sitting beside the bed, listening to his daughter talk about his childhood best friend. For the past 12 years, he had reflected on what had happened throughout high school. It was a terrible experience for him when he looked back on it—chasing popularity, peer pressure, toxic masculinity, and, for the worst part, leaving you alone in your misery when you needed him the most. His apology was long overdue, and he thought he had already lost the chance to speak to you until you returned.
"Can I tell you a secret?" Nana lowered her voice, which made Sarah lean in slightly, curious about the secret. "I've met her as a kid before." This fact made Sarah part her lips in shock, and her eyebrows shot up fast to her forehead.
"Really?" Sarah's voice was barely louder than a whisper while she stared at Nana.
"Nana—"Joel spoke for the first time to interrupt Nana. He was slightly afraid to let his past and current life crash, not knowing how to handle it if it came to light.
"She is a friend of your father." Nana ignored his warning and continued to tell Sarah the facts about the past.
"She is? You didn't tell me." Sarah swiftly turned around to Joel, furrowing her brows, feeling slightly betrayed that her father had known you personally all this while and kept it a secret.
Joel gave Nana an annoyed look, disappointed that she told Sarah about his connection with you. His jaw tensed before he opened his mouth to explain himself.
"That was a long time ago. We are not friends anymore." That was the best he could say, and he could tell from Nana's expression that she was disappointed in him as she recalled the time she had heard what had happened to you.
"What happened?" Sarah questioned him, paying full attention to him, hearing the story for the first time.
"She left Austin to play professional soccer, and we didn't talk anymore." He shrugged his shoulders as he explained to Sarah in the simplest terms. If it was laid out on the table, the truth was that he fucked up. He did not want Sarah to know that because he wouldn't be able to handle his daughter's disappointment in him.
"Was she a nice person back then, too?" Her big round eyes were still lit with curiosity as she learned new facts about her favourite player.
Joel reminisced about the time he spent knowing you with a longing look in his face. His eyes looked out the window by the bed, absentmindedly, as your face came into his mind, hitting him with all kinds of emotions. Your petite hands were in his as the two of you walked together after school, the soft glow on your face from the warm sunlight and your hair flowing tenderly with the breeze.
"She was," he whispered. A slight curl on one side of his mouth appeared that was not unnoticed by Nana. She had been holding on to the hope that the both of you would make amends someday, and it warmed her heart that the time had finally come closer for it. She missed you a lot. You were like her granddaughter that she never had, not like her mischievous grandsons that gave her headaches. You brought a different kind of joy to her life, and when you told her that you had to leave, both of you were crying in each other's arms. She knew she did not have much time left in this world, and she hoped it wouldn’t be too late to see you again.
-----
— July 2024 —
"You know the drill, right? Just interact with the kids. Watch how they play, give them some advice, and remember to smile. The cameras will follow you around during the shoot." The team's social media manager, Emma, briefed you again as you came into the facility centre to prepare yourself for the shoot.
Filming with kids has always been your favourite. It allows you to stay in touch with your roots and serves as a reminder that there are kids who look up to you, so you have to always set a good example for them.
"I heard that their parents are here too?" You looked at Emma for confirmation.
"Yes. They are sitting in the stands. It will be a surprise appearance for them as well. After the filming, you will take pictures with the players and their families. Got it?"
"Okay, got it."
You got mic'd up while the filming crew settled everything else. Once they were set, you moved quietly to the training field where the young academy players were having a small match amongst themselves. It stroked a sense of nostalgia in you, seeing them running and kicking with their little limbs. Your heart warmed with the memories of you being in a young girl's team, dreaming of being a soccer star.
You heard some murmuring when you walked past the stands where the parents were, but your focus was fixed on the young players. Walking faster as you neared the sideline, one of the girls spotted you and squealed, causing them to stop their actions.
You continued walking towards where the coaches were standing, trying to hide the excitement on your face.
Some of them gasped, covering their mouths, not believing that the first team player had come to watch them.
"Come on, girls! Keep playing!" You clapped your hands, signalling to them to continue playing.
They looked at each other with smiles still stuck on their faces as they slowly moved their bodies again.
You shook hands with the academy team coaches and manager, who were also glad to see you. They talked to you about the players and the drills they went through, so you got the gist of how they ran things. You did a quick scan of all the players, and one of them stood up to you. That player was Sarah. It had been a few weeks since you met her, and you thought about her more than you know. You were enamoured by her innocence that you don't experience in your daily adult life. Wearing the same hairstyle, the blurry mystery face you cannot put together to match her face appeared in your head.
Sarah was playing as the right winger. You were impressed with her movements, especially for someone that young. Both of her feet were well balanced; one leg was not significantly stronger than the other, which meant that she had more of an advantage in her dribbling skills. Her focus on the ball once she got the ball controlled was unwavering, and she was not afraid to take her chances at shooting. You saw the massive potential of a player in her and hoped to see her grow as time went by.
As the game continued, you tried your best to watch the other girls, but your eyes followed Sarah. Compared to the rest, she was significantly versatile—being able to defend as well as her attacking skills. Unbeknownst to you, she was slowly gaining your heart even though you had only met her once.
After the game ended, the girls sat together for debriefing; exhaustion was evident on their faces flushed, strands of hair sticking to their sweaty faces, and eyes fixed on the grass below them. The team's manager and coaches said a few words before letting you take the stage. When it was your turn, the girls turned their heads to you as if they forgot you were there momentarily. Having their full attention, you started talking.
"What do y'all feel about the game?" You asked them.
"Bad." One of the players in the front spoke up, and you later found out that her name was Ellie.
"Why do you feel that way?" You raised an eyebrow at her, not expecting the quick acknowledgement of your question.
"Because Sarah overtook me a few times, and that means I sucked at defending today." Her eyebrows furrowed as she explained—displeased with her own mistakes.
"We all make mistakes sometimes; of course, we feel disappointed when they happen. Even a professional player—like me—makes them. But the mistake is what make us strive to be better. We reflect on it and improve from there." You explained to all of them.
"And the fact that you are aware of your own mistakes tells me that you are one step closer to being a better player than you were before." You smiled reassuringly to Ellie, liking her boldness in speaking her mind.
It's ironic that when you were around their age, you were very critical of your own performance—beating yourself up over something so small because you knew your father would never let it go. You never come around to look at things positively until you meet the other professional players—who became your good friends—during your career.
"Now, tell me what you did good in the game?" You squatted down to be at the same eye level as Ellie.
Ellie opened her mouth but closed it instantly, unable to think of an answer. Her eyes darting around, away from making eye contact with you.
"You've had a couple of good long passes to the forwards, and your tackling form is pretty great,"
"Really?" She said softly—not believing what you said.
"Absolutely! Why would I lie?" Cocking your head to the side, with one brow raised.
Her cheeks raised slightly, tugging the corners of her mouth into a small smile that she tried to hide from you.
You spent another 20 minutes answering the girls' questions—how you first started soccer, how you recovered from your bad injury, and even what boots you wore for your games. You took a group photo together before they dispersed to their parents, waiting for you to take pictures with each family.
You were already halfway done with the team when you spotted Sarah among those in the queue, and you noticed two men standing by her, but it was a quick glance before you were able to take a long look at their faces. The line of players you were taking photos with kept moving slowly as you took your time to get to know each of them properly.
Once you said goodbye to one of the girls, you saw a small figure rushing towards you in the corner of your eyes. As soon as you turned back around, you felt a pair of arms encasing your waist. You looked down and recognised the same space buns that Sarah had when she was one of the child mascots. She looked up at you, chin resting on your stomach while she portrayed a big grin. You cannot help the adoration that came into view on your face while you hugged her back.
"Hi, lil angel!"
"You remember me!" She looked with a mix of surprise and joy on her face.
"How could I forget our lucky charm with this pretty face?" Sarah stared at you with her big, round eyes sparkling with so much admiration that you almost felt guilty for being the subject of that look.
Her grip on you loosened when she turned around, gesturing for-you assumed-her family members to come closer.
"Come and say hi!" She moved away from you to let the two men near you.
Maybe it's the athlete in you that made your eyes move towards their physique first. You noticed they were both almost the same height, taller than you by a couple of inches. Their toned muscles, which were on display for you, seemed to be earned from hard labour instead of the gym. Catching you, scanning their bodies, one of them cleared their throat, making you shift your focus towards him.
He looked way younger than you—clean-shaven with curly, medium-length hair, passing his ears. You sensed that he had an easygoing and friendly demeanour when he introduced himself.
"Hey, how r' ya?" He sounded nervous but still was able to confidently reach out to shake your hand, with an unexplainable look on his face.
You returned the handshake with, "Hi, nice to meet you." You cocked your head slightly to the side, sensing the weird awkwardness coming from him.
You pulled back and looked at him for a moment before glancing at the other man who was standing beside him. You had to do a double take when your gaze landed on that man for a few seconds longer. Your heart suddenly picked up its speed from the recognition. Unexpectedly, a face vaguely reminiscent of your time back in Austin was here.
Joel fucking Miller—the reason for your happiness in Austin, but he was also the one that injected bitterness in your heart in the last few years in it.
His face was different than the one you tried to erase 12 years ago, to no avail; you didn't succeed. Time clearly had worn out his face a little bit—the clean-shaven face back then had been filled with scruffy facial hair, creases on the forehead, and noticeable crow's feet by his eyes. Even so, it only enhanced his features to be more attractive than he already was before.
Joel could not maintain eye contact with you like he used to. You noticed his tensed jaw and darting eyes towards everywhere else except you. He seemed like he wanted to hide in a hole somewhere. Seeing him not in the slightest bit happy to see you again stung you a little. You could not blame him for how he was acting, knowing how bad things were left between you.
You had long moved past it after going to therapy. As time went by, you saw things from a different perspective, in a more mature way, to understand his position at the time. You took the fact that you won't see him again and did your own healing by trying to forgive him for his immaturity back in the day on your own terms since you were not able to talk openly with him.
Now, he was standing before you, and somehow, you felt relieved to see him after all those years.
"Do you recognise me?" The younger man asked you, giving an expectant smile as he waited for you.
You turned your head back to him, still speechless from seeing Joel. He could only be that one person.
"Tommy?" You asked with one brow raised at him.
"Oh! I thought you wouldn't remember my name!" His jaw dropped, and he slowly crept up to a broad smile, a result of the fact that you remembered his name. His hands were rested on his chest from the shock.
"Of course, I remember you. It just took me awhile to recognise you because you look different," you looked at him up and down. "Look at you! You're taller than me now." You gestured at him with your palms opened, waving your hands over his grown body.
"More handsome now, am I right?" He struck a pose, hands bending upwards to point at himself with both thumbs. He sneaked a wink at you, making you jog down memory lane, remembering how his brother winked at you during your younger days.
You huffed a laugh at his boldness, "I see that you never change." You smirked at Tommy, who had just shrugged his shoulders at your remark.
Your ears perked up when you heard Sarah giggling as she watched your interaction with Tommy. For a moment, you had totally forgotten where and what you were doing while talking with Tommy. You glanced at Sarah briefly before looking at Tommy again.
"She's your daughter?" You asked Tommy.
"Ew, no." Sarah scrunched her face in a disgusted way at Tommy. Tommy rolled his eyes at Sarah; you could tell they had a slight sibling-like relationship. From the realisation of their age, you knew that Sarah could not have been Tommy's daughter.
"This is my dad!" She told you proudly as she slid her hand into Joel's.
Your eyes slowly moved up to see Joel staring at you with an unreadable gaze. You used to be able to tell what he was thinking just by looking at him, but the time apart had faded your ability to do so.
You did not know that he had a daughter. You wouldn't have known because you had cut off contact with him and the people who had wronged you after you left. After a few years, when you had moved on with the past, you were tempted to know how he was doing, but you did not bother to do anything about it, afraid of what feelings might come to the surface.
You wondered who Sarah's mom was, and guessing her age, you assumed that Talia might have been the one. Talia was the cause of your nightmare in high school. Thinking about what she did always made your blood simmer with hatred. You could forgive Joel, but Talia was that mean bitch that would take you so much longer to make peace with. With Sarah coming around, you assumed that Joel must have made her his wife, and it almost made the food that was processed in your stomach come back up your throat.
"I-I didn't know that," you tried to hide your surprise but the way your voice strained at the start was obvious to anyone. Your eyes went back and forth between him and Sarah. Finally, you could see the unmistakable similarities between them as they stood side by side.
You squatted down in front of Sarah, gazing up at her with newfound adoration. "So you're a Miller, huh?" A soft smile on your face as you stated the information that you had just learned.
"Sarah Miller," she nodded her head.
"Well, I should have asked for your last name. You looked so familiar when I saw you that time," you tilted your head as you slowly traced her face with your eyes.
"I did?" She looked up at Joel for a few seconds, and you followed her gaze. Joel was standing still, eyes darting between you and Sarah.
"I'm way prettier, though." She blurted out after turning back to you.
You involuntarily snorted, hearing her comparison with Joel. "Of course you are," you beamed at her confidence which she definitely did not inherit from her dad, "but you both have the same distracting smile."
"What does that mean?" She furrowed her brows.
"It means that you have a beautiful smile, just like your dad when he was your age." You gently poked her cheeks with your index fingers, which made her smile.
Both of you were smiling to each other when Emma reminded you to quickly take the pictures. You stood up and held your hand out at Sarah, who gladly took it to follow you, standing in front of the camera.
"Okay, what serious pose do you wanna do?"
Sarah crossed her arms without hesitation and puffed out her chest as best she could. She lifted her chin up, pursing her lips with knitted brows to seem fierce. You smirked at her actions, finding her adorable, before striking the same pose beside her.
The second one was a fun pose. She had you piggyback her, and the two of you were laughing as the photographer caught the moment. Your eyes flicked at Joel and Tommy, who were looking on behind the photographer. Joel was staring at you with a forlorn look, which you did not miss before he tensed up when he caught you looking at him.
"Good. Now, with the family." The photographer said, turning to Joel and Tommy.
The Miller brothers stepped forward to stand beside you, one on each side. Sarah was standing in front of you with your hands on her shoulders. Your heart started to beat faster as Joel came near you. He put a certain distance between you both when he stood beside you.
"Closer, please." The photographer gestured with one hand at Joel and ordered him to stand closer towards you.
Joel reluctantly took a step closer, which resulted in his arm brushing against yours. That made you stand still as you felt tingles running up your arms to your neck. Sarah turned her head slightly from the instinctive tightening grip of your hands on her shoulders. You relaxed your hands in a flash when you realised that you could have hurt her.
"One, two, three!" The photographer raised his voice slightly, and you heard the camera clicking away. He stopped and lowered the camera, not satisfied with your expression.
"You gotta smile," He portrayed his own smile, looking at you and Joel.
You turned your head to glance at Joel, and you saw him looking at you from the corner of his eyes when he noticed your movement. In an instant, you looked back at the front to see that the photographer was ready to continue taking photos. This time, you smiled without fail.
Once it was done, Sarah turned around to say goodbye. You bent down slightly with open arms, and she gladly reached around you to snuggle against your chest. With warmth enveloping your heart, you closed your eyes and rested your chin on her head, taking in the sweet moment with her.
Tommy looked at both of you with eyes representing relief. He remembered you fondly because he regarded you as his older sister. You had come over to the house often to play with him and, oftentimes, look after him when Joel was not around. Unlike his older brother, you were gentle and kind to him. He was 11 when you left, and it broke his heart that his caring older sister was moving away. He blamed Joel for it for a while and showed resentment towards him. He heard rumours about what had happened from the kids in the neighbourhood who went to the same high school as you and Joel. He didn't know the truth of it all until he was grown enough to learn about the whole story from Joel.
Tommy took a peek at Joel, who was standing beside you. He could tell that Joel had missed you too, even though he had not said it out loud for the past 12 years. He did not have to because with one look in his eyes, Tommy could feel his longing. He knew that his brother still felt guilty about what had happened, but all that he wanted was that the both of you could make up for it because he missed his family before the emotional hurricane happened.
You cleared your throat from the awkwardness after Sarah held her dad's hand again.
"So, y'all heading straight home after this?" You tried to find the courage to look at Joel, who was already staring at you but failed to do so, finding comfort in Tommy instead.
"We're going to the hospital to visit Nana," Sarah blurted out which made you snapped your head towards her with a frown on your face.
"Sarah—"Joel quickly
"Nana is in the hospital?" Your voice was high-pitched when you took in the new information. You were still frowning when you shifted your gaze to Joel.
"You don't need to worry about it." Joel tried to dismiss it, but you were obviously not satisfied with his answer.
"What happened to Nana?" You took a step closer to him, which caused him to instinctively move a step away from you.
"Nothing." He avoided looking at you and gripped Sarah's hand tighter, pulling her away to escape. You stood there, watching him leave.
Tommy hesitated to move as he witnessed what had just happened. He touched the side of your arms to lessen your worry. Then, reaching into his pocket, he took out a folded piece of paper and handed it to you.
"There's my number in there, so feel free to call anytime. You can ask me about anything, and I will try my best to answer it. I miss you, sis. It's great to see you again." Teary-eyed, Tommy opened his arms slightly, wanting to hug you after 12 long years.
You welcomed him by wrapping his neck with your arms, tip-toeing slightly from his height. His grip around you was tight as he swayed you from side to side.
"I miss you too, baby boy," you whispered in his ears, tears lingering on the edge of your eyes.
"I'm not a baby," he argued with an annoyed tone, just like when he was younger, fighting that he was just a boy and not a baby.
"You're still a baby to me." You pulled back with a tight-lipped smile, not wanting to cry, while you looked at his 24-year-old face.
Tommy let you go and returned to a mischievous look, "Call me, okay?" You nodded. "I'll see you around." He winked before jogging away to catch up with his brother and niece.
Chapters: 15/15
Fandom: The Mandalorian (TV)
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Relationships: Din Djarin/Reader, Din Djarin/You
Characters: The Armorer (The Mandalorian TV), Bo-Katan Kryze, Din Djarin, Grogu | Baby Yoda, Paz Vizsla
Additional Tags: Canon-Typical Violence, Arranged Marriage, Din Djarin Removes the Helmet, Soft Din Djarin, helmet kink, Voice Kink, Smut, Din Djarin/Reader - Freeform, Din Djarin/You - Freeform, alcohol consumption, Language, Second person POV, no use of Y/N for reader insert character, Mand’alor Din Djarin AU, Angst, Fluff, Din Djarin speaks Mando’a, Mandalorian culture and customs, Possessive Din Djarin, Virginity Loss, Semi-Public Sex, Mutual Masturbation, Masturbation, oral sex (m & f receiving), Hand Kink, Accidental Cream Pie, unprotected p in v, pulling out as birth control, Din Djarin talks you through it, Din Djarin is a panty sniffing cum-eating MUNCH and I will die on this hill
Series: Part 1 of 3 of Blood is Always Paid
Summary: Raised as a servant to your half-sister on your home planet of Nharia, you find yourself married to the king of an ancient warrior race to keep the peace between your two peoples.
About this work: This series deals with themes of familial abuse and low self-esteem/body image issues, and includes scenes/discussions of sexual harassment, misogyny, and threats of sexual violence. The FMC, Isha, is a full-realized character with thoughts, fears, and a personal history, written as a reader insert to bring YOU into the story and cast YOU in the role. She is described as being taller than the women she grew up with, and having curly/wavy hair, broad shoulders, and fat around her stomach and hips. Her skin/hair/eye colour are not specified.
Please note that this is a re-write of an earlier work of mine. Mando’a translations will be provided in the endnotes, but are sourced from here.
This work was written and edited by a human being. All the errors are my own, but so are all the good bits. If you feed any of this into AI, I will hunt you for sport. Alternate-POV Chapters will be starred.
Prologue under the cut!
Din sat at the head of a long, low table. The other furniture had been pushed aside, and that left him and his council seated in the middle of the empty dining hall. They were meeting here instead of the main hall as they did usually at his insistance; he had no interest in discussing tonight's subject out in the open. The dining room, with it's dark walls and low ceiling, was a more private setting, and he felt it was more appropriate, though it did not put him at ease. The doors at either end of the hall; leading to kitchens and dormatories and up into the main hall; had been locked. No interuptions could be permitted in a meeting this serious. In truth, a part of Din prayed that someone, anyone, would break protocol and appear and bring dicussions to a halt. He stared through his visor, willing any of the doors open, but no one appeared to rescue him.
Din glanced between where Paz Vizsla and Bo-Katan Kryze were arguing with each other, but he was barely listening. To his left sat Vizsla, with his broad, roughly-painted blue armour. Din would not have him here if there had been any other choice… but Vizsla had recommended himself as a council member based on clan and blood, and in payment of the debt Din owed him. Accepting had kept the peace temporarily. Now, he was starting to think he would come to regret that. On Din's right, Bo-Katan had removed her helmet and set it down on the table in front of her, facing out towards the rest of the council. She always removed it at meetings.
On the table between Bo-Katan and Vizsla lay a dozen open messages. They'd come in waves since they'd returned from Mandalore and settlement on Kalevala, each offering 'tribute' in the form of the hands-in-marriage of more than a dozen men and women, all of royal blood. As Din's eyes flicked between the messages; none addressed to him, all directed only to 'The Mand'alor'; the arguing around him got louder. He sighed heavily, but was ignored. It always went this way. Bo-Katan and Vizsla's opposing views and the constant friction between them did not make for smooth discussions.
“If we want to rebuild, we need resources; it doesn’t have to mean anything,” Bo-Katan insisted hotly, and Vizsla shook his head.
“It’s too much of a risk. And he can’t handle this kind of distraction right now,” Vizsla protested.
Bo-Katan turned to address Din. "It's exactly like any other political marriage."
She'd been pushing this for months, a last ditch attempt to raise the funds needed to buy the kind of equipment that could excavate the bombed-out cities on Mandalore and make them liveable again. An expensive goal. But the conversation turned his stomach. “I… I can't.”
“Glad we agree on something,” Vizsla laughed through his helmet, and then gestured rudely to Bo-Katan, before crossing his arms in triumph. There was a time Din had hoped that they would balance each other out. It wasn't working out that way.
“The proposals will keep coming," Bo-Katan pressed, and then grabbed the letter on the top of the pile. It had arrived only hours before, and was the main reason for this hurried discussion of Din's private life. "This is the best offer we're going to get. Nharia is offering money, and they can supply these."
She pointed to diagrams she'd laid out on the table, all of which had been folded and neatly presented with the letter. Some of it looked like mining equiptment, but the make and model were unfamilair.
"Their entire road network is underground. They know exactly what we've been trying to do on Mandalore, and they know it hasn't been working. They want to help." She'd been working on this arguement all night. "They're offering other supplies, too: medicine, food, fuel. All of which we need," Bo-Katan reminded him forcefully and then looked where the Armourer sat silently on the other end of the table. “There's nothing unusual about strengthening an alliance with a marriage. Tal’riduure are a tradition.”
Din could feel the irritation radiating off of Vizsla to hear Bo-Katan discuss tradition, but he eventually turned his head too, waiting for anything the Armourer might be able to offer on the subject. He wanted the same, and so all three of them watched as she paused to consider what Bo-Katan had said, and then nodded slowly.
“Many of the great Generals of our history, including several of those who have carried the Darksaber and called themselves Mand’alor, accepted the sons and daughters of conquered planets as spouses or concubines,” she said softly, her visor directed at where Din was sitting. “But to do so is not an obligation of the title.”
“I’m not trying to convince you to take a dozen concubines, Din,” Bo-Katan said, leaning in and speaking quietly. “I am suggesting that you accept this one offer for a wife, and the resources that come with it. With her.” She corrected herself quickly, but Din flinched anyway.
“Djarin couldn’t handle more than one; he’s half-dead anyway,” Vizsla taunted, under his breath but loud enough to be audible to everyone present.
Din balled his hand into a fist. Frustration simmered, raw energy that made him desperate to prove just how much damage he could do while he was 'half-dead', seeking one more fight that might shut Vizsla up once and for all. Instead, he cleared his throat and addressed the Armourer, ignoring the others.
“What do you advise?”
“I think,” the Armourer said slowly, “that you should not walk this path alone. The temptation a leader faces to isolate themselves for the sake of impartiality is strong, and you must resist it. Mandalorians need community. And you will need support from a partner as we rebuild.”
“I have all of you for support,” Din tried to argue. "What advice could a wife offer that I couldn't hear from you? Isn't that the point of having a council?"
“We advise you on how to be a leader, and a king,” the Armourer reminded him. “A partner would advise you on how to remain a man.” She spoke gently, and Din wondered if she felt bad for putting him in this position. If she did, she gave no other indication of it.
Still, the idea of taking vows with a stanger made his stomach churn. Din sighed. “A tal’riduur is a hostage. It would be cruel.”
“All of these women are royal. If it's not you, it'll be someone else. That is part of the duty of someone in your position, and in theirs. Look,” Bo-Katan continued, waving the letter in his face, “Nharia isn’t far; you’re not ripping her away from everything she knows. She’s been educated in Mandalorian customs and language her whole life. She will understand,” Bo-Katan insisted gently. “You won't have to justify your choice to wear your helmet all the time.”
Vizsla sat up straighter. Din felt his empty stomach roll over again. His redemption had been much discussed in this room already, but this felt somehow more dangerous, because he already knew that whatever choice he made would leave someone disappointed. He couldn't imagine trying to explain all of this to a stranger. Bo-Katan seemed to assume he'd never remove it again, even if given the choice. Just one of a dozen other terrifying things he was being forced to consider.
“Would you still wear your helmet with your wife?” Vizsla butted in abruptly.
“I shouldn’t have to think about this," Din forced his answer out through gritted teeth as Bo-Katan turned to the Armourer.
“Well, the Creed doesn't forbid it, but would you allow him to remove it with his wife?”
“It is not a matter of what I would allow,” the Armourer said calmly; she was the only one still speaking to Din. “By Creed, it is not forbidden for spouses to look upon one another's faces, and so the choice must fall to you.”
“She’d always be an outsider. For all we know, Nharia collaborated with the Empire to destroy us. You're not asking him to marry a stranger, you're asking him to marry an enemy." Vizsla finally sounded like he was taking this conversation seriously. "Besides. Even if she isn't Imperial, blood tributes come from cowardice; she’d be forbidden from taking the Creed. You can bring here here and make all the vows you want, but she'll never belong here. She'll be miserable.”
“We also decimated their planet 400 years ago! But rather than hide, they've offered allyship and help while we rebuild," Bo-Katan spat. "This is a peace offering. And I believe there is bravery in leaving one’s home to marry a stranger."
“The child alone at night is brave in the dark, does that make him a warrior?” Vizsla grunted back.
“Shut up, both of you,” Din snapped through his helmet, irritated by their pointless philosophy. The arguing that usually felt like a mild irritation now felt like an urgent waste of time. “This isn't a debate about bravery. I am trying to tell you that I—“
“I've changed my mind," Vizsla interupted. "They might have a point."
Din ignored the way the hairs on the back of his neck stood up; Vizsla never agreed with anyone in this room unless he saw a chance to undermine Din's position in some way “Why?”
“Because you sit at the head of the table, and you bear the highest honour among our people, and yet you’re still in a sour mood.” Vizsla gestured to where Din sat, stiff and uncomfortable in his seat. “Maybe if you had something warm to stick your cock in, you’d be less disagreeable.”
Din's hand flinched. So much for a him taking the debate seriously.“We’re talking about a sacred union— a political contract, not a cheap fuck,” Din growled. Vizsla only shrugged.
“You're right, it won't be cheap; they’re all ready to pay you a lot of credits to take a daughter off their hands.” Vizsla spoke slowly, like he was trying to spell it all out for Din.
“And that’s why it’s a good idea,” Bo-Katan interjected again, although she looked unhappy to be agreeing with Vizsla, who was stil chuckling to himself.
“Are you worried they’ll send an ugly one, Djarin? Don't worry, those aruetii women all look the same from the back.”
“Watch your mouth, Vizsla." Bo-Katan pulled her knife and plunged it into the table in one fluid motion. "Act like a dog, and I'll treat you like one."
“Enough.” The Armourer raised her hand, and they both fell silent. Bo-Katan still was looking at Vizsla with disgust, but she too eventually returned her attention to the Armourer. “Din Djarin. We cannot make this choice for you. If you wish to accept this offer, I will go to Nharia and claim her, but you must decide.”
Din looked down at the letter, printed in neat, sharp Mando’a text on thick paper. He'd read it a few times already, and now Bo-Katan was holding it out to him like she was trying to tempt him with it. The lengthly, exceedingly detailed proposal made it all seem simple: Millions of credits and resources they desperately needed promised, in exchange for one marriage, to be delivered upon consumation.
The letter outlined everything the planet could offer, and yet not once did it mentioned a single thing about the woman they were proposing he marry, not even a name. The other offers included pictures and portraits, videos of beautiful, regal men and women introducing themselves and pleading to be chosen, but the Nharian offer had quickly become Bo-Katan's top choice: it was a straightforward contract that just happened include a condition of marriage to one of their princesses. Din had never seen a message on paper before. He did not want to do it, but he couldn't think of another alternative with everyone watching and waiting for his answer. If all of them agreed, then he had no real choice in the matter.
“Fine.”
Din held out his hand for the paper and practically ripped the pen out of Bo-Katan's hand to scribble his intials on the bottom. He'd never signed anything, either. It felt very final. With the contract sealed, the Armourer nodded and stood, abruptly signalling the end of the meeting.
“Very well. Nharia is not far. I will go there, and you will swear the riduurok as soon as I return tomorrow. There will be a meal together after, to celebrate.” She bowed her head. "This is The Way."
"This is The Way," Din echoed. He needed to say it for himself, as much as they needed to hear him complying with these orders. The Armourer left the room quickly, and Vizsla feigned a loud yawn as he stretched and got to his feet.
“It won’t be so bad Djarin, maybe you’ll get lucky, and she’ll be cute,” Vizsla taunted. Din ignored him as he left, and when they were alone, Bo-Katan finally yanked her knife out of the table.
“It’s the right choice,” she insisted, and Din shook his head.
“It's not her choice.” Din stared Bo-Katan down and gestured to the letter with his signature, and saw her wince.
"It will be fine."
"She'll be a hostage."
"She'll be safe," Bo-Katan corrected sharply. Din did not have her confidence. He did have an idea.
“Keep an eye on her when she arrives,” he suggested. Bo-Katan raised an eyebrow.
“Why?“
"It will be my duty to protect her. I can't do that properly if she doesn't trust me. And she won't." Din let his words sink in and knew from the look on Bo-Katan’s face that she finally understood. No matter what this poor woman had been taught about Mandalorian life, she would fear him, not trust him. "Please. I need your help with this."
Bo-Katan’s face softened, and she nodded. “Fine. What can I do?”
“Look out for her. Keep her safe when I can’t. Keep her out of his path,” Din continued, gesturing to Vizsla’s vacant seat. “Because I don’t trust him.”
“Vizsla has his honour, he would never—“
“It doesn’t matter,” Din cut her off forcefully. “Best case scenario, he says something awful and it terrifies her." He stared hard through his helmet until Bo-Katan gave in.
“Fine,” she relented. “You're right. You have my word, I’ll watch out for her when she gets here, and I’ll happily castrate Vizsla if I need to.”
Din sighed and let himself smile weakly under his helmet. She meant every word, and though it should probably worry him to know his council memebers loathed each other like that, it was a comfort for now. It was nice to be on the same side as her, for once. Bo-Katan had followed him so far, but made it clear that she thought he was untrained and unprepared as a leader, though she did not appreciate it when he agreed with her.
Din waited impatiently in the main hall, pacing absently back and forth at the foot of the dais which held a massive, austere throne, carved from the same greyish stone as the rest of the room. Outside, a rare moment of sunshine passed overhead. It should have been a hopeful sign, perhaps, but the stark light that poured throught coloured-glass windows made the room look even more empty to Din. He heard a familiar set of footsteps approaching, and prepared himself for the worst.
“They’re on their way,” Bo-Katan dutifully reported to him, thumbing behind her at the heavy doors that cut the main hall off from the rest of the world. “Armourer didn’t say how far, but it won't be long now.”
She delivered the news gently. Din clenched and unclenched his hands slowly. He should consider what to say; he'd need to introduce himself, but… he felt his heart skip.
"Bo-Katan, did you—" he stopped suddenly and turned to face her. "Did you ask her name?"
Her eyes widened for a moment, and then she shook her head and sighed. "Dammit. No… I didn't even think," she muttered under her breath, and she at least sounded as ashamed as Din felt.
"I didn't think to ask, either," Din murmured, but he felt dizzy. He didn’t have it in him to offer anything else. He knew that if he opened his mouth to speak again, his voice would shake and betray his anxiety. Bo-Katan eyed him like she was trying to read his mind behind his helmet.
“The Armourer called her pretty.”
Din could not even pretend to be interested, thought selfishly, he wondered for a moment what the Armourer considered pretty. She'd reported that, but not the woman's name? It was a humiliating error. It should have been the first thing any of them had asked.
“I’ll keep an eye on her, I promise,” Bo-Katan repeated, trying half-heartedly to reassure him. “Will you meet her at the dock?”
“I don’t— I guess I…“ Din faltered. He should just admit his mistake, but there was no way he could recover from something like that. “I’ll just… wait. Here.”
Bo-Katan nodded, both of them watching the closed doors as she shot him a sideways glance. “I could go out and meet her.”
Din breathed a sigh of relief. “Yes. Thank you,” he added. He felt his margin for error in this was impossibly small, and he was terrified that no matter what he did, he would end up failing either his people, or this poor woman who was about to be bound to him forever.
“What will you do tonight?” Bo-Katan was sitting stiffly next to him, pointedly not looking in his direction. “We both read the marriage contract. You know what’s expected of you.”
Din said nothing. He had spent all night thinking through scenarios, every possible version of meeting this strange woman and taking her to bed, trying to find one that didn't make him feel absolutely sick to his stomach. He'd failed. Whether he removed his helmet or not, the whole situation was perverse.
“You won’t have much of a choice." Bo-Katan said softly. "They’re holding the dowry, the supplies, everything until it’s consummated. We get nothing until you—"
“I know,” Din finally snapped, cutting her off. “I’m aware of what's at stake. That doesn't make it any easier."
“Have you decided about your helmet?”
“I'll be a stranger anyway. I'm not sure it matters.” Din hung his head and sighed. Out of the corner of his vision, Bo-Katan inched a little closer, studying him.
“It's a difficult choice."
Din shook his head, gazing hard down the hall at the doors. Could she possibly understand, as someone who showed her face so easily. The Armourer would tell him that only he could decide. Vizsla would probably just make an obscene remark. “What do you think I should do?"
Bo-Katan narrowed her eyes at him slightly, but once she judged his question to be sincere, she considered it seriously, and paused for a long time before she answered. “On the one hand, it would be polite to let her see you. On the other hand,” she continued, looking him up and down, “I know it’s complicated, for someone in your position."
Din snorted at her non-answer. “I'd love for just one part of all this to be easy."
Bo-Katan smiled sadly at him, and a second later, he heard the heavy, rumbling sound of a ship’s engines outside. “Be gentle. Be kind." She pulled her helmet on as he nodded. She was right, though some would hate for him to admit that he had any soft side.
She’s beautiful.
He was disgusted with himself for thinking that. He hated that his first thought when he laid eyes on the woman who would be his wife and hostage was that she was beautiful. That for just a moment, something primal took over, and he wanted to touch her. Her hips swayed slightly as she moved towards him, and she did not look away from where he stood at the end of the hall, her veiled head held high and proud. But her expression was frozen, and the force of her gaze seemed capable of penetrating his armour. He felt his face growing warm and was grateful that she couldn’t see him blush.
She was afraid. He saw her heart racing and her hands shaking. Her eyes passed over him nervously and she looked everywhere else but at him as she stopped. He knelt with her when commanded, and he leaned over and ask her name, but no sound came out when he opened his mouth. Then the Armourer ordered that be begin the vows, and he lost his chance. He knelt with his head hung in shame.
tumblr just added an update that requires you to verify your age in order to view "mature content". I'm not sure how they do the verification (haven't yet checked), but given recent similar updates from things like Discord, it most likely involves sending them a photo of either your face or your ID.
In addition, over the past few months, and also years in the long-term, tumblr has been incorrectly marking things as mature content. These include:
Notifications about missing persons and requests for help
Posts about youth liberation
Posts about sex education
Posts about how the mature content is poorly implemented
Posts about being trans, more specifically about trans women and transmisogyny by both tumblr and users on tumblr
Non-sexual selfies by trans women/transfems
Trans womens'/transefems' ENTIRE BLOGS even if the blog contains no sexual content
Reblogs made by various blogs, mostly trans women, which add no additional content but somehow are marked as containing mature content, when the original post is not
Posts talking about racism and antiblackness both on and off tumblr
Posts by black people, especially black trans people, that are non-sexual
And likely many more I haven't seen
In essence, this update has mandated that a majority of users must either a) submit their personal information to tumblr, a website whose moderation has been EXTREMELY biased against marginalised people and who I would not trust with my ID, or b) be excluded from absolutely all conversations tumblr decides are "mature content", whether they are actually sexual in nature or not. Furthermore, anyone not over 18 will also not be allowed to take part in these conversations, or even see them, or interact with many trans women or people of colour on this site, as tumblr decides.
This update is complete bullshit designed to censor and exclude marginalised people, poorly hidden under a guise of "protecting teenagers from sexual content", and they know it.
The boyfriend act, part 32: "The one where time passes, part two"
Pairing: Frankie Morales x F!reader
SERIES MASTERLIST
Buy me a coffee - Ko-fi
Chapter summary: Frankie’s return to Austin comes with its share of surprises and a few things that don’t quite add up. Somewhere out there, you’re making choices of your own. Or maybe not. Maybe they’re the ones making you. wc: 16k
A/N: I don't know why but tumblr didn't let me post this ugghhhh! Hope you enjoy this one. I know it was a long wait, so thank you for waiting! Please let me know what you think, your feedback is really important to me <3 love u and thank you for reading aaaaa 💕Don't forget to follow capuccinodollupdates for notifications!
Tuesday, September 15th
The faint press of tiny paws pacing up and down his chest dragged Frankie out of sleep, but he kept his eyes shut. Sunlight bled through his eyelids. Morning already; time had slipped past so fast he could’ve sworn he hadn’t slept at all.
Down the hall he heard footsteps. His mom’s voice floated in followed by a soft laugh as she headed downstairs. On the phone, of course; louder than necessary, that distinct cadence he could pick out anywhere.
He exhaled, rubbing at his eyes without opening them. Bingley kept kneading his chest, purring low and insistent, just like the same routine every morning when he wanted Frankie up. And if Frankie weren’t so damn hungry, he might’ve ignored him a while longer.
He’d gotten back to Austin yesterday on a short flight with Jamie and Bingley while Luna handled things in Boston. Mai and Benny picked them up at the airport.
The drive home was anything but quiet. Benny had the music up, talking nonstop about everything that had happened while Frankie was gone. He was careful, though, not to step into anything too personal or hard.
“Let’s grab something to eat tonight,” he had said when they pulled up to Helena’s place, hauling bags out of the trunk. “I’ll call the guys.”
Frankie’s stomach had dropped at that.
“Actually, I’m wiped. And Luna’ll be here in a few hours, so…”
“Oh, okay. Another time, then.”
He’d had to bite his tongue to keep from asking about you. For some reason, that felt like the one question he couldn’t afford to ask.
They unpacked as best they could, had dinner with Helena and Mai, and not long after, he and Jamie turned in.
Rough night. Frankie felt like he hadn’t slept at all. But he had to have, at least a little. His eyes burned and when he finally cracked them open, the light hit harder than it should’ve.
“What’re you doing?” he murmured, running a hand over Bingley, who’d settled on his chest like a loaf of bread. “You hungry? Want something to eat?”
Careful not to jostle him too much, Frankie pushed himself up and set the cat on the floor. Bingley immediately wove around his legs while Frankie fumbled around for something to put on his feet.
His room hadn’t changed. Posters still pinned to the walls, books and DVDs stacked on the shelves, framed photos lined up on the nightstand, and even the notebook he used as a sort of journal (not that he’d ever call it that) was still tucked beneath a pile of clothes in the bottom drawer. Helena had a way of keeping everything exactly the same while somehow keeping it clean and tidy.
Still carrying the weight of sleep (even after splashing his face with cold water multiple times) Frankie made his way downstairs, watching Bingley race ahead.
So dramatic and starving, apparently. Which was ridiculous. The cat was always well fed. Didn’t stop him from acting like he hadn’t eaten in days.
Yawning, Frankie shuffled into the kitchen and reached for the cat food. Helena was still on the phone, but she passed by long enough to give his back a quick rub before stepping away to finish the call.
“There you go,” he muttered, tipping a generous amount of kibble into Bingley’s bowl. The cat buried his nose in it the second Frankie pulled his hand back.
Outside the window, the morning was bright; early fall, soft and golden, quietly taking hold of every leaf in the yard. Out there, Bambi was sprawled beneath the wide canopy of a laurel tree, letting the sun warm her back.
This would be hard on her too. A different house, a different yard, a different stretch of grass to curl up on. Losing Henry had already hit Bambi in ways no one could understand. Frankie had caught her more than once lying at the foot of the couch where Henry used to sit for his naps. She’d settle there, really quiet, and sometimes let out the softest whine, he could almost mistake it for a snore.
She hadn’t been the same since he passed. And now this; another move, another shift. It was bound to shake her all over again.
He’d have to take her out more. Longer walks. Drive her out to the water. Help her get used to the neighborhood, the city. She was a really good dog.
Frankie yawned again. The clock on top of the fridge read 7:40 a.m. and he felt that unpleasant mix of hunger and nausea. He used to wake up like this all the time as a kid; queasy, stubborn, hating the way his parents insisted on breakfast. He usually wasn’t hungry this early, but they’d always said it was good for him. Never made sense to him. Coffee and a piece of toast would do just fine.
He poured the hot coffee into his favorite mug here, a blue one with a yellow rubber duck on it, and slid a slice of bread into the toaster. But the second that faint burnt smell started creeping out, his stomach turned again.
“What are you having?” Helena appeared in the doorway, crossing the room. Her hand settled on his forearm. “Morning. Sleep okay?”
“Not really.”
“Want me to make you something? Eggs?”
“I’m not that hungry. Thanks, though.”
“Oh, alright.” She stepped closer, her hand sliding up to the back of Frankie’s neck. “I’m just so glad you’re here. I really think this is for the best.”
Frankie gave her a small smile and a quick glance.
“Me too.”
“So, what are you doing today?” She grabbed a clean mug from the cabinet. “Going to see anyone?”
“I don’t know. There’s a few things to take care of here, and—”
“We’ve got it covered. It’s not enough to need more than the two of us, and the rest of the move won’t be here for a few hours.” She paused. “Does Santiago know you’re back?”
“Yeah.”
“And? The others?”
“They know too.”
Helena lifted a hand. “You know what? You should do something tonight. Get out, clear your head, have a little fun. Actually—” she stepped closer again, “I was thinking… maybe you could go see her?”
“Who?” he was playing dumb.
Helena raised both brows. Frankie let out a quiet breath. A beat passed.
“I just got here. And I’m not even sure she wants to see me.”
“And what happens if you try?”
“Mom,” he stepped back, the smell of burnt toast getting stronger by the second. “Seriously, it’s my first day back, alright? Just… let me settle in.”
“Okay, okay,” she raised both hands. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Forgive me for wanting my son to be happy. Your toast is burning!”
Hours later
Being back in Austin felt… strangely good.
Running out to the grocery store just for coffee and cookies. Stopping by the pet shop to buy Bingley a new bed, even though it was pretty obvious his favorite spot would still be Frankie’s bed. He found himself noticing all the tiny changes around the city, like that corner that used to be a bar now turned into a café, little shifts like that; they made it clear how much time had passed, even if it had only been a few months. Everything had kept moving without him. The city didn’t feel quite the same.
He’d missed his car, too. It had been sitting at his mother’s place all this time, only used here and there by Helena. He’d missed the seat, the feel of the wheel in his hands, the leather scent and even the cheap little air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror. Driving it again just felt good.
As he drove, the traffic light ahead pulled at something in his chest. He couldn’t ignore it. It turned red, and Frankie’s gaze drifted to the sidewalk across the street.
In the daylight, it looked like nothing. Just another corner. But at night, months ago, maybe a year, you’d stepped out of his car right there, furious, slamming the door after one of your many fights.
"You have no idea how I feel," you snapped, your voice trembling. He could remember it so clearly. "And why do you even care? It doesn't matter. None of this fucking matters."
Frankie shook his head. "I know how you feel. That's why I'm trying—"
"Trying what?" You stepped closer. "To fix it? You can't. I don't need anything from you. I don't need you pity, your useless advice. I know how this works. I know how people work. I'm good enough until the real thing comes along. That's all I've ever been."
“That’s not true.”
“Yes, it is, Francisco. Because I’m always missing something. Because there’s always something I don’t have. And I know, I know that’s just life, that’s how it is, someone always gets left behind, someone always gets hurt. But why does it always have to be me? Why do I always have to be the one to accept things as they are? Why am I the one who has to be mature, move on, be fine?”
Frankie exhaled. “You’re letting this define you.”
“I’m letting this define me?”
“It doesn’t mean anything,” he insisted. “He wasn’t for you—”
“It does mean something.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“Yes, it does! And you have no idea what you’re talking about. You don’t know me, you don’t know anything about me or what I feel or what—” Your voice broke. “You don’t know anything.”
Frankie’s gaze stayed steady. “You’re just... numb. You think no one’s ever going to choose you because you’re in a bad place right now—”
“Shut up.” Your hands pressed against his chest again, lighter this time.
“I understand. I do—”
“Shut up.”
“Somebody’s going to!”
"Or maybe not!"
Frankie let out a breath that was almost a laugh, but there was nothing amused about it. He glanced to the side, then back at you, his jaw tight, frustration bleeding into his entire body.
"Okay," he said. "So what, then? You gonna spend the rest of your life wallowing? Feeling sorry for yourself forever?"
"You must have a lot of experience with that sort of thing, don't you? Feeling bad about yourself, drowning in your own misery. Being a complete fucking loser."
Frankie didn’t flinch. Didn’t so much as blink.
"Yeah," he said simply, like he was stating an obvious fact. He was. He was waiting for more, he could take whatever else you threw at him. He wanted you to.
Frankie’s chest tightened at the memory. Because he remembered all, all of it; the strain in your voice, the shine in your eyes, how impossible the two of you had been. He remembered the sting of your words landing where they knew they would hurt, and how hard he’d worked not to turn the car around and go after you once he drove off that night.
Even with that ache sitting heavy in his chest, he’d wanted to. Wanted to walk those three blocks to your place and apologize for how harsh he’d been that night. You had been too, maybe more than necessary, but those blows, all of them, had forced something to grow between you. Painful at first, so good later.
Three blocks. That was all that stood between you now. And if you weren’t home, you’d be at the bookstore. It was early, so you were probably working. Coffee in hand, like always at this hour. Ten in the morning; perfect time for a second breakfast.
Frankie drove on, his hands and feet on autopilot, and the scenery moved at his side until the park came into view, and a few meters later, a familiar facade. He stopped there, feeling his heart lodged somewhere in his throat.
Bill’s café was packed. From his seat, he could see the tables, the little plates scattered across them, but there were too many people inside to pick out a familiar face.
Oh, God. The urge to throw up hit him hard. His stomach twisted, nerves coiling tight, and he had to look away.
His fingers drummed against the steering wheel, off-beat and restless. He clenched his jaw so hard it clicked.
Fuck, what the hell was he doing? Be a fucking man!
He nudged the car forward, just a few meters, until he found an empty spot a short distance from your place. The second he killed the engine, the silence pressed in on him so loud it made his head spin. He tried to swallow; couldn’t. His throat had locked up.
Come on. What’s the worst that could happen? You tell him to fuck off?
He’d take it. He’d stand there and take it if that’s what it came to. You could tell him to fuck off as many times as you wanted. He’d let you. Gladly.
Drawing in a deep breath and holding it, Frankie shoved the door open and stepped out without even checking the street. A car could’ve come flying up behind him and sent him airborne, and he wouldn’t have noticed.
His head was buzzing with nerves; his brain completely short circuiting.
The second he caught sight of your front door, his heart stalled completely. Being here again felt unreal, too close to everything. To you. To Darcy. And right next to it, the bookstore stood open, exactly like he knew it would be.
Your place or the bookstore? Which door was he supposed to knock on?
Well. The obvious one.
Vandspell Books. The sign stretched above the entrance in elegant blue lettering he’d read a hundred times over. Frankie squeezed his eyes shut for a second, then moved. His hand wrapped around the handle, and with a steady push, he stepped inside.
Okay. The counter was empty. But the place wasn’t. Music drifted through the air really low; Streets of Philadelphia, Springsteen. Two people browsed through the universal literature section and a girl, no older than thirteen, had her head buried deep in the young adult shelves.
Frankie let out a shaky breath as his eyes swept over every corner and his lungs filled with that delicious mix of paper and coffee. Too many thoughts crowded in at once, impossible to hold onto just one. What was he going to do? What was he going to say? How the hell was he supposed to say it?
Before he could overthink it any further, he reached out and tapped the little bell on the counter, resting his hand against the wood as his body started to feel heavier by the second.
The door behind the counter creaked open. Frankie caught sight of a hand first, then he straightened abruptly and—
“Emma.”
She froze in the doorway, a half formed smile on her lips while her eyes widened just a touch. Like she’d seen a ghost and didn’t mind it one bit.
“Frankie?” She stepped forward, rounded the counter and pulled him into a quick hug that barely lasted two seconds. “What are you doing here? When did you get back?”
“Yesterday.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yeah.” He nodded, a little too fast. His gaze kept flicking from Emma’s face to the door behind the counter. Were you back there? Hiding, or—
“Wow. Will told me you were thinking about coming back, but I didn’t think it’d be this soon.”
“Uh, it was kind of a last minute thing.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.” Frankie nodded, his gaze slipping past her shoulder for a second. “Yeah. Um… is she—” He hesitated, then forced himself to meet Emma’s eyes. “Can I talk to her? Is she here? It’ll just take a minute.”
“What?” Emma frowned.
“I know I probably don’t deserve it, but…” he shook his head, jaw tightening, “just a minute.”
Emma’s expression softened, her brows easing as she wet her lips.
“Frankie… she’s not here.”
He swallowed. “Oh. When will she be back?”
“No. I mean, she’s not here. Not in Austin.”
“What?”
“She moved to New York.”
The words hit fast, so fast it felt like all the blood drained straight to his feet, leaving him cold, still and hollow. His stomach twisted into a tight knot just as his throat right after.
Heat rushed to his face. “What? When?”
“A couple weeks ago.” Emma shrugged lightly. “July.”
“That’s—that’s, um—”
“You okay?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine,” he nodded quickly, already taking a step back. “You know when she’ll be back?”
“I’m not really sure. It was supposed to be temporary at first, but then a few things changed and—”
“Oh. Right.”
“I’m sorry. I thought you knew.”
A ghost of a smile pulled at Frankie’s mouth.
“No. I didn’t. It’s okay.”
“You want me to tell her anything?”
Shaking his head, Frankie put a little more distance between them, like space alone could hold him together.
“No, it’s fine. Please don’t tell her I came by.”
Before she could answer, if she even did, he turned and pushed the door open just as fast as he had walked in.
He didn’t hear the door shut because his feet were already dragging him back to the car, clumsy and fast and off-beat. He yanked the handle, fumbled it, had to try again. Stupid feet. Stupid hands.
He dropped into the seat and turned the engine over. His eyes swept the street; it was empty. No traffic now, so he pulled out fast. And the apartment beside him sat empty; you weren’t there.
New York. You were in New York. You’d been there for weeks, which meant he’d been just a few hours away from you this whole time and never knew. One drive, one aimless walk, and maybe, just maybe, he would’ve run into you.
Not likely, though. New York’s too big for that kind of luck.
And Emma wasn’t even sure you were coming back. What the hell did that mean? Did it mean exactly what it sounded like? That maybe, just maybe, you weren’t planning on coming back to Austin anytime soon? Or ever?
Still, New York was a city that could swallow you whole. Frankie knew that much. You could build an entirely different life there. And yeah, there was a flicker of surprise at the thought of you doing exactly that. Just a flicker, buried under the bitterness starting to burn through his chest. Because there was something in that decision, a kind of fearlessness, you hadn’t had a year ago. And he felt it, clear as anything.
You used to hate flying. Hated the feeling of being suspended in the air for hours. You told him that once, long before you ever jumped out of a plane. You didn’t like being trapped inside a metal and plastic beast, but you loved the window seat; the bright, honeyed sunrise, and the way dusk turned everything pink before slipping behind the shape of whatever city lay below.
Crowds weren’t your thing either, and Frankie couldn’t help but wonder how you were handling a city that thrived on them. New York, packed wall to wall with people. Did you take the subway? Did the strangers you brushed past unsettle you, or did they amuse you? Did you still scrub your hands clean after touching railings and seats, the way you used to after touching just about anything?
What were you wearing now? Had your style changed? Your hair, was it still the same? Did you still write in that journal? Was there a new list, maybe, of things you wanted to do? A different one, meant for someone braver than you used to be.
Did you have friends? People to talk to? Someone new... Someone to love?
Oh.
Frankie felt sick.
His hands tightened around the wheel as he drove, mind racing miles ahead, building theories about you he had no business building. It was pointless, really. Because there was a version of you he didn’t know anymore. Just like you didn’t know about the new scars on his face, the glasses resting on his nose, or the way he’d taken to biking for hours or walking anywhere just to keep moving... there were things about you he’d missed, too. And he couldn’t stop thinking about all of them.
Frankie bit the inside of his cheek and a deep heavy sigh dragged through his chest.
Now that you were gone, what chance did he even have?
By the time he pulled up to Will’s place, it hadn’t been a decision so much as instinct. His body had taken him there on its own. The obvious choice, if he wanted answers to questions he wasn’t about to ask Emma. Easy.
He stepped out of the car, shut the door a little harder than he meant to, and made his way up to the porch; three steps, quick. His fist hit the door seven times. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. He coughed under his breath, covering his mouth with his knuckles.
“In a minute!”
Will’s voice carried from somewhere deep inside the house and the second Frankie heard it, something warm and sudden settled in his chest. He’d missed him. More than he’d realized.
He’d texted him the second Benny left the house the day before. Will, just like his brother, had wanted to throw some kind of dinner together to celebrate Frankie being back, but he’d given him the same answer: He was exhausted, had a few things to take care of first. Will respected that and promised no surprise plans.
Now Frankie glanced down at his shoes and realized he was wearing mismatched socks. Black jeans, straight at the ankle; no hiding it. One black. One red.
“Fish.” Will swung the door open, eyes going wide, grin even wider. “C’mere!”
He pulled him in without warning, wrapping him up in a tight, tight hug. Frankie returned it, arms sliding around his back, a smile breaking through before he could stop it. For a second, the tight knot in his chest eased, just a little.
Will’s hands pressed firm against his back, giving him a couple of rough pats, even shaking him once.
“Sorry, I’m a mess,” he said, pulling back but keeping a hand on Frankie’s shoulder. “I fucking missed you. Jesus. Was out back. C’mon, get in.”
He ushered him inside and kicked the door shut behind them.
“Those glasses,” Will added, pointing at him. “Look good on you. Real intellectual vibe.”
Frankie laughed. “An intellectual? I look more like SpongeBob.”
“Hey, none of that,” Will shot back. “We’re not doing the self drag thing anymore, alright?”
Frankie huffed out another laugh and followed him out back in pure silence.
A wide stretch of concrete spread out under a solid roof, and parked right in the middle was a bright red Pontiac, clearly mid surgery, courtesy of Will. Both doors were open, and the scent of leather polish was delicious and strong in the air.
“Damn. And what’s this beauty?” Frankie dipped down, leaning into the car. The interior was in near perfect shape, just a few worn spots on the driver’s seat, nothing you wouldn’t expect from something that old. A Firebird Trans Am.
“Picked it up months ago. Benny and I,” Will said. “You like it?”
“Like it? What you think?” Frankie scoffed softly. “Feels like a toy. It’s unreal.”
“Yeah, guy had a whole garage full of cars just sitting there, going to waste. He passed, and his kid’s not really into old stuff, so…”
Frankie let out a low whistle, running his hand over the steering wheel, eyes taking in every inch of the dash. Then, through the windshield, he spotted another car a few meters ahead.
Parked in front of the Pontiac and hidden under a white cover cinched tight along the sides, the shape alone was enough to catch his attention, along with the sliver of wheels peeking out from underneath.
Careful, he climbed out and stepped closer. Behind him, Will wiped his hands on a rag that looked dirtier than he was, doing more harm than good.
Frankie didn’t care. He reached out, lifted the cover just enough to reveal a flash of glossy black paint, the front end gleaming underneath.
“Shit, what about this one? Is it yours too? Jesus, it’s gorgeous,” he said, peeling back more and more of the cover, his brain short-circuiting at the sight of it.
The Mustang Coupé was flawless; every angle, every detail. Exterior, interior, all of it. Frankie pulled the door open and leaned inside, taking it in with careful attention. The seats were unreal, preserved like time had skipped right over them. The dash was perfect, every control intact, the center console between the seats just as pristine.
He pulled back out and looked at Will, who stood behind him, still holding that rag in his hands.
“How much you want for it?”
Will smiled. “Not for sale.”
“I’m serious. Name a price.”
“Sorry,” he shrugged. “Not my car.”
“Benny’s?”
Will shook his head. “Nope. Not his either. But the owner likes strawberries. There’s a keychain hanging from the rearview mirror.”
Frankie frowned, confused, and slowly leaned back into the car. Just like Will said, the keychain dangled there; but it was flipped over, half hidden behind a pine shaped air freshener. He reached up, turned it between his fingers—
Two strawberries, hanging from thin strands of red, white, and pink beads catching the light.
In one quick motion, Frankie pulled himself out of the car and looked at his friend.
“Is it hers?”
“Yeah.”
“She’s driving again?”
“Yep. Picked it up a few weeks ago. Two grand, can you believe that?”
“You’re kidding me.”
“Nope,” Will laughed. “Same guy who sold me the Pontiac. He’s got a few more sitting in that garage. It’s insane.”
“It is, huh.” Frankie rested his hands on his hips, eyes fixed on the car. “Honestly, I never pictured her driving a Mustang. But… it makes sense.” He swallowed, a sigh slipping out as that familiar bitterness crept back into his chest. “So she just left it here and took off to New York?”
Will nodded, slow, tossing the dirty rag onto the Pontiac’s hood. “Santi tell you?”
“No. Emma. Though I don’t think she knew I didn’t know.” His jaw tightened. “Why didn’t anyone tell me? None of you said anything.”
Will exhaled. “I’m sorry. You sounded pretty stressed with everything going on in Boston. At least for me, I didn’t think it was something you needed to hear right then. Wouldn’t have helped.”
“So it was better for me to go see her and find out like that?”
“You went to see her?”
Frankie nodded, glancing down for a second. “Yeah. Not sure what I was expecting, though.”
“I didn’t know nobody else had told you. Thought Santi would.”
“Yeah, well, if I’m being honest, he doesn’t have to. She and I aren’t together anymore. And he probably still wants me the hell away from her.”
Will let out a breath. “Jesus, Fish. You know that’s not true, right?”
“I don’t,” Frankie shot back. “He sounded pretty damn serious about it, and he hasn’t said a word about it since. How am I supposed to take that?”
“He was mad. You hurt his sister, what did you expect? What would you do if Benny did that to Mai?”
Frankie shook his head, already knowing the answer. He’d do the same. Probably worse. More stubborn about it, too.
“Either way,” he muttered, “he made himself pretty clear. And he’s probably right. I’ll respect that for now.”
Will hummed. And Frankie gave a small nod, just to keep himself moving, and shut the Mustang’s door. The strawberries swayed lightly.
“So, what do you know about New York?”
“Uh… she left in July. She’s staying at her mom’s place since she’s in Europe right now. She was supposed to come back this month, but I don’t know. Last time Emma talked to her, she said she might stay longer. Something about this guy, Max, I think, I mean, huh— ” Will faltered, shaking his head a little, lips pressing tight.
Frankie felt his stomach drop clean out of him. The blood drained from his face just as fast.
“I mean... I think it’s more about something personal, really, I dunno,” Will went on. “Emma knows more than I do, honestly.”
Frankie tried to swallow, but his throat wouldn’t cooperate. Every muscle locked up, refusing.
“She met someone?”
Will went very still. “I don’t know if it’s that, Fish.”
“Who’s Max?”
“I just overheard Emma talking to her. That’s it.”
Frankie nodded, barely, as the air left his lungs in a long, hollow exhale. He didn’t breathe back in for a while. He was unable to. Like his body had forgotten how.
“Hey, don’t take my word for it. I could be wrong. I don’t know much, I’m just repeating what I heard and even that might be off—”
“Don’t. Don’t do that,” Frankie cut in, shaking his head again. “It’d be pretty damn naive of me to think things would still be the same after all this time.” It took everything he had to keep his voice from giving away his agony.
Will shifted, uneasy. Scratched at his beard, let out a breath, rocking his weight from one foot to the other.
“I’m sorry, Fish.”
Frankie nodded. Whether it was true or not, every cell in his body felt like it was shutting down a little faster.
Look at where you are now. Nine months since last December. Nine months of some of the hardest days he’d had. He couldn’t blame you if there was someone else in your life, but his head and his heart couldn’t quite make sense of it. Nine months was a long time. And nothing at all, at the same time. Another city, different people; someone else who might be close to you the way he had been less than a year ago.
“I mean it, don’t listen to me,” Will added quickly, the urgency slipping into his voice. He stepped closer, resting a hand on Frankie’s shoulder. “I can talk to Emma, see if there’s actually something there—”
“No. Don’t.”
“It’s no trouble. I can be subtle about it.”
“It doesn’t matter.” Frankie pulled off his glasses for a second, dragging a hand over his eyes. “Whether it’s true or not, it doesn’t change the fact that I came back too late.”
“That’s not true.”
“I lost her.”
Saying it out loud hit harder. A clean stab to the chest. Frankie swallowed it down, forcing everything back before it could reach his eyes, and slid his glasses on again.
Will didn’t say a word.
“And I didn’t lose her now,” Frankie went on. “Not in July, when she left for New York.” He shook his head. “No. I lost her in December, when I screwed everything up. And even if she comes back to Austin, what would she want with me?”
“Fish…”
“It’s fine.” He shook his head again, eyes burning. “I knew this could happen.”
Just not that it would hurt this much.
The what-ifs clawed at him; the idea of you not coming back, of you falling for someone else. None of it was certain. And maybe this was just Frankie’s worst instincts getting the better of him, dragging him under. But you were miles away now, in a different life, and everything felt too distant, too changed to hold onto anything hopeful.
Will didn’t speak. He just stepped forward and pulled him into another hug. And as Frankie let him, his eyes went glassy almost instantly. And he fought it, hard, swallowing it down, forcing his face into something steadier than what he felt.
It wouldn’t be the first time he’d cried in front of Will. In fact, Will was probably the person who’d seen it the most. But this felt different. He couldn’t afford to let himself sink too far into it, couldn’t let the heartbreak take over or it’d swallow him whole.
“C’mon,” Will said a moment later, giving him one last squeeze before pulling back. “How about we grab a couple beers and you tell me what the hell happened to your face?” He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
Frankie let out a small laugh. “Is it really that bad?”
“Nah. Just a few scars,” Will shrugged. “They look good on you. You look rough and sexy.”
“Oh, fuck off.”
At home, Frankie tried to slip in unnoticed. He nudged the door open, juggling everything he’d bought; the new bed for Bingley, a bag of treats, and a packet of cookies clamped between his teeth.
He made a beeline for the stairs as he heard Luna and Jamie’s voices drifting in from the kitchen where they were talking to Helena, and hurried to shut his bedroom door the second he was inside. Like a teenager sneaking in past curfew. Again.
Bingley was sprawled across his pillow, barely stirring until Frankie dropped onto the bed. One ear flicked. A lazy blink.
“Sorry. Am I bothering you?”
He reached out, brushing his index finger under the cat’s chin. Bingley’s eyes slipped half shut instantly, melting into it, entirely his.
Frankie had been thinking, before he walked into the bookstore… No. That wasn’t it. He didn’t know what the hell he’d been thinking. He was not thinking at all. What made him believe showing up like that was a good idea? If you’d been there, what would you have said? Wouldn’t it be a little strange, after all this time, him just turning up like nothing happened? What exactly was he supposed to show up with—what face was he meant to wear?
The last time you spoke on the phone, you told him you loved him. But you were drunk. You wouldn’t have called if you’d been sober. So that moment had to be handled carefully; Frankie couldn’t lean on it to keep the small flame of hope alive. It wouldn’t be fair to you or to anyone. It was a drunk call. Nothing more.
Because now you were in New York with Max whoever the hell he was and you were staying there, for reasons that had something to do with him or something else entirely. Yeah.
No.
This couldn’t be it. This couldn’t be all there was. Had he really messed it up that badly? Did it really take you leaving for him to understand just how thoroughly he’d ruined things?
Foolishly, Frankie had made the mistake of thinking you’d still be here. Not waiting for him, no. But here.
He could picture it: running into you after months apart, managing the mess in his chest, keeping things polite if that’s what the moment demanded. Making peace, somehow. Being your friend.
He’d hate being your friend. But he’d try anyway. Because he needed you like he needed air, and beyond that, he wanted you in his life. And despite everything Lucille had told him, he was willing to swallow whatever it cost him if it meant keeping you close.
But could he really picture it, being friends? Sharing places, afternoons, nights. Dinner out on Santi’s backyard or Will’s. Talking about nothing and everything the way the group always did, tossing in bits of news here and there. One day you’d show up with someone else, and something inside him would cave in. He’d accept it, though, what right did he have not to? He’d play it off like it was fine, like time had done its job and this is what friends do. Then he’d swallow it down, try to move on, maybe even find someone else. Except that part felt impossible.
That’s what a broken heart does, he thought. It convinces you there’s no one else who could ever take that place. Because you’re still in love and it’s hard to imagine a life that doesn’t include them. But time passes, and somehow, however unlikely it feels, you get through it. You meet someone new, and if you’re in the right place, you give it another shot.
That’s how it had been with Rachel. He’d thought he’d never get over her. That the pain had been so sharp it would leave a scar that never faded. He’d wanted it gone; cut out, shut off, erased.
God, he’d been wrong. Now he knew that had been nothing. Because this, this was deeper, heavier and worse. And he didn’t want to let it go. He was being a masochist; it hurt, and he didn’t want it to stop. If pain was the only way loving you showed up, then fine. Let it hurt for the rest of his life.
The rest of his life. Frankie believed he’d love you for the rest of his life. Whether you came back or not, whether you ended up together or not; you’d shown him a version of life so genuine, so tender he wasn’t the same man anymore. And to him, that was love; love doesn’t ask you to change, it changes you anyway.
But now, staring up at his bedroom ceiling, his heart was laying heavy in his chest. He let himself be selfish for a minute, wishing something, anything, would bring you back to Austin. Some outside force that would pull you in, close the distance between you.
It was selfish, and he knew it. But no one’s good all the time.
Where were you?
The question grew, inch by inch, until it filled his head. What were you doing? Who were you with? Were you happier there than you’d been here? Did those streets feel the way he imagined they would to you? You’d probably already checked off half the places from your favorite movies. He could picture it; there was a corner you had to have visited. Carrie’s stoop. The building from Friends. You, walking through Central Park, crushing yellow leaves under your shoes where they filmed When Harry Met Sally. He hoped you had.
After a beat, like he was giving the universe a chance to stop him, Frankie slid a hand into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He opened Google and typed slowly: Instagram.
He didn’t have an account. Hadn’t used the app either. Maybe once, back in 2013 before deciding it wasn’t for him. Still, it couldn’t be that complicated to figure out.
Except when he opened the page and tried to look around, he hit a wall. He needed an account. Or how else was he supposed to find you? Where was the search bar? Wasn’t there supposed to be a little magnifying glass somewhere?
Discover more in the app—Explore your interests and find… yeah, yeah.
Sign up.
Frankie sighed, stared at the blank fields, and typed in his phone number. Followed the steps one by one.
Username. Huh. His mouth pulled to the side. Should he just use his name?
franciscomorales
this username is not available
Shit.
frankiemorales
this username is not available
fishmorales
this username is not—
“Are you kidding me?” he scoffed, shaking his head as he glanced over at Bingley. “Can you believe this? How many Fish Morales are out there?”
Bingley stretched his paws and yawned unbothered. Frankie smiled just a little.
Okay. Maybe using his name wasn’t the move. If he wanted to see how you were doing, he should keep a low profile. Blend in. Go with something random.
bingleythecat
this username is not available
bingleyfrankie123
this username is not available
bingcatfishmorales
this username is not available
catandfish777
this username is not available
bing.ley—
No.
He huffed under his breath. Think, think, think…
A grin tugged at his mouth.
chandlerbingley
Available. Of course that one worked, and not bingleyfrankie123. Yeah, sure. Made perfect sense.
He set up the account quickly, no fuss. No profile picture, no following anyone; just the bare minimum to get in. And the second it was done, he went looking for you.
He typed your name into the search bar, and your profile came up first. Frankie straightened immediately.
Top row: New York. The first post: a set of five photos. The city, a book, a coffee, and Mr. Darcy. Caption: everything I love
The next one: just you.
He went still.
You were sitting across a table, dinner laid out in front of you. A white—no... cream dress, fitted, soft glossy fabric, straight neckline, thin straps over your shoulders. You held a glass of white wine (maybe champagne) just under your chin, smiling, head tipped slightly to the side. Your hair was shorter now, brushing your shoulders.
You looked… beautiful. There was something in your smile, a little different, that made him smile too before he could stop himself.
He swiped to the next photo.
His heart stuttered. The smile slipped, gone in a second, and something heavy, too heavy, yanked at his chest, like invisible strings pulling him straight down to the ground.
A man filled the frame, smiling as he tipped his glass to his lips. White shirt, slightly undone. Blue eyes. A head full of golden curls, styled just enough for the candlelight to catch on the highest strands. He looked like he’d walked straight out of Gossip Girl; that show Mai used to watch. Frankie had caught it more than once while stretched out on the couch beside her. Yeah, a total Nate Archibald type of guy.
He tapped the tag and the username popped up over the man’s face.
maxdarligheld
Maximilian Darligheld.
Storyteller
NYC
Art, people, and the space in between.
The profile opened, spilling into a grid of everywhere at once; art galleries, museums, sweeping, expensive landscapes, movie sets, events, parties…
Frankie felt it rise in his throat. He wanted to throw up. Actually throw up. All over the screen, until every last image disappeared.
He backed out of Max’s profile and went straight to yours. Drew in a breath just to keep from choking on it, but it didn’t help. The feeling was already there, building too fast and too tight, too desperate and sharp and hot with jealousy.
Jealous of whoever the fuck this guy was. Jealous he was sitting across from you at dinner. Jealous of what he might be to you.
And then the next photo, right after the first one, just a park; stopped his heart cold.
You and Max, grinning. You with your camera lifted, a coffee in your hand. His cheek pressed to yours, smiling like it meant something. And before he could stop it, Frankie’s vision blurred; his heart was already giving up on him.
You looked happy. Bright and fresh. There was someone beside you, his cheek against yours, and you were smiling.
This couldn’t be happening.
Jealousy hit first, again, harder. Then something heavier followed, it sank straight through his chest, melted it and dropped it to his feet. It hollowed him out. He felt like he was dying.
Frankie locked his phone and flung it across the bed, unable to keep staring at snapshots of your new life. He buried his face in his hands like that might hold everything together while it all came crashing down anyway.
Fucking glasses getting in the way; his tears hit the lenses, blurring everything further. He ripped them off and tossed them onto the nightstand.
He’d lost you. He’d lost you. He’d lost you and if he hadn’t yet, he would soon. It was only a matter of time.
“Fuck,” he exhaled, in the middle of a quiet sob and hating every second of this.
For some reason, he couldn’t breathe.
That night, somewhere in New York
Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. Everything’s going to be fine.
The mirror in front of you was massive, polished so clean it almost felt like a portal. Your reflection glowed in it, softened by the soft golden light from the tall lamps around the room. Behind you, the wide window stretched out over Manhattan in a view you were getting used to, slowly, though it still managed to pull something out of you every time.
Some days, it felt like too much. Like today.
“You look gorgeous. Told you this was the one,” Alex said from behind you. She had a martini in hand, made less than five minutes ago, and was still in her pajamas like it wasn’t already five in the afternoon.
“I feel… off.”
“Why? It’s a beautiful dress. It fits you perfectly.”
She was probably right. It did fit perfectly. That wasn’t the problem. The problem was the girl in the mirror; she looked like someone else, and you weren’t sure you’d caught up to her yet.
Over the past few months, you’d worn more dresses like this than you had in your entire life before. Alex’s closet was endless, and you were the same size, which meant everything was fair game. Add to that the shopping sprees (too many to count) and yeah, your credit card had definitely been getting a workout.
She was a good friend, great company to have around. When you landed in New York in July, she was the one who picked you up from the airport. Nina, her mom, was a close friend of your mother’s and had already taken off for their grand European escape. But before leaving, she handed Alex a very strict to-do list, and right at the top: pick you up, give you your mom’s keys, and make sure you weren’t on your own.
It sounded like a chore, honestly. Or it would’ve been, if you hadn’t clicked almost instantly. But somewhere between the airport and your mom’s apartment, with both of you swapping stories about heartbreak, something just… stuck. She invited you to dinner that same night. The next day, you went to the movies. Then came drinks, a club, more restaurants, plans stacking up before you could even think to say no.
Alex’s dad, Grant, was loaded and well-connected and his name opened doors. Not exactly around much, though, and Alex knew how to cash in on that absence. Guilt came with perks, and she used them well. She moved through New York like it belonged to her, doors swinging open for her and anyone lucky enough to be at her side. And if there was one thing about Alex, it was this: she showed up. No questions asked.
“Got the good side from my mom,” she told you one night, after hours of talking about fathers and family trees.
Her dad wasn’t a bad guy. Just… not there. Work came first, always had, which left Nina and Alex somewhere further down the list. By the time Alex was a teenager and her parents finally divorced, it didn’t really change much. Grant had barely been home to begin with. The only difference now was that she had to see him at least four days a month; more than she used to.
Now Alex was twenty seven. She didn’t exactly have a conventional job, but she had a solid following on social media. She lived in a stunning, oversized apartment in Manhattan and spent her days altering clothes, customizing pieces in her home studio, and going out with all kinds of interesting people, mostly artists. Like Max.
Her inner circle, though, was small. Just two people really; everyone else came and went, more acquaintances than anything. Bruna and Max were the only ones she truly called best friends, and you’d met them within your first week in the city. Alex had folded you into the group like it was nothing, like it required no effort at all, and somehow, it didn’t. Even for you. You were usually slower to warm up to strangers, but this time… it felt different.
You wanted it to be different. You were a little tired of who you’d been. The quiet girl who stayed in with tea and a book, the one who didn’t go looking for anything because she claimed she didn’t need it.
That wasn’t true. Of course you needed something. Of course you wanted something. You wanted it all.
So from the moment you set foot in New York, you made yourself one promise: stop saying no every time Alex asked. And somehow, that’s how you ended up here.
Almost two full months in the city and you’d already checked off more than a few things from your mental list, only this version of the list felt different. Less about fear, more about you. Not about daring yourself to face heights or kiss strangers or swim naked or sleep in the woods.
You brushed a hand over your neck and shifted your hair over your shoulder.
“You think I should wear it down or tie it up?”
Alex pressed her lips together, tilting her head as she studied your reflection.
“I like it down. But tied up…” she hummed, “you could add a clip right here.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” She set her martini down on the glass table behind her and crossed the room quickly. With soft hands, she gathered your hair and pinned it up high. “Like this, see? Your face looks amazing. It brings out your cheeks, your eyes.”
You smiled, a little flushed. If there was anyone who could get that reaction out of you lately, it was Alex. She tossed compliments around like petals, completely unaware of the impact they had. You’d noticed, though; you saw it every time she said something kind to a stranger or a friend at a party, then carried on like it was nothing. A real talent. That, and the fact that she was stunning.
Barely taller than you, Alex possessed striking green eyes and skin like smooth olive silk. Her head was covered in tight caramel curls that remained perpetually perfect. And with a sprinkle of freckles over her bridge, a lone mark by her lips, and a beauty spot under her left eye, she embodied an effortless kind of beauty.
“I don’t want it to look like I’m trying too hard,” you said, frowning slightly. “I’ve got enough going on with the nerves.”
“You don’t need to be nervous. At all. If Max planned this, it’s because he knows it’ll go well. You just have to be you.”
“Hope that’s enough to make a good first impression.”
Alex laughed. “You’re such a good girl. Any parent would love you at their table.”
“Donovan’s not just any parent.”
“No, he’s Max’s dad. Which actually makes it easier. I’m sure Max’s been hyping you up non stop.”
“Then I hope I live up to it.”
She gave your hair a gentle tug. “Don’t say that again. If Max set this up, it’s for a reason. Trust yourself, especially tonight. Go to that dinner and just be you. And if you get nervous, look at Max, okay?”
You let out a short laugh. "And what is he gonna do? Save me from his own father?"
"No. But his face will probably make you laugh or something." Alex shrugged. "Besides, Donovan is actually a pretty nice guy."
"He intimidates me a little."
Alex chuckled at that. "Donovan intimidates even Max."
You offered a small silent smile, remaining still as she picked up a clip to style your hair. She worked with softly, gathering even the stray rebellious strands at the nape of your neck. And in the mirror, your reflection stared back in a sophisticated black dress. It hugged your frame before flowing gracefully to your knees. The neckline was draped, and the thin straps over your shoulders ended in fine dainty bows that trailed down your arms and back.
You had finished your makeup a while ago; concealer, blush, mascara, and a swipe of rosy gloss. Alex had added a touch of eyeshadow in soft pale tones that she claimed "deepened and defined your eyes."
"I need my earrings," you told her, touching your bare lobes as you headed toward the guest room where you’d left your bag.
As you walked, the click of your heels echoed against the polished hardwood and your stomach churned with nerves. The hallway was long and wide, and the silence was barely muffled by the decor lining the walls. It gave you too much time and space to think.
You found your bag on the bed and quickly fished out the earrings to put them on. Your phone lay right beside your discarded clothes. Your eyes locked onto it, then darted away, then back again, over and over, until you finally gave in and snatched it up in one sharp motion.
[Em]: getting ready for tonight?
Instead of typing back, you hit the call button and pressed the phone to your ear. You brought your free hand to your mouth, biting your nails; a habit you’d sworn to kick months ago. But some promises were easier to keep than others.
"Hey!" she answered immediately. "What’s up? Are you about to leave?"
"Uh, yeah. Max should be here any minute. We have to stop by his place first."
"How are you feeling?"
"Nervous, I think. I just really don’t wanna screw this up."
"You won't. If Max adores you, his dad will too. They say it’s genetic."
"I don’t know about that," you said with a weak smile, "but I know it might look strange, his son showing up out of the blue with a woman, trying to introduce me—"
"It’s not strange. It’s for a reason and you know it. Max wouldn’t be doing this for any other reason. Seriously, don't worry. You’re charming and smart and incredible and I’m not just saying that because I’m your best friend who loves you."
You pressed your lips together, a real smile finally breaking through. "Thank you, Em."
"No problem. You can call me whenever, even tonight."
"You still at the bookstore?"
"I am. And you… have you talked to Santi?"
"Not today. Why?"
"Oh, no reason. What about the others?"
Your hand moved to your forehead, and you absentmindedly scratched your temple.
"Them neither. Why? Did something happen?"
A brief silence hung on the other end of the line.
"Nothing," Emma said, clicking her tongue. "I was just wondering. Will was asking about you."
"Oh. Okay."
"Max is here!" Alex’s voice drifted down the hallway, in a hollow echo.
"You have to go?"
"Yeah, Max is here. I’ll text you later, okay?"
"I’ll be glued to my phone all night, alright? And call me if you need anything."
"I will. Love you."
"Love you too. Good luck!"
Max Darligheld was, without a doubt, the kind of man made for a perfect romance story. A very specific kind. Power dynamics. Rich and poor. Boss and employee. The CEO the heroine ends up falling for after being thrown into his orbit; casual work encounters that turn into late-night drives, accidental intimacy, moments where they really see each other. Where she realizes that oh, he’s not just rich and a little arrogant. He’s thoughtful. Gentle. And, of course, there’s a shadow there too. A hidden past. Some tightly kept secret or a wound that never quite healed. Whatever it is, it explains the distance, softens the edges, makes it easier to forgive whatever came before.
Max is, unquestionably, that type of man.
Born into wealth and into a family of prestigious professionals, Max possessed every single characteristic that would make you sigh. Almost as tall as a doorway and with a look that was rough and delicate at the same time, he drew eyes wherever he walked. His versatility was a natural talent; at first glance, you might think he was just any rich kid. But a minute later, you would realize he wasn't.
Extremely intelligent and polite, Max had received the best education possible and had made the most of it. And it was no wonder; with the imposing figures of his parents following him like a shadow, it’s an understatement to say he had felt somewhat pressured and that he still feels it from time to time.
He wasn’t a psychologist, writer, and editor like his father. Nor was he an architect like his mother. No. He had navigated a diverse mix of professions and had exploited his connections to their full extent, carving out a successful career as an art curator and narrative director. Between that and his social circle, it was fair to say he was quite popular. But his talent stood on its own; you don’t get that far on nepotism alone.
He was the perfect muse. You could come up with hundreds of stories centered around men like Max. Love stories, sad stories, dramatic stories. The very architecture of his being allowed for it.
And yet, he wasn’t the one you were writing about.
“My dad thought it’d be better to have us over at the house,” he said now, seated beside you in the back of the car. Adam, the chauffeur, was driving slowly through a bit of traffic. “More intimate than a restaurant. And my mom had a bit of a headache.”
“You sure this is the right moment?”
“He wanted to meet you, so yeah. And my mom always has a headache. She’s probably already taken something and is fine.”
You nodded and turned your gaze toward the window, resting your chin on the palm of your hand.
Max’s warm hand on your leg made you look back at him.
"Do you wanna know what I told him about you?"
Your eyes widened dramatically. "God, no."
“I told him you’re interesting. And pretty.”
“Max, shut up.”
“And talented. Though that part didn’t need much explaining.”
You shook your head.
“And funny. You know how hard it is to find someone talented and smart who isn’t completely eaten alive by their own ego? In New York, of all places?”
“You’re laying it on way too thick, and I get it,” you said, resting your hand over his on your thigh. “You’re trying to calm me down. Don’t. Nothing you say is going to unclench my muscles. I know what I am. No need to sugarcoat it.”
“Do you, though?”
“Yes, I do,” you raised your brows. “Trust me, I’ve had plenty of time to figure that out this past year.”
“And what are you?”
“Right now?”
Max’s mouth tipped into a smirk. “Yeah. Right now.”
“Right now, I’m a girl who’s both starving and nervous. Terrible combo, by the way.”
“Oof.” He frowned. “Yeah, we can’t have that, can we?”
You rolled your eyes and looked back out the window.
Yes. Max would make the heart of any woman with a bit of sentimentality in her blood race. It wasn’t just that he was rich or handsome or any of those things; it was him, purely him. His way of being, his kind and honest character, how genuine he was and how little he seemed to be fazed by the pompous world that surrounded him.
He knew exactly how to stimulate a person's mind; he knew how to stimulate yours. Since you had met him, he had led you to experience art like never before. Access to museums, concerts, theater, sets for all kinds of productions. When you were with him, your mind was in constant motion.
The perfect muse.
"And why did you decide to kill him?"
Donovan Darligheld was quite direct with his questions. Though this one didn't take you by surprise.
In photographs, you had seen him as a serious and somewhat dark man, with piercing, deep blue eyes. Black hair that was beginning to fade into gray and not a single smile to be found. He seemed calm, incapable of letting himself be carried away by trivialities. But in person, he was a very, very different thing.
"Excuse me?" You nearly choked on your wine.
In front of you, Max raised his eyebrows, looking rather amused, and to your right, his mother Delora tilted her head with curiosity. She was a beautiful woman; she had hair as red as fire, full of soft curls that framed a face so pale she occasionally looked like an apparition. Her eyes were green and deep, just like her son's. When she appeared in the hallway earlier, her figure had enchanted you. She looked like the Venus de Milo.
Donovan smiled ever so slightly. His mouth gave way to the brief appearance of a smirk.
"Why did you decide to kill him?" He narrowed his eyes a bit. "When you have a character like Miles, the most natural choice is often to let him live."
You looked at the plate in front of you, still half full.
"To be honest, I didn't expect it," Donovan added. "Given the way the story unfolds, I was almost certain that as I approached the final chapters, I would see just a bit more of his rehabilitation and his relationship with Alya."
You smiled slowly. "Was it disappointing?"
Donovan huffed a laugh. "Not at all."
"I think it was fair," Delora said, and your head instantly turned toward her. "Miles was a tormented man, and I believe he was doomed from the beginning. No matter the beautiful illusion love might have given him, his destiny was set. And when reading the first chapters, if you manage to read between the lines, it is beautifully foreshadowed; his constant death drive."
"I agree," Donovan added, looking at you. "And you did a beautiful job being subtle about it."
On the outside, you smiled politely. On the inside, you were climbing the walls.
Donovan Darligheld, author of many books, but especially The House of Cerberus (a book you had read more than four times, if you weren't forgetting a reread or two) had just complimented your work. And not just him, but his talented and brilliant wife as well.
Act like it's just another damn day, right?
"Thank you so much."
"But why?" he asked again. "Why did you decide to kill him?"
Miles wasn’t a wealthy CEO. Miles wasn’t the boss. Miles wasn’t the one with the upper hand in a power dynamic. Miles wasn’t a romantic hero. Miles wasn’t like Max, the perfect muse for love.
Miles was, above all things, a man tormented by grief.
You started writing about him two weeks before arriving in New York. You didn’t know why; it just suddenly felt like the right thing to do. The idea surfaced in your mind like a bout of verbal vomit: A man recovering from his addictions under the close watch of his father and sister.
Miles was an addict, and the onset of his addiction traced back to his adolescence, right during his time at the Le Rosey Institute. At seventeen, he and his closest friend, Vincent, had snuck out of school to see a band live, never knowing that that single event would change his life forever.
Vincent and he were more than friends, they were like brothers, forged at thirteen in the clinical chill of a Swiss boarding school. Miles’s father, Aidan, had shipped him off after the local boys back home had expressed their disapproval by shattering his jaw and claiming a tooth as a trophy. Aidan, perpetually busy and bewildered by a son who was as quiet as a grave and just as difficult to unearth, simply didn’t know what else to do with him. Vincent, conversely, was there on a whim; his parents had been seduced by a brochure promising to grind boys into disciplined men.
Their beginning was a friction of personalities. Vincent was a professional clown, and Miles, nursing his bruised dignity, found him insufferable. But then came the woods. They discovered a hole in the campus perimeter, a green exit sign into the wild, and the rest is the usual debris of pure adolescence.
By night, they were ghosts in the hallways, bribing guards with the casual cruelty of the wealthy. It began in the gardens; cigarettes and the thrill of outsmarting the unblinking eyes of security cameras. Soon, the mischief fermented. By seventeen, they had graduated to mushrooms and LSD, spending their Saturdays at underground raves curated by Andreas, a man who sold produce by the Stumarked church by day and hallucinations by night.
For Miles, it was a long-awaited unmooring. Under the influence, his natural heaviness evaporated, replaced by a frantic, neon lightness. He squeezed every drop of ecstasy from those hours while Aidan remained blissfully ignorant, hearing only of the minor infractions. Until the wheels came off.
January 20, 1996. The Prodigy played Splügen. They spent four hours on a train just to stand in the front row and breathe the same sweat-soaked air as the band. And the show was a riot of the senses. They threw themselves into the frenzy until Miles, lost in the mosh pit, felt his leg snap like a dry branch. Vincent, barely upright himself against the crushing tide of bodies, dragged him out of the chaos.
At first, the pain was a distant feeling, muffled by the chemical haze in his bloodstream, and the reality didn't set in until hours later in a local hospital bed.
When Aidan arrived, having moved with a speed born of fury rather than fatherly concern, he found a son who looked like a disaster he didn't understand: clothes in tatters, bones broken, and hair dyed a screaming, radioactive green. Vincent was hauled back to school in disgrace, and the fever dream finally broke.
With a broken leg, Miles was introduced to the world of opioids, and his life became a disaster until he was thirty, when he had his first overdose and Vincent found him convulsing in the living room. It was a constant ebb and flow, of being okay and being at rock bottom. But after that occasion, his family checked him into a rehabilitation center.
And years later, during the mandatory Friday dinner held every two weeks, where his father and sister made sure he was still staying clean, Miles met Alya.
Miles had been there for ten minutes, sitting still, trying to clear the fog from his mind. He spent most of that time negotiating with himself and trying not to reach into his pockets and run to the bathroom to swallow whatever was inside. He ordered a drink and prayed for anonymity, yet, to his own surprise, he was the first to speak.
Alya looked to her right. He sat on the stool next to hers, pressing a half-full glass to his lips. She watched a single bead of wine escape his chin and vanish into the hollow of his neck. He leaned against his own ribs, elbow on the bar; a relaxed pose betrayed by the slight tremor in his hands.
She studied his face, committing it to memory: he looked barely older than her, with short, messy brown hair and intense eyes framed by long, dark lashes. His lips were stained in red wine, shadowed by a soft mustache that sat splendidly above them. He looked like someone she knew, though the name wouldn't come.
Miles caught her stare. He tried not to feel self-conscious as his own eyes scanned her features too.
"You left him?" he asked.
"Left what?"
"Your date. Darko."
"No," she laughed.
"Well, you should leave. Go somewhere else. Anywhere else."
"No, I couldn't."
Her gaze dropped. Her bare ankle was touching his.
"You left him down there, all alone," he said.
Alya nodded.
"The process is halfway done then," he finished.
"No. I just came up for air. It’s too hot downstairs. I can’t stand the heating."
"I don't think you should stay either."
"That’s cruel."
"You have no idea."
"And you do?"
He nodded. He knew cruelty.
"Cruel is having dinner with someone and not leaving a single breath of space for them to speak. It’s very innocent."
"Why?"
"Because you aren't going to break his heart. He’s just going to go home and watch movies only he thinks he understands. Like Donnie Darko."
"You have very sharp ears, don't you?" Alya laughed, embarrassed. She rubbed her neck and looked at her glass. "Who should I run from, then? Him or you?"
She leaned toward him, as if they were sharing a secret that her date, Teo, might interrupt at any moment. Miles mimicked her, moving so close she could smell his perfume.
"Don't get me wrong. Your date was the only distraction I could find. To be honest, his monologue was much more interesting than the conversation at my table."
"What, is your date a disaster too?"
"You could say that."
Alya wanted to let out a long, heavy exhale, but she held it in. She realized she had been holding a lot of things in tonight.
"Doesn't she mind that you're at the bar, drinking alone?"
He shook his head. "I'm not alone."
"You know what I mean. Doesn't it bother her?"
"No. I'm not on a date. I'm with my family, and I doubt they’ve even noticed I’m gone. They’re too busy talking about more important things."
"Like what?"
"Economics, political scandals, the Right… I don't know. No one has asked me a thing in the last hour and a half," he lied, his eyes drifting away from her face.
Alya felt his gaze linger on her neck, and her cheeks flushed; not from shame, but from the sudden, sharp awareness of her own body.
"Is your family right-wing?"
"No. My father leans toward certain things, but he doesn't have political beliefs, not really. He thinks all politicians are wretched and it’s just about picking the best of the worst. My sister is the same."
"And you?"
"I don't discuss these things with my father. He has no patience for it. We differ."
"Sounds like a father."
"Yeah. We have very little in common. He has the mind of a business shark, and so does my sister."
"I imagine. So where did you come from? Assuming you aren't a shark like them, which I'm still not sure about."
Miles let out a laugh that vibrated against his glass.
"My mom, probably. She’s indecisive and not a shark at all. Maybe we’re something else. Octopuses," he noted, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
"Does she eavesdrop on conversations too?"
"What are you going to do when you finish that drink?"
"I don't know," she confessed, leaning her head on her palm. "Go back to him, I suppose. Do what’s necessary to get home as soon as possible."
He looked at her with genuine consternation.
"Don't stay with him. You have to leave. And if he sees you, just explain that it was never going to work anyway."
"How do you know? What if he’s the love of my life and I lose him because I listened to a stranger?"
"That man is not the love of your life. No one who knows that much about genital mutilation should be," he said, amused and bewildered by Teo’s earlier lecture on Les Cannibales du Pôle Opposé.
"Well, you don't know that. What if I'm a voyeur who enjoys horror? Or a fetishist!"
"Are you?"
"I could be. You don't know me."
"No, I don't know you. But he’s downstairs eating alone and you’re up here."
"Are you some kind of kinesthetic professional, or do you just like watching people?"
"I’m just good at reading people."
"So?"
"So what?"
"Read me."
Miles straightened up, the playful look vanishing. He tilted his head, watching her for a few seconds until she almost regretted asking. His eyes traveled down her body, stopping at her feet. He smiled, seeing her toes twitch with bottled-up energy; like those nervous kids and their restlessness that parents try to cure with soccer or karate, hoping the child will finally collapse into their pillow at night.
"You’re going to leave this restaurant," he said.
A fortuitous encounter, and a relationship as bittersweet as it was intense is born from that night. Miles is a ticking time bomb; Alya is one in her own way. Both go through different trials throughout the chapters and just when everything seems to be getting better between them and they finally seem to have made peace with life, Miles drowns one morning after trying to save his dog from a river's current.
Why did you decide to kill him?
Killing was a strong word.
"Can I be honest?" you asked, lowering your gaze slightly and directing it toward Max. He smiled in a comforting way and you knew Alex was right; looking at him would calm you down.
Donovan nodded. "I wouldn't expect you to answer any other way."
You swallowed hard, feeling the nerves in your stomach once again.
A few weeks ago, when Max read the first manuscript and suggested you let him show it to his dad, it seemed like madness to you. Madness, because it was so personal it felt more like a therapy exercise than anything else. Madness, because his dad was fucking Donovan Darligheld.
But he insisted, telling you that he saw enormous potential in the story and that if Donovan read it, he would surely see it too. Max was sure you had to do something with it, and that his dad could be the first step. So, you allowed him to send the first manuscript; one that wasn't even finished yet and, according to you, was a total disaster. But Max took it anyway. And a week ago, he called you, ecstatic, to tell you that his parents wanted to meet you.
"If you do it, I'm sure you'll be able to work on it together," Max had told you that afternoon, insisting that you accept the invitation. "My dad loves sad stories."
Sad stories. Was it a sad story?
"Well, to be honest, a couple of months ago someone I know almost lost their life in a similar way. And I only found out much later," you nodded now, feeling that instant pang of pain in your chest. "It really affected me, though I didn't realize it at first. How close I came to losing him forever. I spent a long time having nightmares about it, being afraid that something like that would happen again."
Donovan lowered his gaze slightly, nodding slowly.
"It might seem silly, since he’s alive," you continued, with a humorless smile, "but the feeling didn't leave me, and I didn't know what to do. I think I had to purge it, and the only way I found was to lose Miles. To feel that pain, that fear, and suffer through it in a fictional way. Writing about Miles dying, about that possibility… it helped me get through it in a different way."
Delora hummed. "Have you spoken with this person?"
"Only once since the accident."
"Well, I believe that's a valid answer," Donovan said. "And there are many different ways to navigate grief, whatever kind it may be. Most of the time, trauma is what fuels our work. I wrote Blue Tales after the suicide of one of my best friends."
Your eyebrows rose softly. "Oh, I really liked that one very much."
Donovan smiled. "Did you find it sad?"
"Quite, yes," you smiled shyly. "I cried a lot."
"I did too," he added. "And it was a valid way to purge the grief."
"And you are very good at it," Delora said. "I would really like to read the ending and discover what you'll do with Alya."
"I’d like to know that, too," Max said, tilting his chin up. "What happens after the grief?"
You smiled and shook your head, bringing your wine glass to your lips. Your cheeks burned intensely, and you felt a wave of embarrassment.
"I think it’s appropriate, then, to mention the reason for this dinner," Donovan suggested, looking at Max with a gaze so serious he almost seemed angry, though he wasn't. He turned toward you with a much softer expression. "Which is to discuss the possibilities for your book."
You said nothing. You couldn't. All you managed to do was look at him in silence and wait for him to say more.
"These last few months I’ve been receiving just a short amount of manuscripts, and I’m free to take on other projects," he continued. "Honestly, when Max told me about your novel, it couldn't have come at a better time. I was looking for something exactly like this."
"Oh."
"I think it has a lot of potential. Of course, there are some things to polish, but that’s only natural."
"Of course."
"But, if it sounds good to you, I would love to work with you and your book."
Sunday, September 20th
Frankie popped the trunk and lugged the heavy cooler out, easing it onto the pavement with caution. It was packed with a lot of meat and an uncounted hoard of beer cans. He nudged his glasses back up the bridge of his nose and slammed the trunk shut.
Instead of heading for the porch or knocking, he cut straight toward the backyard; Santi had already mentioned that’s where the crowd would be. And just on time, he was just heading for the wooden gate leading to the yard when Frankie stepped through. He stopped dead the moment his eyes landed on him.
“Am I seeing things, or is Fish at my house?” Santi broke into a wide grin as he closed the distance. Without a second thought, he grabbed the cooler from Frankie’s hands and dropped it to the ground. “C’mere.”
Santi pulled Frankie into a crushing, tight embrace, his hands clapping firmly against Frankie’s back and shoulders. In the huddle, Frankie caught the distinct scent of him; a specific mix of cologne, laundry detergent, and something else.
That was one of the things he’d realized since coming back: how his mind had a singular way of cataloging people through scents and sensations. Will, Benny, Santi; they each carried a familiar essence that made him feel instantly at ease. He figured this was what it felt like to finally be home.
"You look handsome," Santi said, guiding him toward the kitchen and bypassing the yard entirely.
“Why does everyone keep saying that? Do I look that wrecked?”
"I’m not kidding. Who else told you?" Santi set the cooler down and flipped it open. "You look good. Healthy. Even with the scars."
"Will says they’re sexy."
"They are." Santi straightened up, lining the beer cans on the counter.
Frankie leaned his hip against the counter and crossed his arms, letting his gaze drift down to his feet. Taking a step toward him, Santi caught his shoulder and gave him a gentle shake.
"Hey. You’re back."
Frankie offered a lopsided smile.
"We’ll head out in a second, but they’ve already seen you. I haven't," Santi added with a wink. "Talk to me. How’s the move? Everything okay?"
"All good. We spent all week getting organized, a bit of everything. Went to check out my place.”
“And?”
“Same as always, obviously.” He tipped his head.
“You gonna sell it?”
“That’s the plan. Don’t know if Lu’s gonna want it. I offered, but I think she’d rather stay with my mom. Jamie’s pretty happy there too.”
“And you?”
“I’m good. Don’t mind being there… though I wouldn’t hate a little more time to myself,” he said, huffing a quiet laugh.
“You been looking around?”
“Just online. Saw a couple houses I liked, not too far from here, and some apartments, but… I don’t know.”
Santi frowned. "Where do you wanna live? I mean, what kind of place are you looking for?"
Frankie bit the inside of his cheek and tilted his head back. "A house."
"Alright, what kind of house?"
He clicked his tongue. "I don’t know, a nice one. Not necessarily huge, but, you know, it needs space."
"Something like mine?"
"Sure," Frankie nodded, his eyes wandering across the walls and up to the ceiling. "My old place is fine, but it’s only two bedrooms. My family doesn't fit there. And besides... I don't want to go back to that house."
"You’re thinking about family, huh," Santi nodded. "So, this would be something like your forever house."
"I hope so. I’m not a fan of moving."
Santi laughed. "Well, take your time finding the right spot. It’s not a simple investment. When I bought this place it was a massive sacrifice in other areas, but I knew what I wanted for the future. I wanted room for myself and a family that I don’t fully have yet but I hope to soon. It felt a little crazy living here all by myself before Yov."
"Oh I remember," Frankie chuckled. "Your huge living room with just a single sofa sitting in the middle of the floor in front of the TV."
Santiago rolled his eyes. "I was planning things."
"A single sofa in the middle of the living room, a mismatched pile of glasses and somehow more spoons than forks."
"That was only week one," he grumbled, giving Frankie’s foot a playful nudge with his own. "And what about you, huh? What did you have when you moved to your place?"
"Me?"
"Yeah, you."
"Depression."
Santi choked back a laugh, looking away as he pressed his lips together in an amused grin.
"Well, you’d better not have that in your luggage when you move this time," he said, turning back to Frankie. "I’ll be coming over for an inspection."
"It won’t be like that, I promise," Frankie sighed. "I’m going to do things right this time."
He felt Santi’s eyes on his profile and tried to keep his expression from betraying his fear of messing up again. Because Frankie could plan and analyze all he wanted, but the doubt always remained; the nagging question of how easy it would be to hit rock bottom once more.
Honestly, he didn't think it would happen, or at least not soon. He had no desire to sink again and he didn't think he had an excuse for it anymore, either. Sure, there were things in his life that didn't bring him joy and situations he wished were different, but he’d made peace with the fact that sometimes things just don’t go your way. Even if you get angry, even if you feel like a petulant child throwing a tantrum. Sometimes, there’s nothing you can do. Other times, there is.
"I know things weren't exactly great between us before I left for Boston," he said then, still not looking at Santi. "And I really want to apologize for that."
"It’s okay."
"No, it really isn't," he said, finally meeting his eyes. "We’ve only talked about it on the surface, haven’t we?"
Santi gave a steady nod. He smiled softly.
Frankie knew the matter should have been settled by now. Santi hadn’t brought it up again, and they’d both decided to simply move past it after a brief talk months ago. But if Frankie wanted to do things right and start fresh in Austin, he had to make things right with everyone.
"But the truth is, I’m sorry. I messed up," he continued. "I couldn't handle it and I made bad calls. I never wanted to hurt her," he looked at him, "but I did, and looking back, it was so obvious that I would. I don’t understand how I did what I did thinking there wouldn't be consequences."
"Hey, we all screw up sometimes."
"I know, and I’ve screwed up way too many times, let me tell you that."
Santi tilted his head. "You? Never."
Frankie smiled and shook his head. "I’m trying to redeem myself, okay?"
"Okay, Arthur Morgan."
"I just want to make it clear, alright?" Frankie’s expression softened. "I’m sorry for treating her that way, I’m sorry I blew it, and I’m sorry I let you down, too. I promised you I’d look out for her, and I didn't."
"Frank, I’m gonna be straight with you, yeah? I always had the feeling you felt you owed me explanations about your relationship with her. More than what was actually necessary. All that hiding and the whole theater production with the fake date with Benny and all that," Santi grinned, "I won’t deny it was pretty damn funny, but it was unnecessary. If you’d just come to me from the start and told me what was going on, what’s the worst that could’ve happened?”
“You don’t realize how you come across, man,” Frankie said, shaking his head with a smile. "You were making double meaning comments and jokes all the time."
"I know. But I was just messing with you," Santi replied, reaching out to give Frankie’s arm abrief tap. "And yeah, sometimes I questioned whatever was going on between you two because I know you both so well. I’d never seen two people get along so poorly, can you blame me for having doubts when you suddenly started getting along?"
"We didn't get along that badly—"
"She threw a dart at your head, you slammed doors in her face. I had to step between you more than once just to keep the peace."
Frankie ducked his head, nodding. "Right."
"I was a little afraid you’d blow it so badly that I’d feel like I had to choose a side. And she’s my sister, you’re my best friend. No matter the situation, it was gonna be a mess."
"And was it?"
Santi went quiet, staring straight ahead. Frankie watched his profile in silence; those dark eyes were framed by lashes and heavy with thoughts he found himself wanting to uncover with more curiosity than was probably necessary.
"Don't worry about me," Santi said. “We’re good. Really. You’re not a bad guy. Not a bad friend, none of that. You just messed up. And I know I could’ve been a little rough about it.”
Frankie let out a humorless smile. “I had it coming.”
Santi scrunched his nose. “Eh. You were already in a bad place, and I didn’t help. There are better ways to handle things. I probably let my temper take over.”
“You don’t have to tiptoe around me or hold back just because you think I can’t take it, you know that, right?” Frankie said, raising his brows. “That’s what got to me half the time. Feels like, because of everything that’s happened to me, you and the guys pull your punches and it’s exhausting. You were allowed to be mad. You were allowed to be rough. You don’t have to apologize for that like I’m made of glass, Santi. I’m not. Yeah, I nearly died a few times, but so did all of you. So what?"
“I could say the same thing about you.”
Frankie laughed. “What?”
“Yeah. You leave things out. You twist the story, hide stuff, lie by omission just to keep people from getting upset. You did it with me about you and my sister, you did it with her about what happened with Rachel, and with Ben and Will, what, dozens of times?”
Frankie looked down. An involuntary slightly nervous smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.
“You don’t have to filter things for us,” Santi added, giving his arm another light knock. “Not for us, not for anyone. You would’ve saved yourself a lot of trouble just being honest.”
"I know. But if you guys didn’t treat me with such kid gloves all the time, maybe I wouldn’t feel the need to soften things or leave stuff out. Not an excuse, but still.”
“Alright. Okay,” Santi nodded, locking eyes with him. “Deal.”
“What? You’ll talk to the others?”
“Nope. You will.”
Frankie smiled. “Alright. Deal.”
Santi extended his hand once more, but this time it was a peace offering. It was the official start of Frankie’s new life in Austin, packaged in five friendly fingers and a warm palm. He took it firmly, squeezing back as a wave of relief washed through him.
"I’m sorry," he said again.
Santi pursed his lips. "I told you, it’s fine. I’m not the one you need to apologize to."
Frankie felt a slight heaviness cloud his expression and tried to manage it as best he could. In his mind, facing you still felt far off, and he wasn't sure if you wanted that confrontation as much as he did.
“My wedding’s next month.” Santi let go of his hand slowly, near his stomach, giving it one last squeeze.
“I know.”
“I expect you to show up in a big way.”
“I will. I’m getting ready. Read all the instructions Will sent me.”
Santi hummed. "And what’s gonna happen then? You’ll have your room at the Commodore and so will she. I’m expecting a peaceful coexistence. And this isn’t me being intimidating or using double meanings."
Shit. Frankie hadn't given it much thought.
No, scratch that. He had. Way too much. Over and over again. But his thoughts had revolved around what you were feeling and his own insecurities. He hadn't dwelled on the fact that he’d have to spend two nights under the same roof as you; assuming, of course, that you wanted to stay there and not somewhere else.
Though that seemed unlikely. The Commodore had been a gift from Yov’s aunt and uncle, and the guests' stay was part of the package. Two full nights, between the rehearsal dinner and the post-wedding morning. Breakfasts, lunches, dinners... Frankie wasn't sure how much more was included in that stay.
"I’ll be cordial," he finally replied.
Santi arched his eyebrows. "That’s it?" A smirk played on his lips. "You’re not gonna talk to her?"
"I don’t know if she even wants to talk to me, at least not during your wedding."
"Why?"
Frankie sighed, wrinkling his nose slightly as he ran a hand through his messy hair.
"Well, nobody told me she’d gone to New York, either. Maybe she won’t even come back, right?"
Santi’s expression softened, and he nodded with a faint press of his lips. He shifted his weight, leaning his lower back against the counter at an angle toward Frankie.
"I’m sorry. I should’ve told you."
"It’s fine. I went to see her the other day and Emma told me."
"You went to see her?"
"It was stupid. I didn’t even know what I was gonna say," he said, shaking his head. "It’s probably too late anyway."
Santi went quiet for a moment.
"And what did Emma tell you?"
Frankie sighed. “That she might come back, but she’s not sure. Said it was something personal, didn’t give me much more than that.”
"She’s working on a book."
Frankie whipped his head toward Santi so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash. "What?"
Santi nodded. "Yeah. She had dinner with an editor who read the manuscript a week ago, and she landed a book deal. That’s why she extended her stay."
A massive grin broke across Frankie’s face. "That is fucking incredible. What’s she writing about?"
"No idea, she wouldn't tell me. But I know it’s pretty damn hard to connect with those people, so she was beyond excited."
"And how did she meet him?"
"He’s the dad of a friend of hers. Max."
The smile on Frankie’s face faltered just a bit. "Oh."
Santi nodded, immediately catching the brief, nearly imperceptible flicker of emotion that flashed through Frankie’s eyes.
"What? What’s up?"
"Nothing," Frankie said, shaking his head. He knit his brows together. "Who is Max, anyway?"
"Why?"
"I’m just curious."
"He’s a friend of hers, I already told you."
"I know, I know. But they seem pretty close, don’t they?"
Santi crossed his arms. "Really? And how would you know that?"
Frankie huffed a laugh. He gave a subtle shake of his head and adjusted his glasses on the bridge of his nose; a nervous habit he’d picked up recently.
"Frank."
"Will told me."
Santi frowned. "Really? Will told you they were close?"
"He implied it."
"That’s messed up. I’m gonna ask—"
"No."
"Why?"
Frankie sighed, dragging a hand through his hair again. His hands dropped to his hips, feet shifting restlessly.
"I saw him on Instagram."
"Instagram?" Santi arched his eyebrows.
"I just did a little digging, okay? I was curious. Will mentioned him and I needed to settle the doubt."
"I thought you didn't have an Instagram."
"I don't. I mean, I made an account a few days ago. But I don't use it."
"Jesus," Santi laughed, clearly savoring his friend's sudden nerves. "What’s your username? At least let me follow you."
"I don't use it."
“Yeah, yeah, what is it? Come on.”
Frankie rolled his eyes and took off his glasses. He rubbed his eyes for a moment, debating for a split second whether to be honest or not.
"Chandlerbingley."
Santi let out a loud amused laugh, doubling over slightly as he looked at him with wide eyes.
"Chandlerbingley? Could you be any more obvious?"
"What? What’s wrong with it? Every other username was taken."
“Alright, Chandlerbingley. So, what’d you find out, detective?”
Frankie shook his head, slipping his glasses back on. His gaze dropped to his feet, mildly grateful he’d at least managed to wear matching socks today.
"That I don't like Max, whoever the hell he is."
"And it’s not like you can do anything about it, right?"
"Now more than ever, no," he looked at him, humorless. “She’s got bigger things going on. I doubt anything involving me is useful to her right now.”
Santi sighed and clicked his tongue. "And do you think she’ll bring Max to the wedding?"
Frankie felt a wave of nausea.
"What the fuck are you talking about?"
"I’m messing with you."
"Well, don't."
Frankie looked out the kitchen window, watching Will, Ben, and Yov sitting around the table at the far end of the yard. None of them had gotten up or approached the house, likely knowing that inside, he and Santi were having a much needed catharsis.
"She hasn't mentioned Max to me much," Santi said then, instantly snapping Frankie’s attention back. "I just know he’s there and that the book deal happened because of him. He’s this guy’s son, and she met him through Alex, the daughter of one of my mom’s friends."
Frankie gave a steady nod, though the information didn't do much to change how he felt. Behind his eyelids, the images of your photos with him remained as vivid as a fresh tattoo.
"I get it."
Santi exhaled and pushed off from the counter. Behind him, the once-chilled beer cans weren't quite so cold anymore, and the cooler sat open at his feet, still packed with meat and everything else.
"But for now, let’s focus on getting you a place to live," he said, reaching down to grab a few packages. “I’ll give you the number of the guy who helped me with this house. I’m sure he can find you something you’ll like.”
Frankie let out a small laugh and moved to help him with the rest.
“Here’s hoping.”
Outside, the others only had to wait a few minutes longer. Santi and Frankie emerged shortly after, and while the conversation had eased his worries, Frankie couldn't shake that small, persistent doubt pulsing in his chest, constant and tireless.
But he wasn't going to interfere, not in any way. He knew the best thing he could do now was get his life in order; figure out work, actually commit to it. Find a place. Get his head straight. And if everything went right, he’d make it to Santi and Yov’s wedding next month, see you there; without wrecking his heart in the process.
Series Summary: You and Joel concoct a plan to get his ex girlfriend, Tess back into his arms. The plan works, too well, but as time goes on, wires get crossed, words get exchanged feelings get caught…As the beginning of the end starts, Joel slowly starts to wonder if Tess is who he should be with.
Series Warnings/tags: Mainly a fluffington story. Soft!Joel. Oblivious!Joel. Bitofashit!Joel. SweetFunny!reader. Plus-size!reader- No description of reader other than she has a collarbone tattoo, curves, pussy, boobs and bum. Insecurities from reader. Talk of a deceased father. Swearing. Pining. Alcohol/weed consumption. Tommy is a cutie, Tess is-a vibe. There’s a papaMiller whom I’ve named Joseph. Eventual seggsy time🤭
All characters are game based🩷
.Each Part will have its own warning/tags.
•Part One - The Beginning - After Joel goes through a break-up, you come up with a plan after a night of drinking and moping that will bring his ex Tess back into his arms.
•Part Two - The Job - Now that you have your new role as Joel’s girlfriend, you have to play the part: cuddles in public, work parties all hoping to get Tess’ attention.
•Part Three - The Birthday Dinner - It’s Joel’s birthday-you’ve planned the dinner, you made the effort which brings an unwanted guest. Limits get pushed and hurtful words are exchanged.
•Part Four - The Confession - Now that Frankie knows, a sweet reassurance from him makes you second guess everything. But Joel’s recent actions are confusing the hell out of you.
•Part Five - The day of the party - What was meant to be an event of laughter, drinking and acting like fools, is instead one of bitter words, tension and confessions.
•Part Six - The Lake - After Joel reveals his feelings to you, he plans a day out so you two can talk about everything-No running away and no interruptions.
i miss when subscriptions didnt really exist and you could just pay one time to buy an app or some software, and then just.. have it. without ads. without recurring costs. without more paywalls. it was just yours forever.
You were raised to dislike men like Bucky Barnes, and he made it easy— he's arrogant, infuriating, and far too interested in getting under your skin. What starts as nothing but friction turns into something reckless, something neither of you is supposed to want. You don’t belong in his world, and he has no place in yours, which is exactly why it can’t last. But someday, when you leave him behind like you were always meant to, you’ll both realize the same thing too late—enemies were never supposed to feel like this.
݈݇— themes: HISTORICAL/WESTERN AU, Established Relationship, Enemies to Lovers, Forbidden Romance, Opposites attract, He falls first but she falls harder, Forced Proximity, Yearning/Pining, Angst, Crude Humor, Banter, Emotional Damage, Eventual Smut.
part i ᥫ᭡ part ii ᥫ ᭡part iii ᥫ᭡ part iv ᥫ᭡ part v ᥫ᭡ final
݈݇— pairings: HiredGun!Bucky Barnes x Privelegedf!reader
݈݇— themes: HISTORICAL/WESTERN AU, Established Relationship, Enemies to Lovers, Forbidden Romance, Opposites attract, He falls first but she falls harder, Forced Proximity, Yearning/Pining, Angst, Crude Humor, Banter, Emotional Damage, Eventual Smut, No use of Y/N.
݈݇— summary: You tell yourself you’re done with him. You say it enough times that it almost sounds like the truth—just enough to keep yourself standing out of sheer, stubborn pride. You wanted distance, and you got it, because you thought you were the one ending things. You didn’t realize he’d be just as good at finishing them.
Author's Note: Omg didn't get limited for once Yeeey. HELP IM CRYING. Divider by @/anitalenia.
[ Masterlist ] - Part III
A week passed by before you could blink.
Blackwater continued moving the way towns always did but inside the big house at the edge of town, the world had slowed to something far quieter.
You had spent most of the week in your room. Every afternoon the same slow, melancholic melodies drifted through the hallways of the house, notes heavy with feeling and stubborn repetition as though you were trying to wring something painful out of the keys.
You barely went outside, you barely ate. And when you did leave your room it was only to wander down the hallway and return again like a ghost who had forgotten why she was haunting the place.
At some point you had given instructions: If anyone came asking for you, you were not to be disturbed. If anyone insisted, they were to be told you were indisposed.
And if that person happened to be James Barnes…they were to send him away.
The servants had obeyed without question.
It was worse, at night.
The first time you heard it, you thought you had imagined it. The soft taps against the glass of your window. You sat perfectly still on the edge of your bed, your eyes fixed on the dark pane.
It would have been so easy, to stand, to pull the curtain aside, to look but you did none of those things.
Instead, you turned away, climbing back into bed with a rigid sort of resolve, your back to the window as though denying its existence might somehow deny him as well.
The tapping came again the following night. And the one after that. Never forceful enough to draw attention from anyone but you.
You heard it every time. And every time…you remained exactly where you were, stubborn to the point of cruelty.
Toward him and toward yourself.
On this particular evening you were stretched sideways across the bed, facing the wall with your knees drawn slightly toward your chest while the fading light from the window cast pale shadows across the room.
The knock on the door came first then your father stepped inside.
He closed the door quietly behind him before walking over and sitting on the edge of the bed with the cautious air of a man approaching an unpredictable animal. His hands rested on his knees while he studied the back of your head for a moment, clearly deciding how to start a conversation that had been building all week.
“I think you have been staring at that wall for a very long time,” he said gently.
You did not move.
“I am beginning to suspect it has nothing interesting to say back.”
Still nothing.
Your father sighed quietly and leaned forward a little, resting his elbows on his thighs as he watched you with a mixture of concern and thinly disguised curiosity.
“What is it that is bothering you?” he asked. “Is it the Barnes boy—”
“No,” you answered immediately.
The response came so quickly that your father stopped speaking mid-sentence. For a moment he simply blinked then he nodded slowly to himself with the faintest hint of satisfaction creeping into his expression.
“Well,” he said thoughtfully, “that answers that.”
You rolled onto your back and frowned at him. “It does not answer anything.”
“Oh I believe it does,” he replied calmly. “You answered before I even finished the question, which is generally a very reliable indicator of guilt.”
“I am not guilty of anything.”
“You are fond of him.”
“No.”
The answer came just as quickly as the first one. Your father watched you for another moment before his mouth twitched slightly, the corners lifting as though he had just been handed an amusing piece of evidence.
“I see.”
“You do not.”
He leaned back slightly on the mattress, folding his hands over his stomach while he studied the ceiling with exaggerated contemplation.
“You know,” he said casually, “I actually saw you sneak out one night.”
Your head snapped toward him.
“You did not.”
“Oh I absolutely did,” he replied, sounding far too pleased with himself. “Around midnight, if memory serves. You came creeping around the side of the house like a burglar who had suddenly developed very refined manners.”
Heat crept into your face before you could stop it.
“That proves nothing.”
“It proves quite a bit, actually.”
Your father turned his head toward you now, his eyes bright with the kind of curiosity that had clearly been waiting all week to surface.
“Where did you go?”
You stared at him, “I did not go anywhere.”
He raised an eyebrow, “Really?”
“Yes.”
“Because from my window it looked very much like you climbed onto the back of a horse.”
Your eyes narrowed. “That is an extremely creative interpretation of events.”
“Ah,” he said thoughtfully, nodding again. “Then perhaps my imagination also invented the tall gentleman waiting beside the fence.”
You turned back toward the wall, snorting, “Gentleman…right.”
Your father watched the back of your head for another moment before a soft chuckle escaped him.
“Well,” he said lightly, “if nothing else, it is nice to know you are capable of leaving the house voluntarily.”
Silence settled between you again, though this time it was thinner.
Then he added, almost as an afterthought, “You do realize that if you are going to deny being fond of him, you might consider doing it less quickly.”
Your voice drifted back toward him from the direction of the wall, “I do not like him.”
You pushed yourself up slowly, propping yourself against the headboard while the blanket slipped down around your waist. Your hair had come half loose from its pins sometime earlier in the afternoon, and you brushed a strand from your face as you studied him with open suspicion.
“Aren’t you mad?” you asked.
Your father tilted his head slightly, “Mad?”
“Yes,” you said, sitting up straighter now, the question gaining momentum the longer it left your mouth. “At the sneaking out. The… circumstances. Any of it.”
He considered that for a moment.
“Well,” he said slowly, “I was.”
He chuckled under his breath and leaned back on one hand against the mattress, clearly enjoying the direction the conversation had taken far more than he should have.
“I would be a terrible hypocrite if I lectured you too severely,” he continued. “It would require me to pretend I did not do something equally foolish in my youth.”
Your brows lifted, “You?”
“Oh yes,” he said, sounding far too comfortable with the admission. “I was once very young and very stupid.”
“That is difficult to imagine.”
“It is difficult for me to imagine as well,” he admitted, the corners of his mouth tugging upward again. “But it happened all the same.”
You watched him closely, “So you are not angry?”
He waved a hand dismissively.
“Concerned, perhaps. Curious, certainly. Angry would require me to forget my own past, and that seems unnecessarily dishonest.”
You studied him, still waiting for the reprimand that stubbornly refused to arrive, “And the sneaking out?”
“Yes, that part,” he said, nodding thoughtfully. “Technically very improper.”
You waited and he sighed lightly.
“Although,” he added with an almost sheepish glance in your direction, “I will admit there may have been a small amount of favoritism involved in my decision not to make a great spectacle of it.”
“Favoritism.”
“Yes.”
You scoffed softly at that and pushed the blanket the rest of the way aside as you swung your legs over the edge of the bed. Your shoulders lifted in a small, dismissive shrug as though the answer had been predictable all along.
“Well then,” you said dryly, brushing invisible wrinkles from your skirt, “what happens now?”
“You tell me.” Your father watched you with quiet interest.
You crossed your arms loosely over your chest and leaned one shoulder against the bedpost, the look in your eyes searching.
“You are not going to tell me to stay away from him?” you asked, one brow lifting. “No stern lecture about the dangers of associating with gunslingers and troublemakers? No speech about my duty to marry a man of suitable status and impeccable breeding?”
Your father’s mouth twitched. “Should I?”
“That is generally how these conversations go,” you replied, the faintest hint of sarcasm creeping into your tone. “Concerned father discovers daughter has been spending time with a man who does not possess a respectable title or an inherited fortune and immediately begins recommending bankers.”
Your father chuckled quietly. “Bankers are very dull… always talking about money.”
“Right,” you said lightly, though something sharper lingered just beneath the humor.
“My concern is not his status,” he said slowly, “I think they have a title for themselves…they do run this town.”
Your gaze flicked back to him. “Then what is it?”
Your father leaned back slightly on the mattress again, folding his hands loosely together as he regarded you with the thoughtful patience of someone who had spent the entire week observing you pretend you were not heartbroken.
“My concern…” he said gently, “is that you look as though someone has stolen the sun out of your sky.”
You looked away almost immediately.
Your father watched the reaction and nodded slightly, as though confirming a suspicion he had already formed. Then, he added with a soft sigh, “And I suspect the Barnes boy might have something to do with that.”
A long sigh slipped out of you.
“If you want to go back to England,” he said gently, “we can make arrangements tommorow. The rail line will be finished in three months. After that, there won’t be much reason for us to stay.”
The words hung in the air between you.
“Or… you could extend your stay here with me for three more months. I won’t force either choice on you. This was always meant to be temporary.”
You lifted your eyes to meet his. For the first time all week, the careful mask you had been wearing cracked just enough for him to see the storm behind it.
Your father gave a small, understanding nod.
“Take your time,” he said quietly. “Think it over. Whatever you decide… I’ll support it.”
The room fell silent once more, the only sound the faint ticking of the clock on the mantel. You stared at the floor, heart twisting with the weight of a decision you hadn’t realized you would have to make so soon.
Home or three more months in Blackwater.
× × × ×
The following morning was the first time in days that you allowed yourself to leave the house.
It had taken considerable persuasion from Mrs. Harrow, who had appeared at your bedroom door with the determined patience of a woman who had raised three sons and therefore feared very little when it came to stubborn young people.
“You need the sun,” she had announced bluntly. “And if you sit in that room one more day playing funeral music, I shall personally drag you into the sunlight.”
You had tried to protest.
Mrs. Harrow had not been moved.
So now you walked beside her along the main street of Blackwater, the late morning sun warm against your shoulders while the town carried on around you in its usual restless rhythm. Horses stomped and snorted beside hitching rails, wagons rattled past in clouds of dust, and the general store buzzed with voices drifting in and out of the open doorway.
Mrs. Harrow carried a basket on her arm and seemed entirely content to narrate the errands of the morning with cheerful efficiency while you followed beside her, still adjusting to the idea of being back among people.
“You see that butcher there,” she was saying, nodding toward a thick-armed man hauling crates across the street. “Last winter he tried to sell me goat and swear it was lamb. I told him if he ever tried it again I would feed him the entire carcass myself.”
You almost smiled.
Almost.
Your attention drifted away from the conversation as you both approached the grocer’s stand where several townsfolk had gathered to barter over produce and sacks of grain.
That was when you saw a young cowboy leaned lazily against the counter while speaking with a girl who looked barely older than you had been when you first attended your debut season. She laughed at something he said, her cheeks pink beneath the brim of her bonnet.
The man reached up, lifted his hat and settled it gently onto her head. The girl’s face lit up instantly, her laughter turning shy as she reached up to adjust the brim.
Your steps slowed.
The sight struck you harder than you expected. The memory of a moonlit field, the weight of a hat being dropped carelessly onto your own head while Bucky grinned at you like he had just made some private declaration you did not fully understand.
You turned toward Mrs. Harrow and asked, “Why did he do that?”
She paused mid-step and followed your gaze toward the pair by the grocer. When she saw what had happened, her expression softened slightly with understanding.
“Oh,” she said gently. Mrs. Harrow glanced back at you, the faintest hint of a smile touching her mouth.
“Well,” she said, adjusting the basket on her arm, “around here that tends to mean a man’s taken a liking to a girl.”
You frowned faintly, “That seems like a rather casual way to express affection.”
Mrs. Harrow chuckled under her breath.
“It isn’t casual at all,” she replied. “A cowboy doesn’t give his hat away lightly. It’s a way of saying she belongs under his protection now.”
You blinked. Your hand drifted instinctively toward your head before you stopped yourself.
“And,” Mrs. Harrow added after a moment, her voice turning slightly more amused, “it’s usually a sign he’s claimed her in front of everyone.”
Your stomach flipped unpleasantly.
You looked back toward the grocer where the girl was still standing beside the young cowboy, laughing softly while she adjusted the brim of the hat perched on her head. The man beside her looked entirely too pleased with himself, leaning there like he had just accomplished something of great importance.
Mrs. Harrow watched your face with increasing interest.
Then she asked, far too innocently, “Why do you ask, dear?”
You tore your attention away from the scene and gave a small, dismissive shrug that you hoped looked convincingly casual.
“Oh—nothing,” you said lightly, forcing a faint note of indifference into your voice. “I have simply seen it happen a few times since arriving here. I was curious whether it was some peculiar frontier habit.”
Mrs. Harrow raised a brow.
“Curious.”
“Yes,” you replied quickly, already turning away from the grocer stand. “Anthropological curiosity.”
She hummed in a way that suggested she believed absolutely none of that, but she allowed the subject to drop as the two of you continued down the street.
It might have been almost pleasant, until the street curved slightly and the saloon came into view.
You felt it before you even looked.
The strange sensation prickled along the back of your neck first, that unmistakable awareness of being watched.
Your steps slowed almost imperceptibly.
The saloon doors stood open as usual, the dim interior just visible beyond the swinging wood panels while the murmur of male voices drifted faintly out onto the street.
You kept your eyes forward but you could feel more than a pair of eyes.
Mrs. Harrow, walking beside you, noticed the subtle change in your posture immediately.
Her gaze flicked toward the saloon then back to you.
“Well,” she said calmly, as if commenting on the weather, “I believe you have admirers.”
Against your better judgment, you allowed your gaze to drift toward the open saloon doors just long enough to confirm what your nerves had already warned you about.
Several of the Barnes men were gathered just outside the entrance, lounging along the railing and hitching posts in the lazy way men do when they have nowhere pressing to be.
You recognized them instantly—Lachlan among them and Sam, along with two others who had once been far too entertained watching Bucky pester you through town like a determined hound.
One of them nudged another the moment he noticed you passing. Another tipped his hat in exaggerated politeness.
Bucky stood a little apart from the others near the doorway, one shoulder leaning against the wooden post, hat low over his brow the way he often wore it when he was watching something he did not want to be obvious about.
Unfortunately for you, the moment your eyes flicked that direction, his lifted.
Your gazes collided, so your head snapped forward again so quickly it almost made your bonnet ribbons flutter.
It did not take long before you reached the small storefront she had been aiming for, a narrow building with dusty windows and a hand-painted sign swinging gently above the door.
Mrs. Harrow paused at the entrance and shifted the basket on her arm while glancing inside as though calculating how long her errand might take.
“I will not be long,” she said, turning back toward you. “There is a bolt of fabric inside that I need to inspect, and I suspect the shopkeeper will insist on telling me the life story of every sheep involved in its production.”
You nodded politely.
“I shall wait here.”
Mrs. Harrow studied you for a moment as though debating whether leaving you unattended on the main street of Blackwater was wise, then apparently decided that daylight and public scrutiny were sufficient safeguards.
“Do try not to start any frontier scandals while I am gone,” she added lightly.
“I shall do my best,” you replied with dry dignity.
She disappeared inside.
You remained where you were beside the storefront, gloved hands folded neatly in front of you while you attempted to look like a woman simply enjoying air rather than someone who had just fled a pair of very familiar blue eyes two buildings away.
You were beginning to relax again when a shadow drifted into your peripheral vision.
“Miss,” a rough voice said.
You turned.
A thin, unshaven man stood there, hat in his hands and shoulders hunched in the practiced posture of someone who had spent years asking strangers for kindness.
“Beggin’ your pardon,” he continued, “but I ain’t had a bite since yesterday. Thought maybe a fine lady like yourself might spare a coin.”
Your expression softened instantly. “Oh—”
Your hand moved toward the small reticule hanging from your wrist as you began fumbling gently through it, searching for something you could give him.
“Just a moment,” you murmured, already digging through the contents. “I am certain I have something—”
“Leave her alone.”
The voice came from directly behind you: Deep. Calm. Annoyingly familiar.
The beggar’s head lifted instantly, recognition flashing across his face with the speed of a man who had just spotted a very unwelcome sheriff.
Bucky stepped forward from behind you, appearing as though he had been standing there the entire time, his hat tipped slightly back now while he regarded the man with familiarity.
“Move along, Eddie,” he said casually.
The beggar grimaced, “Aw, come on, Bucky. I was just—”
“You were just about to take that money straight to the poker table,” Bucky interrupted, his tone still pleasant but carrying enough authority. “Same as last Tuesday.”
The man looked briefly offended. “That ain’t proven.”
“You lost your boots doin’ it.”
The beggar sighed dramatically and shoved his hat back onto his head. “Fine,” he muttered. “But you ain’t gotta ruin my reputation in front of the nice lady.”
“You ruined that yourself,” Bucky replied lazily.
With one last disgruntled glance at you, the man shuffled away down the street.
You did not turn around. You knew he was still there without looking, the awareness of him settling against your back like heat from a fire you refused to face.
“Can I have a moment with you?”
You continued staring straight ahead at the dusty road. You could practically feel him weighing his next move.
A rustle reached your ears as he shifted his weight and removed his hat, the faint scrape of leather against his fingers carrying just enough irritation to betray that your refusal was not part of whatever plan he had come here with.
“Please,” he said, the words softer now but edged with frustration.
You inhaled slowly through your nose before finally turning to face him. Your expression had already been carefully arranged into something cool and impersonal by the time your eyes met his.
“We have nothing more to discuss.”
Bucky’s jaw tightened slightly, hat hanging loosely from his hand while his gaze searched your face like he was trying to find some trace of the girl who had laughed beneath the fireflies only a week before.
“Will you please let me explain?” he asked. The earnestness in his voice almost made you falter. Instead you lifted your chin just slightly, the gesture small but unmistakably proud.
“There is no need.”
He blinked. “Why?”
“Because I said there is no need,” you repeated with quiet precision. “I have thought about it and I may have used you as you have, me. I assure you I am perfectly aware that it was nothing more than a moment of misplaced enthusiasm.”
You kept your eyes averted, “And now that the moment has passed,” you finished, “there is truly nothing left to explain.”
He simply stood there and remained lookin at you with an intensity that made the air between you feel suddenly tight.
“You can say it meant nothin’ all you like,” he said incredulously. “That don’t make it true.”
His gaze sharpened.
“You can’t even look at me when you say it,” he hissed, the accusation slipping out before he bothered to soften it.
You forced your eyes back to his face, your expression tightening as you lifted your chin again. “That is absurd.”
“Is it?” He hissed, his emotions becoming less controlled. “You were lookin’ at me just fine a minute ago.”
Your lips pressed together. “Mr. Barnes—”
“Don’t,” he cut in sharply, shaking his head once like he physically could not tolerate the formality. “Don’t start talkin’ to me like I’m some stranger on the street because I am not—You know me. You felt me. You think I don’t see it in your eyes?”
Your gaze hardens as you drew in a breath. His eyes searched your face again, searching the truth beneath every nit-picked words you had spoken.
“You’re gonna stand there,” he said, incredulous, “and tell me that night we kissed didn’t mean a damn thing to you?”
You met his gaze directly.
“Yes,” you said evenly and cutting. “That’s exactly what I’m telling you. It didn’t mean a thing.”
You watched the words land, watched the way his shoulders stiffened and the light in his eyes fractured.
“Whatever you think happened between us… it was a mistake. I’m finished with you.”
Bucky stared at you without blinking. You watched his face harden, all softness vanishing in an instant. You turned away before he could see the way your hands trembled at your sides.
He nodded slowly, the movement almost thoughtful, “Alright, my bad for assuming.”
He looked down briefly, brushing his thumb along the brim of the hat still in his hand as if considering something carefully. When he looked up again, the expression on his face had changed in a way that made your stomach twist.
“You know,” he said, almost conversationally, “that actually makes a lot more sense now.”
He shrugged one shoulder, the motion too casual to be real, “The kiss,” he continued. “If it didn’t mean nothin’ to you, that explains why you weren’t very good at it.”
Bucky tilted his head slightly, studying you with a gaze that suddenly felt far less gentle.
“I figured maybe you were nervous,” he went on, his voice still maddeningly calm, “considerin’ all that proper upbringing and those fancy drawing rooms you come from. Thought maybe it was just your first time kissin’ someone who didn’t ask permission through three chaperones and a formal invitation.”
He let the silence stretch for a beat, watching the way your throat worked.
“But if you’re tellin’ me it meant nothin’,” he added with a small, careless shrug, “then I guess that’s just how you are.”
Bucky let out a scoff and slid his hat back onto his head.
“Honestly,” he said, glancing down the street like the conversation had already lost its importance, “I was startin’ to wonder what all the fuss was about.”
He paused just long enough to look at you again, his mouth twisting into something faintly mocking.
“I’ve been kissed harder by girls who didn’t even remember my name the next morning.”
The world around you blurring faintly as you forced your composure to remain intact. You lifted your chin with a brittle smile.
“Good for you, James.”
“There you are, dear!” Mrs. Harrow called brightly.
You looked at him one last time and whispered, "Farewell."
You turned almost too quickly at the presence of Mrs. Harrow, using the movement as an excuse to break away from the unbearable tension standing only a few feet behind you. Your hand rose immediately to your face, brushing beneath your eyes as though you were merely adjusting your glove.
Mrs. Harrow stepped out onto the street carrying her basket, pausing mid-step when she noticed your expression.
“Oh my goodness,” she said with sudden concern, moving closer. “Are you crying?”
You shook your head at once.
“No,” you answered quickly, blinking once as you forced the moisture from your lashes and straightened your posture again. “It is merely dust.”
“Well,” she said at last, slipping her arm gently through yours, “Blackwater does seem to have an unusual amount of that today.”
The two of you moved gradually farther down the road, your skirts catching the sunlight while Mrs. Harrow continued speaking softly beside you.
Meanwhile, something inside Bucky’s chest twisted unpleasantly. The echo of his own words replayed in his head with irritating clarity, each one sounding harsher now than it had when they left his mouth only moments ago.
Bucky exhaled sharply through his nose. He had wanted to hurt you back, and he had succeeded.
“Fuck,” he hissed under his breath, regret coming in way to fast.
His fingers dragged once through his hair beneath the brim of his hat before he dropped his hand again, his gaze still fixed stubbornly on the shrinking shape of you disappearing farther down the street.
He turned at last and walked back toward the saloon, the weight of his own words following him like a shadow he could not outrun.
× × × ×
Meanwhile at the railroad afternoon sun hung heavy over the stretch of land where the new railroad was slowly carving its way through the frontier.
Dust clung to everything—the rails stacked in neat iron lines, the piles of timber waiting to be laid, the men moving back and forth with hammers and tools while the sound of metal striking metal echoed across the open ground.
Your father stood near the edge of the worksite with a rolled set of blueprints tucked beneath one arm, his coat slung over his shoulder despite the temperature.
His gaze moved thoughtfully across the progress being made, measuring distances and angles the way a man does when his fortune is quite literally being built one rail at a time.
Beside him, George Barnes stood with his boots planted firmly in the dirt, watching the same operation.
For a while the two men said nothing then your father glanced sideways. It was not a casual glance. It was the sort of slow, measuring look one man gives another when a conversation is about to become… delicate.
George noticed immediately and flatly acknowledged your father, “What?”
Your father took his time answering.
“I was merely thinking,” he said lightly, brushing a bit of dust from the edge of the blueprint roll.
George did not look convinced. “That’s usually when trouble starts.”
Your father smiled faintly at that before letting his gaze drift back over the construction site.
“My daughter,” he started and George stiffened just slightly though your father pretended not to notice, “She seems rather fond of your son.”
George shifted his stance and spat lightly into the dust beside his boot before glancing back toward the line of workers as if the conversation had nothing whatsoever to do with him.
“Does she.”
Your father nodded slowly, “Quite noticeably so.”
George let out a small breath through his nose that might have been a laugh if it had contained any humor.
“Well,” he said dryly, “that makes one of ’em.”
Your father turned his head, “I beg your pardon?”
George finally looked at him fully, “My boy’s an idiot.”
Your father’s brow lifted slightly, “That seems a rather harsh assessment.”
“It’s an accurate one.”
“From my observation,” he said mildly, “the feeling appears to be mutual.”
George’s mouth flattened. “That’s exactly the problem.”
Your father folded his arms loosely, the faintest trace of amusement touching his expression, “You disapprove.”
George did not hesitate, “Yes.”
Your father nodded thoughtfully, as if this confirmed something he had already suspected.
“Is that because you believe my daughter is unsuitable for your son,” he asked calmly, “or because you believe your son is unsuitable for my daughter?”
“It’s because I know exactly how that story ends.”
“Well,” he said lightly, adjusting the rolled blueprint beneath his arm, “I did not realize I was standing beside a part-time fortune teller.”
He chuckled at his own remark, clearly pleased with it. George turned his head slowly and gave him a look that could only be described as deeply unimpressed.
Your father’s laughter lingered a moment longer before he cleared his throat and straightened again, though the faint amusement remained in his expression.
George did not smile.
“No,” he said flatly. “I ain’t a fortune teller.”
His gaze drifted out across the railroad line, watching a group of men haul another iron rail into place while the foreman shouted directions.
“I just see far too much of myself in the boy.”
Your father tilted his head slightly. “That does not sound like the worst thing in the world.”
George gave a short, humorless exhale through his nose. “You’d think so.”
Your father waited.
George shifted his weight and planted his hands on his hips, his eyes narrowing slightly as if he were looking at something far beyond the stretch of rail and dust in front of them.
“Bucky’s mother,” he said slowly, “came from the kind of society your daughter grew up in.”
Your father turned his head. “Is that so.”
George nodded once.
“We were young,” George went on. “Too young to be thinkin’ about consequences and too stubborn to care even if we had.”
A wagon rattled past behind them, but neither man paid it any attention. George rubbed a hand slowly along the back of his neck before going on.
“I didn’t even know she’d had a child.”
Your father’s expression shifted slightly at that.
“Until one night,” George added quietly, “someone knocked on my door.” He paused briefly, the memory clearly sharp even after all the years that had passed.
“I opened it and found a basket sittin’ on the porch.”
Your father frowned faintly. “And inside?”
“A baby,” George said. “My baby.”
He let out a humorless breath.
“Little thing couldn’t have been more than a few days old. Wrapped up tight like somebody wanted to make sure the cold didn’t get him before I did.”
Your father remained silent, absorbing the story. George’s gaze dropped briefly toward the ground before he continued.
“There was a letter,” he said. “From her family. Said the girl would be married off proper to some wealthy man back in England. Said the child couldn’t stay where she was.”
Your father’s expression had lost its earlier humor entirely, “And you raised him alone.”
George nodded. “Best I could.”
Your father was quiet for a moment before replying. “Well,” he said slowly, “from what I have seen of your son, you did not do such a poor job.”
George’s jaw tightened slightly. The two men stood in silence before your father eventually spoke again.
“But I understand your point,” he said slowly, “Why you believe this story will end badly.”
George finally looked at him again.
“Because I know exactly what happens when men like me and women like your daughter cross paths,” he said bluntly. “It ends with someone walkin’ away and someone else left holdin’ the consequences.”
Your father regarded him thoughtfully for a moment. Then he let out a quiet breath and glanced back toward the rail line stretching across the land.
“Well,” he said after a moment, “for what it’s worth…”
George looked at him warily.
“…my daughter is far more stubborn than the woman you’re describing.”
George did not look reassured. If anything, the comment seemed to deepen the lines across his brow. Your father, however, appeared faintly amused now, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly as though he had just remembered something particularly entertaining.
“To give you some idea,” he continued, folding the blueprint beneath his arm, “my daughter has rejected quite a remarkable number of suitors over the past few years.”
George glanced sideways at him. “Oh?”
“Oh yes,” your father said lightly. “Good men, respectable men, extremely wealthy men, and at least one very persistent young viscount whose mother has still not forgiven us for the outcome.”
George huffed quietly through his nose.
“Declined all without hesitation,” your father continues. “In fact, at one point she informed me quite calmly that she would much prefer to become a spinster than marry someone she did not find… interesting.”
George stared at him.
Your father’s expression softened as he said it, the stern businessman fading for a moment beneath the fondness of a father who knew his daughter far too well.
“It was a very dignified declaration, delivered over tea with the utmost seriousness. I believe the exact phrasing was something along the lines of ‘If I must spend my life in conversation with a man, Father, I would prefer that man possess at least a marginally functioning personality.’”
George’s mouth twitched despite himself.
“And that,” your father said with a small shrug, “is precisely why I brought her out here.”
George frowned faintly. “You brought her here because she won’t marry?”
“I brought her here,” your father corrected gently, “because I thought the frontier might broaden her perspective,” he said mildly. “Introduce her to people who are perhaps a little less… rehearsed than the gentlemen she has been politely rejecting for the past two years.”
“She has lived her entire life surrounded by etiquette lessons, and carefully arranged introductions to men who believe that reciting their family titles counts as personality.”
George studied him carefully. “And now she’s met my boy.”
Your father’s smile deepened just a fraction, “Yes.”
George exhaled slowly through his nose, rubbing the back of his neck again as though the entire situation had suddenly become a great deal more complicated than he preferred.
“That ain’t exactly the direction I was hopin’ this conversation would go.”
Your father chuckled softly.
“From what I have observed,” he replied, “the direction was chosen the moment those two first looked at each other.”
George muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like a curse.
“You know,” he said slowly, “my daughter was always admired in London.”
George gave a small grunt that might have been an agreement. “I do not doubt it.”
“She shines in London,” he starts. “But here…” He shook his head slightly, the fondness in his expression deepening, “…here she burns so brightly it is almost alarming.”
Then your father sighed quietly.
“Although,” he added after a moment, his tone shifting into something more contemplative, “I do not know what your boy did.”
George’s eyes flicked toward him.
“But whatever it was,” your father continued, still watching the worksite rather than the man beside him, “that light seemed to have been snuffed out about a week ago.”
George went very still and pressed his lips together.
“When she first arrived here,” he went on, “she argued with me about everything. She laughed easily. She wandered half this town asking questions about horses, guns, and rail gauges.”
He paused briefly, “Now she hardly leaves the house.”
George exhaled slowly through his nose, the breath heavy enough to carry the weight of a man who already had built brewing.
“That one’s on me.”
Your father’s brow lifted slightly. George stared out at the rails again, his jaw tightening as though the admission tasted unpleasant.
“I set him up,” he said bluntly. “Thought if the girl saw him with someone else it might… put an end to things before they got deep.”
Your father did not speak. George gave a small, humorless laugh.
“The boy didn’t know a damn thing about it,” he added. “Walked straight into the trap like a fool.”
“You staged it?”
George nodded once. “Yeah. Figured it’d be easier if she hated him.”
“Well,” he said with resignation, “that explains quite a lot.”
Your father folded his arms loosely and turned his gaze back toward the half-finished railway stretching across the land.
“Unfortunately,” he added mildly, “the matter may already be resolved.”
George glanced sideways at him. “What do you mean?”
“I have booked passage back to England,” he said.
George’s head turned fully now. “For you?”
“For my daughter. She leave soon,” your father continued evenly. “Once the next supply train arrives, we will travel east and board a ship from New York.”
George stared at him.
“She might never come back,” your father added thoughtfully, letting the words hung there. Then he continued, almost conversationally, “And if that happens, your son will never see her again.”
George’s jaw tightened.
“Ever.”
George let out a long, frustrated exhale and scrubbed a hand roughly down his face as if trying to wipe the entire conversation away.
“For-ever,” he finished quietly.
George glanced at him, irritation flashing across his expression before he threw both hands out slightly in exasperation.
“Alright, I get it!” he said, the words coming out sharper now as his patience finally snapped. “You don’t gotta keep drivin’ the knife in.”
Your father lifted one brow in mild surprise, though the corner of his mouth twitched faintly as if he had expected precisely that reaction.
George shifted his weight in the dust, clearly uncomfortable now that the implications of his own scheme had been laid out so plainly.
“You’re tellin’ me the girl’s heartbroken, the boy’s confused as hell, and now she’s packin’ her bags for the other side of the damn ocean,” he continued gruffly. “Yeah, I understand the picture.”
Your father tilted his head slightly. “Do you?”
George shot him a look. “Yes, I do.”
Your father smiled pleasantly.
George stared at him for a moment longer before throwing one hand out in frustration, the gesture rough and impatient.
“Well then what the hell do you want me to do!?” he demanded, irritated.
Your father’s expression did not change.
“I do not know,” he said mildly while shrugging. “You created this mess.”
George pinched his nose bridge and shook his head.
“It might have been simpler,” your father added calmly, “if you had spoken to me first.”
George frowned. “About what?”
“About your concerns,” your father replied evenly. “Father to father.”
George stared at him. “You’re serious?”
“I am.”
Your father folded his arms loosely across his chest, his tone still infuriatingly reasonable.
“You assumed the worst, devised a rather theatrical solution, and broke the hearts of two young people in the process,” he continued. “All without once considering the possibility of a conversation.”
George muttered something under his breath.
“Had you simply come to me, we might have discovered that our concerns were not entirely different.”
George let out a short, incredulous laugh and turned toward the shorter man fully now, clearly struggling to reconcile what he was hearing.
“Hold on,” he said, raising a hand slightly as though stopping the entire conversation mid-track. “You’re tellin’ me you’re completely fine with your daughter bein’ with my son?”
“The world,” he said slowly at last, “has a habit of changing whether we approve of it or not.”
George frowned. “Meaning what?”
“Meaning that sooner or later,” your father continued calmly, “these rigid ideas of status and rank that society clings to so desperately will become far less important than people currently believe.”
George gave him a skeptical look.
“That sounds real nice comin’ from a man whose daughter grew up in luxury.”
Your father smiled faintly at that, clearly unsurprised by the remark.
“Perhaps,” he said. “But even a luxurious life cannot hold back the future forever.”
George folded his arms, “You’d let your daughter marry a retired outlaw’s son without battin’ an eye.”
Your father tilted his head slightly. “I did not say that.”
George snorted. “Knew it.”
“What I said,” your father continued patiently, “is that the situation may be quite as simple as you believe.”
George’s brow creased. “How so?”
Your father finally turned to face him again.
“You told me yourself that your son’s mother was a woman of high society,” he said evenly. “Which means your boy is not entirely as low-born as you keep insisting.”
George blinked. “Well… no, but—”
“And if we are being entirely honest,” your father added mildly, “the frontier has a curious way of rearranging the social hierarchy.”
“In London,” he continues, “my daughter would be surrounded by men who inherited their fortunes and never lifted a finger to earn them.”
He gestured faintly toward the railway stretching across the land. “Out here,” he continued, “a man’s worth tends to be measured by what he builds.”
George followed the gesture, watching the line of iron disappearing into the distance.
“And your boy,” your father added quietly, “appears to build quite a lot.”
George was left with no words then he exhaled slowly through his nose for the umteenth time.
“Well,” he muttered, “I fucked up.”
× × × ×
Night had settled over Blackwater by the time George returned to town. Lantern light glowed warmly through the dusty windows of the saloon while the piano inside hammered out something fast and reckless, and the moment he stepped inside, his eyes swept the room automatically.
It took him approximately three seconds to locate the problem.
Bucky was slouched in a chair near the center table with a bottle of whiskey hanging loosely from one hand, a loose circle of very entertained women gathered around his table like moths drawn to a particularly reckless flame.
Bucky looked thoroughly drunk; his grin was crooked, his hair slightly disheveled beneath the brim of his hat, and the lazy tilt of his posture suggested he had been holding court for a while now.
The girls burst into laughter. Bucky replied at what she said easily, taking another careless swig from the bottle.
“What the hell are you doin’?” George’s voice boomed.
Bucky froze mid-sip and slowly, he lowered the bottle. The girls looked up first then Bucky turned his head. George stood near the entrance, arms folded, his expression carved entirely from irritation and fatherly disbelief.
The music in the saloon continued behind them, but the table around Bucky had suddenly gone quiet.
“Enjoyin’ myself,” he said plainly.
George stared at him, then he looked at the girls and back at his son.
“Enjoyin’ yourself,” he repeated flatly.
One of the girls giggled nervously. Bucky spread one arm lazily along the back of the chair beside him.
“Yeah,” he added. “You should try it sometime.”
George took two steps forward and the girls scattered instantly. Bucky watched them go with mild disappointment before glancing back up at his father. George planted both hands on the table and leaned down toward him.
“What,” he asked slowly, “the fuck are you doin’?”
Bucky tilted his head back against the chair and stared up at the ceiling for a moment like a man contemplating the mysteries of the universe.
George’s jaw tightened, “You’re makin’ a spectacle of yourself.”
Bucky gave a small shrug. “Seems like the theme of the week.”
George stared at him for another long second, his expression slowly shifting from irritation into something far more dangerous.
“Well,” he said flatly, straightening up and folding his sleeves, “since it’s the theme of the week, I’m sure you won’t mind if I dunk your head in ice.”
Bucky blinked, “Now hold on—”
George did not wait for the rest of the sentence.
The next thing Bucky knew, his chair had been shoved back and his father had a firm grip on the collar of his shirt, hauling him bodily across the saloon floor while several nearby patrons immediately leaned back to get out of the way.
“Hey—hey—” Bucky protested, trying to dig his boots into the floor. “What the hell—”
The bartender stepped aside without a word as George dragged his son toward the bar like a man handling an unruly sack of grain.
“Dad—”
George shoved Bucky forward and promptly plunged his head straight into the large bucket of ice water used for chilling bottles behind the counter.
The entire bar went silent for half a second.
Bucky thrashed violently as the freezing water soaked his hair and shirt collar, his hands grabbing at the edge of the counter while muffled curses bubbled somewhere beneath the surface.
George held him there with the calm patience of a man who had done this before, “One… two… three…”
Finally he hauled Bucky back upright. Water poured off his hair and down his face while he sucked in a huge breath of air like a man who had just resurfaced from the bottom of the ocean.
George kept one hand on the back of his neck and studied him critically.
“Well,” he asked, completely serious, “you awake yet?”
Bucky blinked through dripping water, hair plastered to his forehead and shirt now thoroughly soaked and gave his dad a shit-eating grin.
“…No,” he muttered and hoarsely laughed.
George sighed heavily and shoved his son's head back into the water.
A short while later the noise of the saloon had faded behind them, replaced by the soft tune of crickets outside. The night air was cool, the lantern lights now spilled softly across the boards.
Bucky sat slouched in one of the old chairs with a steaming mug of coffee in his hands, his hair still damp and curling slightly at the tips where it had begun to dry. He’s now shirtless, but at least the cold water had chased away most of the whiskey haze from his eyes.
Most of it.
He lifted the mug and took a long swallow before lowering it again with a soft exhale, blinking slowly out at the dark street like a man trying to remember how the world worked.
George stood leaning against one of the porch posts nearby, arms folded across his chest while he watched his son with the weary patience of someone who had been dealing with this particular human being for far too many years.
“You still drunk?” George asked.
Bucky rolled the coffee around in the mug thoughtfully before answering, “I’m alert.”
George pushed himself off the porch post and stepped forward a little, the boards creaking beneath his boots.
“I owe you an apology,” he cleared his throat, not used to being the one apologizing. “I was wrong…”
Bucky’s laugh this time was sharp and humorless. “I knew it—”
“I spoke with her father today,” he continued gruffly. “And for what it’s worth the man ain’t against you.”
Bucky slowly turned his head. George met his gaze squarely.
“Says the world’s changin’ whether folks like it or not,” he went on. “Says that your last name don’t bother him near as much as I thought it would.”
Bucky stared at him, the words settling in slowly through the lingering fog of whiskey and anger.
George shrugged one shoulder.
“So…” he trailed off, his tone turning blunt again as he gestured vaguely toward the dark street beyond the porch, “do with that information what you will.”
George watched him for another moment, studying the expression that had settled across his son’s face. Then he pushed himself away from the porch railing with a tired sigh, deciding whether to go back inside.
“I’ve said my piece. Go after her, don’t go after her—that’s your choice.” he muttered, rolling his shoulders slightly as if the entire conversation had aged him another five years.
Bucky scoffed.
“Well I managed to screw it further and now she already hates me,” he muttered. “And you succeeded, so… is there even a point?”
George exhaled heavily and dragged a hand down his face. For once he didn’t leave it at that and let his son figure it out on his own.
“Boy,” he said roughly to make sure Bucky is listening, “if you wait until she stops bein’ mad to go after her, you’ll be waitin’ forever. Women like her don’t stay mad because they hate you. They stay mad because they cared enough to get hurt in the first place.”
He stepped closer, boots scraping on the porch boards. George clapped a heavy hand on Bucky’s shoulder, squeezing once.
“Don’t let pride steal the only good thing that’s come your way in years.” He gave one last firm pat and turned toward the saloon door.
Bucky rolled his eyes and muttered to himself, "That's rich coming from you."
× × × ×
The day you finally travel back to England has arrived and the open trunk on your bed slowly filled with the careful pieces of your life. Dresses were folded neatly, ribbons tucked between layers of fabric, gloves placed in corners so they would not wrinkle. You were deciding whether the pale green day dress deserved a place in the trunk when something slipped from the edge of the mattress.
Your sketchbook struck the floor with a soft thump.
You paused, staring at it before bending to retrieve it. The familiar worn leather felt heavier than it should as you carried it back to the bed and sat on the edge.
The first page showed a loose study of the woodland trail behind the house, the pencil lines light and exploratory as you tried to capture the strange twist of the western trees that looked nothing like the forests back home. You turned the page slowly.
The next drawing was of a horse standing beside a fence rail, head lowered while the wind stirred the grass around its hooves.
Another page. A quick charcoal sketch of the lake plateau appeared, the jagged mountains rising in the distance and the water stretched like glass beneath them.
Your fingers stilled.
There, beside the lake, was a second figure.
It was only a profile study at first glance, the brim of his hat tipped low, one knee bent as he leaned back against the tree beside you. The lines were quick but unmistakable, the angle of his jaw captured with surprising accuracy, the loose posture of a man entirely too comfortable in someone else’s quiet space.
Then you turned the page. The lavender field appeared.
Your pencil strokes had grown softer there, almost dreamlike, the flowers drifting across the page while small dots of light scattered through the air above them.
And in the center of the drawing—Bucky again.
This time he stood half-turned toward you, hat in one hand, his expression faintly amused the way it had been when he blew out the lantern and the fireflies had risen around you both.
Your chest tightened. You flipped the page quickly. Another sketch of him appeared. Then another.
One where he sat on his horse, looking over his shoulder.
One where he stood with his arms folded, laughing at something you could no longer remember.
Another where he leaned against a fence rail, hat tipped back while the sun caught the side of his face.
You stopped flipping.
The realization settled slowly and horribly into place. Somewhere along the way, your sketchbook had stopped being filled with landscapes.
It had become filled with him.
“Well,” you muttered faintly to yourself after a moment, snapping the book closed and setting it aside like it had personally betrayed you, “that is… extremely inconvenient.”
You sat there with your hands resting in your lap, staring at the closed cover as though it might somehow explain itself.
Your jaw tightened slightly. Then, with a small, impatient sound under your breath, you reached for the sketchbook again and flipped it open with considerably less ceremony than before.
The pages moved quickly beneath your fingers. Woodlands, the horse, the lake plateau. Various sketches of him from different angles.
The lavender field.
Your fingers curled around the edge of the paper. You stared at it for several seconds, your expression tightening in a way that suggested your patience with the entire situation had finally reached its limit.
Before you could talk yourself out of it, you grasped the page firmly and tore it free from the binding and rose from the bed.
The chair scraped softly across the floor as you pulled it out and sat down. You smoothed the torn page flat beside the blotter before reaching for a clean sheet of paper and dipping your pen carefully into the ink.
The nib hovered there for just a moment while you considered the blank page. Then you began to write.
My dearest Bucky…
“Darling?” your father’s voice carried up the stairs. “Are you nearly ready? The carriage is waiting.”
The words settled over you like a final bell toll. You stared at the half-written line on the page, pen still poised above the paper, the inevitability of departure pressing in from every corner of the room. You closed your eyes for a single heartbeat, then continued writing, the nib moving faster now, as if the carriage waiting downstairs had suddenly made every second feel borrowed.
× × × ×
Bucky stood on the narrow porch of a weathered clapboard house at the edge of town, one shoulder leaning against the post while he watched the man in front of him fumble nervously with a worn leather coin purse. The man’s hands shook slightly as he counted out the money, muttering under his breath while he tried to stretch a sum that very clearly did not stretch far enough.
Normally, Bucky would have pressed the issue by now. Under ordinary circumstances he would have leaned in, voice firm, and reminded the man exactly how much he owed and exactly how unpleasant it would be if that debt remained unpaid. The routine had never bothered him before; collecting money was simply part of the life he had grown up in, and most days he handled it with the same detached efficiency as a man fixing a fence rail or saddling a horse.
Today, however, the usual fire simply was not there.
The man finally held out a small stack of coins that fell well short of the agreed amount, his expression apologetic as he explained that business had been poor and he would need a few more days to gather the rest. Bucky glanced down at the coins resting in the man’s palm, then at the anxious face waiting for his reaction, and instead of delivering the lecture that everyone in town knew was coming, he merely reached forward and took the money.
“Alright,” he shrugged. “Bring the rest next week.”
The man blinked at him in open surprise, clearly bracing for an argument that never arrived.
“Next week?” he repeated cautiously.
Bucky nodded, already turning toward the steps as though the conversation had exhausted what little patience he had left.
“Yeah,” he said absently. “Next week. What are you, deaf?”
He stepped off the porch and landed in the dust of the yard just as the distant rattle of carriage wheels drifted faintly down the road.
Far down the street, just beyond the bend where the road curved past the empty land, a familiar carriage rolled slowly through the late afternoon light. The horses moved at a pace, the driver guiding them toward the edge of town where the road eventually split toward the rail line.
Bucky narrowed his eyes, watching the carriage disappear around the bend. There was nothing obviously wrong with it, yet something felt off. The way it moved, the way it seemed to be hurrying just a little too much for an ordinary afternoon ride—it tugged at some instinct he couldn’t quite name.
A small voice somewhere in the back of his mind whispered that he should go after it.
Suggested he should stop the carriage.
Suggested that letting it disappear without checking would be the kind of decision a man spent years regretting.
Unfortunately for that voice, Bucky Barnes had always been stubborn to a fault. He shifted his jaw slightly and looked away from the road, reaching down to adjust the strap on his saddle.
If his chest happened to feel like it was being squeezed by a fist, that was clearly none of his concern.
After all, it was probably nothing.
Unfortunately, the way his eyes kept drifting back toward the bend suggested his gut had not received that particular memo.
Bucky had just turned his horse back toward the main street, the animal moving at an unhurried pace as the fading sun stretched long shadows across the road. His mind was still unpleasantly occupied with the sight of that carriage disappearing into the distance, and he was doing a very poor job pretending it had not bothered him.
That was when he heard the shouting.
“Mister Barnes!” The voice was thin, breathless, and coming from somewhere behind him.
Bucky pulled the reins slightly and twisted in the saddle just in time to see a small figure barreling down the road after him, legs pumping furiously in a way that suggested the poor kid had already been running for some time.
The errand boy looked about twelve at most, his cap half falling off his head while he sprinted with heroic determination toward a horse that was very obviously faster than he was.
“Mister Barnes!” the boy called again, waving something in the air.
Bucky frowned and brought the horse to a stop, turning the animal sideways across the road while he waited.
The boy finally reached him several seconds later and nearly collapsed. He doubled over immediately, hands braced on his knees while he tried very hard not to die right there in the dust.
Bucky watched the entire performance with mild curiosity.
“What is it, boy?” he asked, resting one forearm across the saddle horn as he looked down at him.
The kid wheezed like a broken bellows for a moment before straightening slightly, his chest still heaving while he fumbled with the object clutched in his hand.
A letter.
He stretched his arm upward, offering it toward Bucky with visible effort.
“It’s…” the boy gasped, pausing to suck in another breath as though the act of speaking itself might finish him off.
Bucky leaned down slightly and took the envelope from his hand.
“…from…” the kid continued between gulps of air.
Bucky turned the letter over slowly in his fingers.
“…the… lady…”
The boy bent forward again, bracing himself on his knees like a man who had just completed a marathon.
“…of the… mansion.”
For a moment Bucky simply stared at the envelope in his hand. The paper was clean, expensive, and very obviously not the sort of thing that usually passed through the hands of a Blackwater errand boy.
And on the front of it, written in neat ink—James B. Barnes.
Bucky’s expression shifted almost imperceptibly. He reached into his pocket and flipped the boy a coin without looking away from the handwriting.
The kid caught it clumsily and straightened again, suddenly far more energized now that payment had entered the situation.
“Thank you, sir,” the boy said quickly, already backing away.
Bucky did not answer, he was still staring at the letter. And for the first time all afternoon, the stubborn certainty in his head had gone completely quiet.
The horse shifted beneath him while the dust of the road settled slowly around its hooves. Bucky sat there for a while, the envelope resting in his gloved hand as though it had suddenly become far heavier than a piece of paper had any right to be.
Finally he reached down to his belt and pulled the small folding knife he carried there.
The blade snapped open with a soft metallic click.
He slid the edge beneath the seal and cut the envelope open with a single line. His fingers hesitated briefly before reaching inside, pulling out the folded sheet of paper within.
The handwriting was unmistakable. Even before he began to read, the neat, elegant lines of ink across the page made his chest tighten painfully.
He unfolded the letter quickly. For a moment his eyes simply scanned the first few words. Then he began to read.
My dearest Bucky,
I suspect you will find this letter rather inconvenient, which I suppose is fitting considering you have spent the past several weeks being extraordinarily inconvenient yourself.
You will be pleased to know that I have left Blackwater. And if all proceeds according to plan I will soon be surrounded once again by respectable society.
I hope you’ll find it in your heart to forgive me.
Forgive me for lying to you in that street. I stood there and told you that none of it mattered, that your kiss meant nothing. I told myself if I could make you hate me, it would hurt less when I leave you behind.
Bucky’s jaw tightened slightly, his eyes moved faster now.
The truth is that I did not know what to do with the last few weeks of my life in this town.
When I arrived here, I believed Blackwater would be nothing more than a temporary exile from the life I understood. I fully expected to endure it until I could return home and resume being the sensible, composed young woman my family believes me to be.
Then you barged into my life. And you spoke constantly. And you irritated me. And you stood far too close. And you looked at me as though you had already decided I was far more interesting than I had any intention of being.
Bucky exhaled faster, the letter trembling slightly in his fingers now.
I tried very hard to dislike you. I truly did, because I know I would have to leave you inevitably.
But somewhere between the lake, and the horse rides, and the lessons and the lavender field filled with fireflies…I made the deeply unfortunate discovery that I am very, very much fond of you.
His grip tightened on the paper.
You made me feel alive in a life that had started to feel like a cage.
So…congratulations, James, I fell for you. I fell so completely that even now, as I write this, my hand is shaking.
I fell for the way you laughed, the way you pretended not to care about anything when it was painfully obvious you cared far too much. And the way you looked at the stars that night as though you had never seen them before. I believe that was the moment I realized I was in serious trouble.
You once told me that I should draw the lavender field, so I did.
There was a faint rustle of paper as something slid loose from inside the letter; A second sheet. Bucky lowered the letter slightly and unfolded it.
It was the sketch: Lavender sweeping across the page. Fireflies scattered like tiny lanterns in the night air and in the middle of it was himself.
Standing there exactly as he had been that night, hat in his hand, looking toward the place where you had been standing.
Bucky stared at it.
I drew the most beautiful thing there.
× × × ×
Dust exploded behind him as the horse tore down the road at a dead sprint, hooves hammering against the earth while the wind ripped through Bucky’s hair and shoved his hat back against the crown of his head. The world blurred around him in streaks of sunlit dirt and wooden storefronts as he pushed the animal faster, his chest tight with panic.
Do you ever think of me? Not kindly, I should think. I would not blame you if you cursed my name into the dust beneath your boots. I took the one person who ever made me feel alive and I threw his honesty back in his face.
“Damn it,” he muttered under his breath, leaning lower over the horse’s neck as the animal thundered toward the edge of town.
But I hope you’ll remember me as I was—stood in your field, watching the sun sink low with you. And mayhaps…if ever I’m in your arms again, I promise I'll hold onto you much tighter.
Yours, still—and ever, though too late—
He burst past the last row of buildings and onto the open road where the rail line cut through the land like a scar. Just ahead, seven familiar figures were gathered near the track where the ground sloped down toward the valley.
They were in the middle of some idle conversation when the sudden sound of galloping hooves made them all turn at once.
The horse skidded sideways in the dirt as he pulled the reins just long enough to bring the animal in line with them, dust swirling around all seven men while the horse stamped impatiently beneath him.
He didn’t bother dismounting.
Instead he looked down at them from the saddle, breath still coming hard from the ride, his eyes blazing with the sort of reckless determination that made every single man there go very quiet.
“Any of you boys,” he said, his voice rough with urgency but carrying that familiar crooked edge of confidence, “feel like stoppin’ a train today?”
For a moment there was complete silence. Then Sam’s eyebrows shot halfway to his hairline.
“A train? Are we robbin’ a train?” he repeated slowly.
Bucky nodded, already turning his horse toward the direction of the tracks like a man who had absolutely no intention of explaining himself further.
“Yeah,” he said bluntly. “Somethin’ like that.”
Lachlan stared at him. “You plannin’ to elaborate on that at any point?”
Bucky’s jaw tightened slightly as his eyes flicked down the track toward the far horizon where the faintest trail of smoke in the air.
“Not really,” he said calmly. He glanced back at them once. “But she’s gonna be on it.”
That was all the explanation he gave.
For a brief moment the seven men simply looked at him and within seconds the quiet patch of land exploded into motion as seven more horses surged forward to join Bucky.
—
Inside the first-class carriage, you sat by the window, your gaze slipping outside every few minutes as the landscape rushed past. The movement of the train was consistent—yet your attention was not.
“My dear,” he said, watching you closely, “what is the matter?”
You turned to him, composed as ever, and shook your head lightly.
“Nothing,” you replied.
—
The thunder of hooves rolled across the open plains as eight horses tore along the rail line like a storm chasing steel.
The train ahead of them roared forward in a cloud of smoke and grinding metal, its iron wheels shrieking against the tracks while the engine pushed relentlessly toward the next town. The men riding behind it were little more than shadows against the dust, bandanas pulled up over their faces and hats pulled low as they leaned forward in their saddles like men who had collectively lost what little good sense they possessed.
Bucky rode at the front.
The letter burned against his chest beneath his coat as the wind tore through his hair and the train loomed larger with every pounding stride of the horses.
“Closer!” Lachlan shouted over the noise, urging his horse harder while the train’s rear cars clattered just ahead of them.
Sam let out a wild laugh beside him, gripping the horn of his saddle while the ground blurred beneath them.
“You realize,” he yelled, “this is the worst plan we have ever had!”
“Shut up and ride!” Lachlan shouted back.
The train’s final car thundered past just close enough now that the men could see the metal ladder bolted to its side.
Bucky pushed his horse even harder, bringing the animal dangerously close to the moving train before standing in the stirrups with the sort of reckless confidence that suggested he had done this kind of thing before.
“Go!” he barked.
Lachlan leaned forward in his saddle and reached for the ladder just as the train lurched slightly on the rails. His fingers caught the metal rung and he hauled himself upward with a grunt, boots scrambling briefly against the side of the car before he swung onto the narrow platform.
Sam followed seconds later, grabbing the railing and launching himself up with a whoop. The rest of the men climbed aboard in quick succession until all eight of them were crouched along the side of the moving train like a pack of particularly determined idiots.
Bucky pulled the bandana higher over his nose before yanking the door open.
“Remember,” Sam muttered, adjusting his hat as they stepped inside, “we are pretending this is a robbery.”
Lachlan nodded solemnly, “Professional work.”
They burst into the first-class carriage together. Conversations stopped instantly. Ladies gasped. Several men froze mid-sip with their glasses still hovering near their lips.
Eight masked riders stood in the aisle with dust on their coats and revolvers hanging at their hips.
No one moved. Then Lachlan casually reached over and plucked a delicate pastry from a well-dressed gentleman’s hand.
“Don’t mind if I do,” he said cheerfully before taking an enormous bite of what appeared to be some sort of very expensive custard-filled bread.
The man stared at him in stunned horror.
“Wait, that’s my—”
Sam leaned over slightly and gestured vaguely toward the bandanas covering their faces.
“Sir,” he said politely, “we are robbin’ a train right now.” The man closed his mouth immediately.
Lachlan chewed thoughtfully. “Good pastry,” he added.
Meanwhile Bucky had already moved past them. His eyes scanned the rows of passengers rapidly as he walked down the aisle, his gaze darting from face to face while the train rattled beneath their feet.
—
A disturbance stirred in the adjoining carriage, voices rising just enough to pull attention from the quiet order of first class. You straightened slightly in your seat, gaze lifting toward the door, watching with a focus that felt far too intent to be idle curiosity, a small, unreasonable hope flickering to life before you could temper it.
The door opened sharply.
It was only the conductor, hauling a disheveled man forward by the arm while the man protested loudly about a misplaced ticket.
Your posture eased back into place, your gaze lowering once more as though nothing had shifted at all.
—
Bucky’s eyes kept searching for your face as his heart clenched in his chest. He pushed farther down the carriage, glancing into the next compartment with growing urgency.
Nothing. The last row of seats. Still nothing.
Bucky stopped walking. Behind him, Lachlan swallowed the final bite of stolen pastry and watched his friend carefully, while licking his fingers clean.
“Find her?” he asked casually.
Bucky slowly turned his head, “No.”
Sam frowned and looked around the carriage. “Well that ain’t ideal.”
Lachlan wiped custard from his fingers and glanced down the aisle thoughtfully.
“Question,” he said after a moment.
Sam raised an eyebrow. “What?”
Lachlan gestured vaguely toward the passengers, “This ain’t the 3:15 from Blackwater, is it?”
The three of them exchanged a look. Then Sam turned slowly toward the nearest terrified conductor.
“Sir,” he asked politely, “what train is this?”
The conductor swallowed, “The—uh—the westbound service from Stillwater.”
Silence.
Lachlan closed his eyes briefly, “Shit.”
Bucky dragged a hand down his face beneath the bandana.
Sam sighed. “…we on the wrong damn train.”
× × × ×
Bucky dismounted without a word.
He looped the reins loosely around the hitching post and walked toward the wooden steps at the front of the saloon with the slow, heavy movement of a man whose earlier determination had burned itself out somewhere along the rails.
The others followed behind him.
By the time he reached the steps he had already pulled his hat off, running a hand through his hair before dropping down onto the worn wooden boards. He leaned forward with his forearms resting on his knees, the hat dangling loosely from one hand while he stared out into the dusty street like a man reconsidering every decision he had made in the last twenty-four hours.
Behind him, the rest of the men gathered in a loose circle.
Lachlan approached first.
He placed a heavy hand on Bucky’s shoulder and gave it a firm clap that carried the particular tone of a man trying very hard not to laugh too openly at a friend’s misfortune.
“Well,” he said thoughtfully, “that was somethin’.”
Sam stepped forward next and gave Bucky’s other shoulder a sympathetic pat. “Not many men can say they robbed the wrong train for a girl.”
Another one of the men snorted.
“Technically we didn’t rob it,” John pointed out.
Lachlan wiped an imaginary crumb from his
sleeve. “I did, I took a pastry.”
Bucky didn’t look up.
He sat there staring at the dirt road as the sounds of the town moved quietly around him, his hat still hanging loosely from his fingers while the faint echo of the train wheels seemed to rattle unpleasantly around in his head.
One by one the men clapped him on the shoulder as they passed.
Each one offering some variation of solidarity before wandering off toward the saloon doors or the hitching posts nearby.
× × × ×
George threw his head back and let out a thunderous guffaw that echoed off the wooden walls of the room.
“He did what?!” he barked again, slapping his hand against the table as laughter burst out of him uncontrollably. “AHAHAHAHA!”
Pierce rubbed his face with one hand. George wiped at his eyes as he leaned back in the chair, still laughing hard enough to shake the table.
“My boy chased a train across half the territory,” he wheezed, “robbed the wrong damn one, and came back empty-handed?”
The man nodded, barely containing his grin. George let out another booming laugh that carried all the way out into the saloon.
Bucky rolled his eyes and shook his head. He just knows what happened will follow him the rest of his life.
A minute later the door creaked open and heavy boots crossed the porch behind him. Then George Barnes dropped down onto the step beside his son with a solid thump, the wooden boards groaning slightly under the sudden weight.
Bucky allowed the silence to stretch and finally turned his head just enough to glance sideways at his father.
“What,” he said flatly, “you come out here to laugh in my face?”
“Give it time,” he said. “When you’re old and gray and tellin’ stories to some poor soul who didn’t ask for ‘em, this’ll be the one you bring up.”
George shifted beside him, stretching his legs out and resting his forearms loosely on his knees while he tried—unsuccessfully—to compose himself. For a moment he cleared his throat like a man making an honest attempt at dignity.
It lasted about three seconds, then the corner of his mouth twitched.
“Now listen here,” George said, waving a hand like he was attempting to reason. “You gotta admit it boy… it was a little funny.”
Bucky turned his head and looked at his father, “Didn’t sound like a little by the way you laughed.”
George held up both hands in surrender, though the grin tugging at his beard made the gesture far less convincing.
“I mean hell,” he continued, shaking his head with open disbelief. “You saddled up half the boys in town, rode like the devil himself was chasin’ you, climbed aboard a runnin’ train with bandanas over your faces like a pack of outlaws you ain’t…”
He paused, “…and it weren’t even the right damn train.” George let out a low chuckle he couldn’t quite keep down.
Bucky stared at him. “…You done?”
George wiped a hand down his beard, trying to sober up again.
“Well,” he said thoughtfully, glancing out at the quiet street like he was still picturing the whole scene. “I reckon I might be once I stop imaginin’ Lachlan robbin’ a pastry off some poor fella who didn’t even know he was gettin’ robbed.”
Bucky groaned quietly and leaned forward, rubbing his face with both hands.
“Well,” he muttered bitterly, his voice filled with exhaustion, “don’t matter much now anyway—Few days from now she’ll be halfway across the ocean and I’ll never see her again.”
The humor faded slightly from George’s face as he studied the tight set of his son’s jaw.
“Well don’t go layin’ that one at my feet,” he said, nudging his boot against the step. “I already paid for my mistake.”
“And I also gave you the information to fix it,” he continued gruffly. “Told you plain as day that her father ain’t got no objection to you, so why did you take your time?”
Bucky let out a bitter breath and dragged both hands down his face, palms pressing hard against his eyes as though he could force the truth somewhere it wouldn’t keep clawing its way back up into his chest.
“You forgot tell me the part where she was leavin’,” he said quietly, “I was gonna go to her window tonight but she ain’t gonna be there now,” he said, the words stripped of the bite he usually carried, “Ain’t gonna open the window to scold me, ain't gonna threaten me, ain’t gonna stand out there on the street pretendin’ she don’t see me when she does.”
He swallowed thickly, the ache in his throat swelling like a bruise he couldn’t swallow down. It burned behind his eyes and tightened every muscle in his jaw, threatening to crack his voice wide open if he let it. Bucky forced air out through his nose, refusing to let the sting turn into anything wet or weak.
“The last thing I did…” Bucky’s breath hitched, the words scraping out like gravel. He pressed his lips together for a second, fighting the tremble that wanted to break free. When he finally continued, his voice was barely above a whisper, thick with the tears he wouldn’t allow. “The last thing I did was make her cry. When all I wanted to do was hold—”
Bucky’s hands curled into fists on his knees, knuckles whitening. He dragged in a shaky inhale, the sound wet and fractured, but still he held the line.
“She didn’t deserve that. And now she’s gone, and the last memory she’s got of me is me bein’ cruel because I was too damn proud to admit I was scared she was being truthful—that maybe I really didn’t mean nothin’ to her. ”
Bucky chuckled bitterly.
“I should have—” His breath hitched harshly, and the tears he had been fighting spilled over. They tracked hot and fast down his stubbled cheeks before he could stop them. He tried to swipe them away with the back of his hand, but more came, silent and relentless. His shoulders shook with the effort to keep quiet, breath coming in ragged, uneven pulls as the full weight of what he’d done crashed down on him.
“I should’ve told her the truth,” he whispered, voice cracking as the ache in his throat tightened like a noose. “I should’ve said her kisses kept me up every night since, that I couldn’t stop thinkin’ about how soft she felt, how she looked at me. I should’ve gone to that window sober and told her I wanted more chances to make her smile, tell her that she’s the reason I want to change who I used to be… instead of standin’ there like a coward and tearin’ her down so she’d leave before she could see me vulnerable.”
George simply stared out into the night, lost in thought. He had never seen his son like this; shoulders slumped, voice raw, the fight drained out of him in a way that looked almost painful.
“I'm sorry. Son, listen… if she’s truly for you, love’s got a funny way of leadin’ people back where they belong. Ain’t always the way you want, and it sure as hell ain’t always on your timeline. But if it’s real, it finds its way.”
George gave Bucky’s shoulder a firm squeeze. For a fleeting second he saw his son as the ten-year-old boy who used to follow him around the ranch with wide, hopeful eyes, and something in his chest twisted. Then he turned and headed back inside, leaving Bucky alone on the porch.
Bucky remained where he was.
He stared out into the empty street, watching every distant figure that stepped into view, every shadow that moved under the lantern light. His mind refused to accept what it already knew. If he looked long enough, hard enough, maybe he would see you coming down the road with that composed, unbothered stride of yours—chin lifted just so, eyes sharp and entirely unimpressed with the world around you.
But the street stayed empty.
A hollow ache settled deeper in his chest, heavier than any bullet he had ever taken. He wanted to go after you. He wanted to swing back into the saddle, ride through the night, and drag you off that damn ship before it could take you away. He wanted to fight for you the way he should have fought from the beginning.
Instead he sat there, helpless.
He had let pride stop him. He had let stubbornness keep him from chasing the carriage earlier. He had let fear convince him that you would come back on your own. And now you were gone—because he hadn’t fought hard enough.
The regret burned like whiskey in an open wound. Bucky aggressively scratched the side of his head.
“God damn it,” he whispered to the empty street.
He had finally found someone who made him want to be better, and he had let her slip through his fingers because he was too damn stubborn to run after her when it mattered most.
The night stretched on, quiet and unforgiving. And Bucky sat there, alone on the porch, watching a road that would never bring you back.
has anyone noticed that after the porn ban of 2018 tumblr was essentially killed from the mainstream and everyone flocked to other social media sites like twitter and meta. then those sites got enshittified to where twitter became Nazi Central and meta sites had an entire meme around getting “zucced” aka mark zuckerberg himself would ban you for saying a no-no word like fuck. and then the mainstream shifted to tiktok where infamous toddlerspeak sentences like “he got unalived by a pew pew” were born because if you once again say a no-no word like kill or gun or any other word that isn’t corporate i mean kid friendly then the algorithm will bury your post into the ground. and somehow we’ve come full circle and tumblr is now the most bearable social media site because although we can’t have female presenting nipples we can at least talk to each other like adults. has anyone noticed that at all or is it just me and the flaming skull