[onlythehobi]

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[xoxostarfire]

°❀.ೃ࿔* Lesson Four: It’s okay to admit you’re good at your job °❀.ೃ࿔

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Chapter summary: you start your first day of work by helping one of your students through a panic attack…once you help her through it you suspect something troubling

Authors note: hi hi I hope you like it!!! As always please let me know your thoughts and follow me on Twitter for updates @xoxostarfire_

Thank you @dilf-docs for the lovely moodboard you made of the story!! I’ll attach it at the bottom!

Monday, September, 2003

You expected the first people to be in your classroom to be your students. Instead, you were faced with Karen. Again.

Your first thought was that she had noticed your shaking on the tour and wanted to talk to you about it, but then you remembered that this woman probably wouldn’t have noticed if you dyed your hair purple. Either way, you instincually gripped your hands tight behind your back in case they tried to act up at all, gripping them like handcuffs.

“Hey!” You cleared your throat, aware of how loud you just spoke. “Hey, um, where are the kids? It’s 8:32.”

Karen seemed completely unbothered, raising an eyebrow at the fact that you were even concerned at all.

“It’s only been 2 minutes since the bell rang. They’re still filing in from outside.”

At your old school, the kids would file in 10 minutes before the bell rang so you could start on time. Cultural shift, you suppose.

“Oh,” was all you could manage to say. “Can I help you with something else then?”

Your throat felt so dry, almost as if you had a sore throat. You really just gasped all of the air out of your lungs. It usually took a half hour to start feeling better.

She snapped her long fingers into the expanse of the hallway like she was gesturing toward something you were supposed to see. Her eyes closed as she was trying to find the words - had you noticed how long her eyelashes were? Those had to be extensions. They looked like spiders.

“Ah,” her eyes flew open and she remembered. “One of your students is in the library having an episode. Sarah Miller I think her name is?”

Your lips parted and you cocked your head at her jarring word choice, which was not helpful to you, or respectful to the student.

“What does ‘episode’ mean exactly?”

“Meltdown, panic attack, however you want to word it,” Karen waved her hand dismissivley. “If you want her in your class today, I would go get her so she’s not the library's problem until lunch.”

You should not have been the first person in line to help a child having a panic attack. Sure, you had walked children through meltdowns before, but that was months into school, after you already knew who they were. You were just a scary stranger to this little girl.

“Is the guidance counselor not available? I don’t know if I’m the best person to–”

“Rose has to sub for a 5th grade class today because the teacher is still on a family vacation. A pain, I know,” she seemed more inconvenienced that a teacher was on vacation rather than the fact that they were so understaffed that they needed their counselor to be a substitute.

If no one wanted to help this girl, you would help her. You brushed by Karen, hands still faintly shaking behind your back. But the minute you stepped into that library, your hands were at the back of your mind. Because there is always something bigger than yourself and your silly problems.

The library was bright, with floursenct lights blaring into your retinas. Maybe you were particularly sensitive to it with your migraines, but childrens brains are also sensitive. No wonder kids hate reading these days if these are the conditions that they’re stuck in.

Under a back table in the corner was a little girl with curly hair in two buns at the top of her head, dawned with little pink scrunchies. Her eyes were squeezed shut and her amber skin with tears streaked, indicating to you that this wasn’t just a fear of leaving her parents behind. This was full blown panic.

She was with an office administrator but no parent in sight. You stepped closer, your footsteps audible, but soft to not scare her.

“Her uncle brought her but he had to leave,” the administrator whispered, judgementally toward the uncle.

You couldn’t hide your scowl.

“Who leaves their niece having a panic attack?”

The adminstrator shrugged - this wasn’t a conversation to be had in front of a child. So, you sat on the carpet, with enough space between you and the girl in case she felt trapped and wanted to get out.

"It’s very quiet in here," you said softly, directed at the bookshelves rather than the girl. "I think the books like the quiet. It helps them sleep."

From under the table, the sobs hitched, like she hadn’t realized you came in. A pair of hazel eyes peered up at you from under the table. Her knuckles were white from how hard she was clawing at her shirt.

She looked…familiar.

But, you swallowed it down and focused.

“My name is Miss L/N.”

Her lip quivered and she clutched herself a little tighter.

“I-I don’t know how to say that.”

You gave a soft smile to her, reassuring her she wasn’t in trouble.

“Well that’s alright. You can call me Miss…or Teacher…whatever you want. I have a problem. See, my classroom is very big, and I have these special seats I was told were for very important people, but I can't find the person who’s supposed to sit in the front row. I think I’m a little lost."

She shook again.

“I d-don’t have a name on the glass…I’m n-not on the list.”

"Oh, the glass is for the people who like to look at windows," you said, dismissively tilting your head. "But I don't care about the glass. I have a special book in my room. It’s purple. And on the very first page, in the very best spot, it says 'Sarah Miller.' That’s the only list that matters today. That’s the only list that matters, ever.”

You saw her fingers loosen their grip on her collar just a fraction. You shifted, mirroring her tucked-in posture to show her you were on her level. If any random teacher walked by, you probably looked insane.

“Sometimes, I feel like I have a little bird trapped inside of me. Like a hummingbird, that kind that flaps its wings super fast. I feel it all over my body; in my head, in my belly, but mostly in my hands. Where do you feel your little bird?”

You watched her throat swallow hard, like she was taking medicine.

“Right here,” she pointed to her chest and you nodded to show her you understood.

“Exactly. I always tell that bird that it’s okay to be loud for a minute. Then I try to breathe like a slow fan. You took a long, exaggerated breath in through your nose and let it out through your mouth with a soft whoosh sound. "Can you help me move the air? Just a little bit? Birds need air to fly away.”

It took a moment. One second. Two. Then, Sarah imitated the sound, a shaky whoosh.

"There it is," you encouraged. "That’s a very good fan. Do you think we could do three more? And then, if you’re ready, you can come out and we can go find that purple book together."

"No rush, Sarah," you said firmly. "I'm not going anywhere."

Slowly, she began to uncurl. She crawled toward the edge of the table, her face blotchy and tear-stained. As she reached the edge, you simply held out your hand, palm up. When her small hand finally slipped into yours, the feeling of her trust was so overwhelming it nearly broke your professional mask.

"There you are," you whispered. "I've been waiting all morning to meet you sweet girl."

You kept your grip on her hand loose in case she wanted to drop your hand, but not so loose that she would feel like a burden for holding your hand.

The walk back to class was slow, but you didn’t really mind. An occasional tremor radiated through her hand, but the gasping stopped which was a good sign.

As you turned the corner toward your roommate, the hallway was no longer empty. The distant hum of twenty other 6 year olds echoed against the walls. Sarah’s grip tightened sharp enough that you winced briefly.

"It’s okay," you whispered, leaning down just enough so only she could hear. "Remember the bird? We’re just going to show the bird where the snacks are for later."

A tiny giggle escaped her, and the tension in her shoulder dropped an inch.

When you stepped through the door, the room was a whirlwind of commotion. The kids were looking around the reading rug, playing with the crayon stuffies, checking out their desks, and coloring with the paper you left out with some crayons while you got your tremors under control. They were so caught up in their own world, most of them didn’t even notice you walking in. A few of them turned their heads but you paid them no mind. You just walked her right over to her seat, where Eddie had drawn her name in beautiful block letters last week, along with a lion sticker you found at Staples. And of course, the purple book (it was a folder) with her name on it.

“You didn’t throw away my name,” she said softly and your heart broke that she was so thankful for the bare minimum. Then that heart break turned into anger at her parents who abandoned her in a moment of crisis. You were going to have a word with whichever parents showed up tonight for Back to School night about this.

“Of course not,” You traced a circle over her knuckles with your thumb, something...well, something he used to do to you to calm you down. “Would you like to sit down? I can teach everyone a bit more about the class. That might make you feel more comfortable.”

She nodded, letting go of your hand and sliding into her seat. You let out a slight exhale - she was okay. She was safe. And she was within your eye sight so you could watch her, not under a table.

You reached over to the chime you had purchased that was resting against the white board and dinged it. Practically all of the heads in the class turned, which was new. Usually it took your kids a few tries to understand what the chime meant.

“Good morning,” you said warmly. “You now all know the first rule of my classroom - this chime means that it’s time to drop what you’re doing and face me. I don’t like yelling and I know you all don’t like yelling so this is a good alternative.”

You stared at all of the gawking 1st graders. You always loved how awe struck they looked the first few days.

“Please find your seats and we’ll start our day.”

Once the shuffling of chairs and the squeak of sneakers subsided, the room settled into that expectant, heavy silence that only six-year-olds can produce. They watched you with wide, unblinking eyes, Sarah most of all. She was sitting so still, her fingers hovering over the edge of the purple folder as if she was afraid it might vanish if she looked away.

Your right hand started to thrum against your thigh a bit, less with anxiety and more with adrenaline. This was going well. You were good at your job.

“My name is Miss L/N,” you said once everyone was seated and looking at you. “But, I know that can be a little tricky to say and spell. So you guys can all me Miss or Teacher, or whatever makes you the most comfortable.”

You gave a little wink to Sarah - you didn’t want her to feel like she was the only one calling you something else.

"Now, before we talk about our class rules and introduce ourselves, I want to show you something," you continued.

You held out both of your hands in front of you. A couple kids leaned in when they noticed your fingers were fluttering. You saw Sarah’s eyes widen, her gaze darting from your hands to your face.

"Do you see how my hands are shivering a bit?" you asked with a smile.

A few kids nodded slowly. One boy in the back whispered, "Are you cold?"

"That’s a great guess! But I'm actually quite warm," you chuckled. "You see, sometimes my body gets a little bit of extra energy that it doesn't know what to do with. It’s like when you have a wiggly tooth, or when you feel like you need to run around the playground. My hands just like to shake sometimes."

You sat down on the edge of your desk, keeping your hands relaxed in your lap. This was the same talk you had given to all of your classes since you started teaching.

"It doesn't hurt, and it doesn't mean I’m sad or scared. It’s just a part of who I am. It’s my body’s way of saying it’s working hard. So, if you ever see me shaking a little bit, you don’t have to worry. It just means I’m excited to be here with you."

Not entirely true, but the tension in the room seemed to evaporate. To a group of six-year-olds, a teacher with shaky hands wasn't a medical mystery, just a cool quirk.

"In this room, we all have things that make us unique. Some of us might have wiggly hands. Some of us might have hearts that beat a little too fast sometimes."

You looked at Sarah, and for the first time, she gave you a genuine smile, one that didn't look like it was fighting through a layer of terror.

"Our second rule is that we take care of each other,'" you finished. "If someone is having a fast-heart day or a shajy day, we give them a little extra kindness. Does that sound like a good deal?"

A chorus of "Yes, Teacher!" echoed back. You mentally gave a little fist pump - they were so behaved already. This could be a good year if you made it.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

November, 1990

You should have said no to Joel’s party that he invited you to. Or, well, his friend Frank's party. You knew that you weren’t a party person, and that every time you tried to go to one, you lost every social skill you had and ended up cowering in a corner with a drink that tasted like rubbing alcohol. They were miserable for you, and you had decided after the last one you went to (you had a panic attack and cried), you would stop trying to force yourself to go to these things.

Except Joel Miller brought out a side of you that you didn’t know existed. Because you eagerly said yes without thinking when he asked you.

What was the matter with you?

You never, ever, let anyone get into your head and affect your decisions, not even the few people you had crushes on over the years. Not even your best friends. Not in a selfish, unadaptable way of course - you just knew who you were. You knew life was too short to put yourself in miserable situations in the name of just saying you were at the event.

There was something about Joel that changed that part of you. You had this desire that settle deep in your skin, a desire to be everything he wanted. You wanted him to see you and feel instantly happier, the same way you felt when you saw him. You wanted him to feel understood the same way he made you feel understood.

When Joel spoke to you, he made you feel important. He made you feel smart. He made you feel more than the girl who liked to read books and spend too long in the library. A lot of people around you were rather offput by how…nerdy you could be. You loved to talk about the things you were passionate about and you loved to hear other people talk about the things they were passionate about, but you learned that people were overwhelmed by that. But Joel treated it like a gift he was lucky to be near.

And God, the way he looked at you when he asked.

He hadn't been the "cool guy" in that moment like he was in high school. He wasn’t the one leaning back, oozing confidence and waiting for you to fall at his feet. He had been (dare you even think it?) nervous. His ears had turned that endearing shade of pink, and he had fidgeted with that book. If a guy like Joel Miller was willing to risk his pride just to spend a Friday night with you, how could you possibly stay home with your biographies?

Frank’s house smelled so badly of weed that you were surprised that the cops hadn’t been called yet. And it wasn’t like you didn’t enjoy the casual joint here and there, but wow…your nose was burning. Inside was loud enough that you felt like your skin was vibrating. When you walked in, you smoothed the fabric of your black jean skirt. You were wearing a cream colored top which you were now keenly aware looked a bit suggestive. You hadn't bought it to be provocative - you liked the texture and the way the sleeves hit your wrists - but now, surrounded by at least 100 people, the top clung to your curves in a way that felt suddenly intentional.

"Well, look at you," a gruff voice barked from the hallway.

You blinked, adjusting to the darkness, and saw Bill. You remembered what he looked like from school. He was leaning against a doorframe to another room, a bottle of beer in his hand and a look on his face that suggested he’d been born annoyed. But when his eyes landed on you, his eyebrows shot up. He didn't offer a "hello,” but instead, he turned his head toward the kitchen.

"Miller! Quit hoverin' over the keg! Your girl’s here!"

Your girl. You had to take a step backward and inhale deeply. You felt…warm, suddenly. It was probably just all of the people in here. Yeah. It was all the people.

It was dark, but you knew the moment Joel appeared. He pushed through a cluster of guys laughing about some truck repair, a red solo cup held in his hand. He looked incredible, but even that wasn’t the right word. He was wearing a dark, unbuttoned flannel over a grey t-shirt, sleeves shoved up to reveal the heavy muscles of his forearms, probably from lifting wood and bricks all day. He was clearly a few drinks in; he was stumbling just a bit, a big goofy grin on his face, and a warmth in his eyes that told you he was feeling the buzz.

But the second he saw you, he stopped dead.

His gaze swept over you, stalling for an obvious moment on the line of your top before snapping back up to your face. He looked completely floored, but you told yourself it was just the alcohol in his system. He probably was processing who was standing in front of him.

For a man who usually moved so effortlessly, he suddenly looked like he’d forgotten how his legs worked. His jaw tightened, his throat working in a hard swallow as he took in the sight of you outside of the library.

"Hey," he said, his voice raspy and slightly hoarse - he was probably smoking a cigarette earlier. It made your knees feel like water. "You... you actually came."

"I kept my promise, Miller," you said, having to step closer to be heard over a sudden burst of laughter nearby.

"Yeah. Yeah, you did." He smiled and chewed at his lower lip. "You look... you look real nice. More than nice. I think I’m havin' a hard time rememberin' what I was talkin' about before you walked in."

It was so bold of him you froze and tilted your head. But before you could say anything, he reached out, his hand hovering near your waist for a second before he gestured toward the kitchen. "Come on. Let's get you something to drink before Bill finishes everything worth havin'."

He led the way, his hand finally settling on the small of your back. It was so faint you didn’t think much of it.

He was probably just being polite and helping to guide you through the mob of people. He didn't ask what you wanted; he reached past a stack of pizza boxes and grabbed a bottle, mixing a drink that was purposefully light on the alcohol. He knew your limits without you ever having to state them, therefore protecting you from the rubbing-alcohol taste of the "jungle juice" sitting in a basin on the counter.

"Try that," he leaned his shoulder against the refrigerator so he could look down at you. "Not too strong."

You took a sip and smiled. "It's perfect. How’d you know I don’t like strong drinks?"

"I pay attention.”

He didn’t pull back after you took your first sip. Tipsy Joel was different than he usually was. He didn’t reach for you, but as you talked, his shoulder would linger against yours just a second too long, or his forearm would "accidentally" brush yours as he reached for his own drink. He was a man who found comfort in touch.

"I’m surprised you came. Thought you were too smart for these parties. You gonna tell me all about how this party is just a bunch of people tryin' to escape the 'existential dread' of a Friday night?"

You laughed, the sound bubbling up easier than it ever did when you were sober. "Existential dread is more of a Sunday afternoon thing. Tonight is just... loud." You tilted your head, looking up at him. "I didn't think you were the party type, Miller. I figured you'd be under a truck somewhere."

"Usually, I am," he admitted, his thumb hooking into the belt loop of his jeans. He shifted closer, his thigh grazing the side of your skirt. "But Bill and Frank always throw these and they don't take 'no' for an answer. And besides... I heard a rumor a certain smart girl might show up."

"Is that so? This the same girl you invited?"

"Mmhmm." He slurred a little and reached out, his knuckles dragging down the length of your sleeve, tracing the ribbed knit from your shoulder to your elbow. His eyes never left yours. "Had to see if she’d actually wear somethin' other than a hoodie. Wanted to see all of her."

"And?" your heart started racing. "Is the verdict in?"

Joel’s gaze flickered down to the line of your top again which made you realize that this wasn’t just him being tipsy and friendly. No…no, drunk actions are sober thoughts. He didn't say anything for a moment, just let his hand rest against your arm.

"Verdict is," he leaned in just enough that you could catch the scent of him; cigarettes and vanilla. "that I’m havin' a real hard time focusin' on the conversation."

He started talking about a book he’d picked up because he saw you reading it, but you felt almost dizzy. It was something about the history of the frontier, and the way he described the parts he liked was surprisingly thoughtful. He didn't just read it; he understood it.

"You're full of surprises," you teased softly.

"Only for you," he countered. Fuck, he was smooth with it. He reached up, his index finger tracing the very edge of your jaw before tucking a stray hair behind your ear. It was tender and it felt far too intimate for a kitchen full of people.

Suddenly, the speakers in the living room hissed, and the beat of Prince’s "Kiss" cut through the air.

Your eyes lit up and you beamed as you recognized the beat. "Oh, no way. I love this song."

Joel didn't move. He just watched you and the way your head tilted, the way your teeth caught your bottom lip as you started to sway.

"I know," he muttered, his hand on the counter shifting until his palm was flat against your hip, drawing you just an inch closer. "I think everyone in a five-mile radius knows how much you love Prince."

"Is it that obvious?" you laughed, leaning into him.

"Only because I'm lookin'.”

He didn't pull away; he just kept his hand right there on your hip, his thumb tracing small, slow circles against the black fabric, watching you with a look that said he wasn't thinking about books anymore.

He reached up, his hand slightly shaky as he ran his fingers through the hair at the nape of your neck. He didn't just touch it; he let the strands slip between his fingers. His hands were so calloused they scraped your skin a bit, but it made your core heat up. You liked that he was a man who ued his hands.

"You know, you usually have it all tied up. Hidden away."

He stepped a fraction closer, his chest nearly brushing the front of your top. He used his thumb to gently push a stray lock away from your face.

"You should wear it down more," he whispered. “I like it like this. It suits you."

The air between you seemed to vanish. He didn't wait for a reply, and you couldn't have given one if you tried. He simply slid his hand further into your hair, his fingers cupping the back of your head to steady you as he leaned in.

When his lips finally met yours, it was everything the movies promised but never quite captured. It was slow, like a camera was trying to capture the exact moment your lips met. There was nothing rushed or messy about it like your other kisses. It was deep, exchanging words through your mouth.

His other hand found your back, pulling you flush against him until you could feel the pounding of his heart against your own. He tasted like cigarettes and alcohol and sweetness and everything that was right in the world. It made the roar of the party outside the kitchen fade into an unimportant hum.

When he finally pulled back, he didn't go far. He kept his forehead pressed against yours, his fingers still tangled in your hair, both of you breathing in the same shared space.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

Monday, September 2003

Not only did the school want back to school night to happen on the first day, but you learned a few days before work started that teachers were expected to begin doing reading and math placements on the first day. In your experience, testing was done after a day or two to let the kids aclimatize back into a school setting. Doing it on the first day was just asking them to fail and not get an accurate result.

You assigned the kids to decorate their name tags and folders while you called each kid one on one to your desk. Most of the kids so far were right on track with Grade 1 reading standards, at least, based on the sheet they wanted you to go off of. 0-1 errors meant an additional placement test for a higher level, between 2-6 errors meant traditional Grade 1 placement, and 8+ errors meant a Kindergarten level or below. You had more freedom at your old job to recommend a child who had 6 errors to receive Kindergarten level work since they were right on the cusp of being behind. Now, it was follow the guidelines exactly. State rules.

Welcome to state funded education.

Most of the kids were doing right on benchmark, and two were reading above grade level; David Fernandes and Ashley Dadford. You marked them down and made a note to do that additional placement test for them. Three kids were reading below grade level; Joshua Austin, Stephanie Field, and Lauren Galley, but that wasn’t enough to worry you really. Statistically, kids don’t test well the first month back to school, so that wasn’t enough to alarm you.

And then there were some students like Michael Akhurst–Mikey. He was a tall, lanky kid who was pretty quiet. None of his Kindergarten friends were in his class. But he seemed to click really well with Brody Kauffeld and the two of them have been talking nonstop once they met.

“Ok Mikey,” you swivled your chair to face him. “I just need you to read some words for me and then a few sentences.”

“Is this a test?”

“No, no, not that kind of test. This is just to help me understand how you read so that I know the best way to teach you.”

His dark eyes flickered over the booklet on your desk.

“So I don’t get a grade?”

"No grades at all," you promised. Anxiety over grades at such a young grade is never a good sign. "Just read the letters and words you know. If you hit one that feels too tricky, it's totally okay to skip it. Ready?"

He gave an almost solem nod, locking his eyes onto the first section of the Direct Instruction placement sheet. You slid a blank index card down to isolate the first row of lowercase letters. Mikey took a breath, pointed his small finger, and began.

"a... m... t... s..."

As Mikey steadily navigated through the letter sounds, your hand slid the index card row by row.

"...the... cat... sat... on... the... m-m-m... mat," Mikey read, his voice a bit shaky as he carefully blended the phonetic sounds.

"Perfect. Keep going, you're doing beautifully," you murmured, checking off his progress. He was a slam dunk; zero errors on the isolated sounds, only one minor hesitation on a sight word.

Your mind drifted to Camilla as you switched Mikey's booklet to the next tier of sentences. She would have had an absolute fit if she saw this assembly-line testing.

Camilla had been the head reading interventionist at your previous private school, and also, your best friend. She was a brilliant woman with two - two! - Masters degrees who could diagnose a phonological processing deficit from across a crowded cafeteria. \

You two had become practically inseparable over the years, and by proximty, you learned a lot about reading theories. You had learned more about true reading mechanics, orthographic mapping, and decoding strategies from Camilla than you ever had from your graduate-level textbooks. She was the one who taught you to watch a child's jaw tension, to note if they were guessing by the shape of the word rather than sounding it out.

You hadn't heard from her since you moved back home to Texas.

See, your car accident wasn’t the only accident that derailed your life. Back in April, your brain decided to add another side effect that you were told wouldn’t happen:

Seizures.

Seizures are common with DAI patients, but you had steered pretty clear of showing signs of a seizure disorder. Your neuroogist had said that after 2 years, your risk of having seizures while your brain heals diminishes rapidly. 7 years had passed since the initial accident, so you should have been in the clear. The doctor didn’t even bring them up anymore as a risk factor.

And then, on a Thursday night while you were cooking a grilled cheese, you collapsed, waking up with blood in your mouth from biting your tounge too hard, brain fog, and a kitchen on fire.

You didn’t find out what happened until you were brought to the ER and they told you you had a seizure. But you didn’t remember any of it. It was before and after, just like the car accident.

You had woke to a world that was orange. Your first sensation wasn't the heat, but the agonizing pulse in your mouth. You tried to swallow, but the copper taste was back, which you recognized as blood. You spat onto the linoleum, a dark spray of crimson hitting the floor. You had bitten your tongue so hard it felt cleaved in two.

Your brain was a bowl of gray wool. You looked at the ceiling, wondering why the white paint was being swallowed by clouds of black.

Fire.

The word didn't register as a danger; it was just an observation. You watched the flames lick playfully at the underside of the cabinets, fueled by the butter that had long ago hit its flash point.

The smoke detector finally screamed and tore through the post-seizure fog. You tried to push yourself up, but your limbs were uncoordinated, as if the DAI had crawled out of its seven-year grave to reclaim your motor skills.

You managed to get yourself into the hallway and called the fire department, and then Cami, who immediately knew something had happened regarding your brain injury due to how you were slurring your words. She was the one who took you to the ER and never left your side. She was the one who held your hand while you cried after the doctor told you that it would be unsafe for you to live alone now that seizures had come into the picture. She was the one that had had offered her home, practically demanding you move into her guest room so she could help take care of you.

"We'll figure it out," she had said, her voice fiercely protective. "You already are at my place every day…this will be fun. We’ll make it work."

But you had felt like a dead weight. Right when you finally felt like you had some control over your condition, another unpredictable, severe side effect was thrown into the picture. It was never ending. You couldn't let your closest friend turn into a full-time caregiver. So, you chose the pride of independence, broke your lease, and fled back to the Texas humidity where your roots were. Theo and Eddie lived together; if anything happened, the burden wasn’t all on one of them.

"The... big... red... b-boat... sailed... away," Mikey finished, looking up at you with a shy, proud grin, but you had been spacing out the entire time.

You shook your head to snap out of it and grinned.

"You did it, Mikey! Look at that. Only one error. Do you wanna go grab Sarah for me?”

He practically bounced out of the chair, his lanky legs eating up the distance back to Sarah’s desk. She was drawing a butterfly on her name tag and you couldn’t help but notice how intricate it was, especially for a 6 year old. She had details on it, and appropriate coloring, and evenly sized and shaped wings. Most kids would have scribbled an orange blob.

Sarah jolted when Mikey tapped on her and you frowned slightly. A lot of the kids' social barriers were slowly breaking down over the day, but Sarah seemed to be the only student who had not spoken to anybody if not prompted first. Obviously it takes time for kids to get comfortable, but the incident this morning had put Sarah on your radar with red alarms blaring.

She didn't look at him, just keeping her eyes fixed on that butterfly, her fingers white-knuckled around her crayon. It took her a long moment to stand up, smoothing her skirt over and over again, almost like an anxious tic.

“Hi Sarah,” you smiled, trying to be welcoming. “How’re you feeling?”

She gave a nervous, faint smile,

“Much better…I liked decorating my folder. My Kindergarden teacher didn’t let us color on our supplies last year.”

Some teachers were…older. Which was a nicer way of describing them. They didn’t believe school was a fun place and had very rigid rules to follow. You remembered your cranky old Kindergarden teacher, Mrs. Casey, who made the boy stand in the trash can after he thought he was allowed to throw away a paper without asking.

Sarah must have had one of those types of teachers - no wonder she had such anxiety coming into school.

“Well, I’m a big fan of color here. You’ll never see me wearing or having anything that doesn’t have one color from the rainbow.”

Sarah’s eyes flickered to the test on your desk and then back to you before sitting down in the seat across from you.

“This should only take a few minutes,” you explained quickly, before she spiraled. “It’s just some questions for you to answer so I can see what your reading level is and how I can teach you best. Not graded.”

You paused to let her answer, but she still looked hesitant.

“Do you read a lot at home with your parents?”

She gave a shrug, her eyes darting to the side a bit.

“It’s just my dad, but he works really late. We try and read together but he’s not really around most days.”

You frowned, eyebrows furrowing. You already weren’t a fan of her uncle earlier from when he left her having a panic attack, but now she was telling you that her dad wasn’t around?

“That’s okay,” you reached out and gave her hand a little pat. “Why don’t we start so you can get back to coloring?”

She scooched her chair forward and you opened the first page of the booklet, showing several lowercase letters to test her phonics.

Sarah leaned forward, her eyebrows narrowing as she focused. She stared at the letter a. Seconds ticked by.

"Take your time," you encouraged gently, even though you were starting to get worried.

"Is it... is it a d?"

An alarm buzzed in your head. A reversal, or a total misidentification of a high-frequency vowel.

"Not quite. That’s an a, like apple. Let's try the next one."

Her finger moved to the m. She stared at it so hard without blinking that her eyes started to water. "It's... it's a bumpy one. W-Wiggly?" She looked up at you, completely lost. "The lines are jumping. They’re swimming around."

Camilla’s voice echoed in your head, pointing out the classic markers of visual processing and tracking issues. Swimming lines. Letter reversals. This basic first-grade baseline test was immediately flagging her as a child who likely had dyslexia.

"Hey, hey, it's okay," you said quickly, snapping out of your own panic. "The lines are printed pretty small. Let's try this section instead."

You flipped the page to the isolated sight words, skipping the letters entirely to see if her brain was attempting to whole-word guess based on context or shape. You pointed to the word cat.

Sarah inhaled, trying so hard to please you it broke your heart.

"A... t... c?" she guessed, reading the letters completely backward. The next word was the, and she whispered, “h-het?”

The struggle with diagnosing dyslexia is differentiating between a student struggling to read and a student who is having a breakdown of phonological decoding. She wasn't just behind; she was displaying undeniable, glaring signs of dyslexia. The text on the page was a moving, unstable image to her.

Eight errors. You hadn't even made it through the first section of the basic placement, and she had already blown past the failure threshold. According to the rigid, uncompromising state rubric sitting in your binder, Sarah Miller didn't just fail this test; she belonged on a Kindergarten or below intervention track. Now you had to report your concerns to the administration, and well…knowing who was running the school didn’t make you very hopeful.

You stared at the page, your hand starting to flutter with an angry tremor. This deeply sensitive little girl was going to be completely crushed by a system that defined her by a rigid matrix on day one. And her parents, or well, dad, clearly hadn't a clue, or worse, hadn't advocated for her to get the proper support before shoving her into a public school classroom.

Maybe he was coming to Back to School night. That’s it. You could talk to him about this tonight.

“Alright Sarah girl, we are all done,” you closed the book. “Is your dad coming to Back to School night tonight? I would love to meet him.”

“I think so! He said he’d meet me after school today after his work.”

What did this man do for work that was so important that he couldn’t read with his daughter?

You leaned into your palm.

“What does your daddy do for work?”

Her eyes lit up slightly when she talked about her dad. Despite him not being very attentive, he clearly had formed a strong bond with his daughter. Though, in your experience, most children of single parents become attached to them because they are the only adult of comfort they have left. Most of your students who had attachment problems and struggled with coming to school in the morning were children who had single parents or divorced parents.

“He builds things,” she nodded fast like it was the coolest thing ever. “He builds big houses and apartments and restaurants. Daddy told me everyone loves builders.”

That one sentence felt like ice being dropped down your back. Your tremor, which had begun moments earlier, quickened slightly on the desk, so you cupped it with your other hand.

Everyone loves builders.

You felt his lips ghost over your ear, pressing a faint kiss below your lobe as you giggled and squealed in his grip.

Everyone loves contractors, baby.

What the fuck.

“That is such a cool job!” you plastered on your work smile and gripped your quivering hand even tighter.

You should ask her his name. It would clear your mind and let you finish your first day at work without a fucking panick attack in front of the 6 year olds. Clear it up now. Her last name is Miller, her dad works in construction, and-

No, no, no, no. Dragging a child into your past with her *potential* father is so inappropriate. And inconsiderate, mind you. Sarah was such a sweet little girl who was likely about to get hit with a diagnosis that would shape her future education.

This was probably all just a big fucking coincidence. As you pointed out when you first got the class roster, Miller is a very common last name. And in Dallas, 90% of men were plumbers, electricians, or construction workers. That’s not new.

Your brain was fucking with you. That was it. It was fucking with you like it always did.

"Go ahead and head back to the rug, Sarah girl," you said, your voice a little tighter than you wanted it to be, though you smoothed it over with a quick nod.

She smiled and padded back to her desk.

You stared at her folder for a long five seconds. A builder. Miller. Dallas. It was a statistical probability, you told yourself. A massive city and a blue-collar state. It was just a coincidence. You gripped the edge of your desk, took a long breath in through your nose, and stood up. You needed a second out of this room before you started suffocating, and more importantly, you needed to know what the protocol was for a kid who couldn't read a single letter.

You peeked your head out into the hallway and caught the eye of Jen Crenshaw, a fellow first grade teacher who you hadn’t gotten the chance to speak to much. She was a middle aged woman with dark brown hair and matching dark eyes. Her lanyard was customized with her name on it.

"Hey," you whispered, gesturing to your room. "Can you keep an eye on mine for two minutes? I need to run to the office."

"Go ahead, honey. First-day bladder, I get it," she chuckled, waving a hand.

You didn't go to the bathroom. You marched straight down the hallway toward the main administrative office. Your professional brain had taken back the wheel. Coincidence or not, Sarah Miller couldn't decode text, and you needed to know who was on the literacy team at this school so you could get her screened immediately. Camilla had always told you that early intervention in the first few weeks of first grade was the difference between a kid catching up or drowning for the next twelve years.

You pushed open the doors of the front office. Karen was sitting behind the counter, a large styrofoam cup of Diet Coke in her hand, lazily flipping through a catalog for school spirit wear. She didn't even look up when the bell above the door jingled.

"Karen," you said, stepping up to the counter.

Karen slowly raised her eyes, her spider-like eyelash extensions fluttering as she took a slow sip from her straw.

"Hiya hon. Shouldn't you be doing your baseline testing? I thought the big-shot northern schools taught time management."

She laughed but it was clearly a dig at you, which you ignored.

"I am doing the testing. In fact, I just finished with Sarah Miller. She has severe phonological decoding issues, visual tracking problems, and clear letter reversals. She's displaying every textbook marker for dyslexia."

Karen let out a short, ugly sound that was half-scoff, half-laugh. She leaned back in her swivel chair, shaking her head like you'd just told her a bad joke.

"Dyslexia?" Karen chuckled, waving her long fingers dismissively. "Honey, it's the first day of first grade. The girl is probably just lazy or slow. Give her a flashcard."

"It's not laziness, and she isn't slow," you felt your face burning at how poorly this woman spoke about other kids. "She's seeing static text as moving images. It's a fundamental neurological processing issue. I need to speak with the school's reading interventionist, or whoever handles your specialized literacy screenings. I want to get the paperwork started today so we can get a formal diagnosis."

"Let me stop you right there, Professor. Do you think you’re still at your fancy private school up north? Do you think we have a budget for 'literacy teams' and 'specialized screeners'?" She laughed right in your face. "We don't do that shit here."

"What do you mean you don't do that? It's a public school. State guidelines mandate-"

"State guidelines mandate that if she fails the placement, you put a 'K' on her file and you give her Kindergarten worksheets," Karen snapped, becoming defensive. "We don't have a reading interventionist. We have me, a vice principal who handles discipline, and a guidance counselor. We don't diagnose kids, because a diagnosis means the district has to pay for special accommodations, and we don't have the money. So, you're going to follow the rubric, put her on the low track, and move on to the next kid."

The anger that flared in your chest was so hot it physically made your head throb. You felt the familiar, violent flutter in your left hand, and you quickly balled it into a fist against your thigh.

"So your solution is to just let a 6 year old suffer because it's cheaper?" you whispered, your eyes narrowed.

"My solution is for you to do your job and stop trying to save the world on a Monday morning. If the parents want a diagnosis, they can pay thousands of dollars to take her to a private clinic in downtown Dallas. But considering her file says her dad is a self-employed contractor who moves from site to site, I doubt he's got 'private child psychologist' money lying around. Now, go back to your room."

Contracter. Moves from site to site.

"Well, how do I get this girl a diagnosis through the school then?" you pushed, your voice tight. "There has to be a process. A parent request, a formal evaluation team—"

"There is a process," Karen sighed, bored. "The parent signs a waiver requesting a district evaluation, it goes into a pile at the central office, and maybe, if they're lucky, a specialist comes out by next May to look at her. But like I said, guys like that don't usually care enough to sign the paperwork. They just think their kid is a little behind. We're done here. Don't you have a Back to School Night to prepare for?"

You didn't say another word. If you stayed in that office for one more second, you were going to say something that would get you fired before your first paycheck cleared. You turned on your heel and walked out.

Self-employed contractor. Works late. Uncle involved in family life.

You stopped right outside your classroom door, pressing your forehead against the cool cinderblock wall of the hallway. Your hands were shaking so violently now that you couldn't even hide it.

Everyone loves builders, baby.

"It's a coincidence," you whispered to the empty hallway, your voice cracking. "It has to be a coincidence."

But deep down, in the part of your brain that you couldn't trick with statistics, you knew exactly who was going to walk through that door tonight.

ongoing

taglist (open): @happilymagicallady @mystickittytaco @vickie5446 @din-cognito @pascalgold @cuteanimalmama @zeebmaster @eviispunk @somedayheaven @twilightvelour @callmebyyournick-name @onlythehobi

By @dilf-docs 🙈🙈 send me anything you guys make I almost cried seeing this

[onlythehobi]

someone should burn karen at the stake to keep reader warm

i love love down how smart the mc is LIKE the way she instantly #clocked that sarah had dyslexia

ugh, that last part... i guess being intuitive comes with the teacher pack because her guess IDHSBXNAMDK can't wait to see the teacher parent conference 👀👀👀

lowkey also loved reader/sarah. how she walked her through her meltdown and the reading lesson. i want more of them NEOW

[callittrueblue]

about us

Summary: Joel Miller remembers dying. He remembers the swing, the sound of bone breaking, and Ellie screaming his name as everything went dark. So waking up in a clean hospital room makes no sense, especially when the world outside looks normal, Sarah is alive, Ellie is his daughter, and a woman is holding his hand like she belongs to him. Everyone says he was in a car accident and asleep for nearly two months. Joel knows that isn’t true. Because he lived twenty years somewhere else. Now he has to face a life he doesn’t remember building, a family that remembers him completely, and a woman who loves him… while he looks at her like a stranger. he's not her Joel, and maybe her boyfriend, the other Joel is died and Joel taking his body and his damn life.

Warnings ⚠️ : another life, age-gap (joel in his mid/late 40s, reader somewhere in lates/mid 20s), tons of angst incoming btw, post-TLOU2 Joel consciousness in modern AU, i named the reader (willow), memory loss / identity confusion, alternate reality disorientation, hurt/comfort (heavy hurt first), panic attacks & PTSD responses, canon-typical violence memories (non-graphic), emotional angst, family dynamics & grief, unintentional heartbreak, “you don’t remember loving me” trope, a few of flashback, slow emotional recovery….. there’s eventually smut and stuff but I’ll make it slow burn.

little note (pls read me!): why do I hate writing first chapters so much 😭 I keep thinking abt what’s next and imagining future scenes before I even finish the current one. I think this chapter might be a bit too angsty tho… so maybe next chapter there’ll be something cute w Willow or Joel getting softer and more comfortable around her.

leave the taglist here: @pleurspetal

chapter I:

JOEL

Joel, get up.

The last thing Joel remembered was the whistle of something slicing through the air and the crack that followed it, and then, just final blank. He feels like his bone meeting metal and the sound of something ending.

He's die.

He remembered Ellie’s voice tearing itself open above him.

get up, joel---

Get up.

Joel, get the fuck up.

fucking get up.

He remembered wanting to answer her. Trying to get up just for her, and only her. Wanting to say her name back. Get his head up from the damn floor. Wanting to promise something he wasn’t sure he could keep, 'cause he already broke all his promise for her. But, there’s nothing, just a dense, not quite it was a silence for suffocating pressure that erased the edges of himself until there was no border left between thought and dark.

When he came back, it was violent.

It’s like air punched into his lungs and his chest convulsed and make his body jerked against something soft, and feels wrong under him. Too soft. There should have been cold concrete and smell of dust. Blood thick in the back of his throat.

Instead there was light above him. Something too white and flat to his eyes, almost hurt his eyes. also, He caught a faint smell of chemicals, something sharp and sterile, that pulled at an old memory of hospitals from back in the day.

He blinked, and the world did not shift into nightmare. It stayed clean and then he felt it.

Something that warmth. Warm from other person that live, not like fever or pain. But a hand? Like the hand hold his. Feel like live and soft? Wrapped around his own like it had been there for a long time.

His fingers twitched and brushed skin that did not belong to him. He move his finger again, it’s his index. He felt the curve of a cheek resting near his knuckles. A faint, even breath against his wrist.

He lay still, listening to the mechanical beeping near his ear and the hammering of his own heart, trying to reconcile the impossible fact of being alive.

He should not be alive.

He remembered the certainty of it. The way the world had tilted. The way he had accepted the end without ceremony. He had outlived enough people to know when his number had been called.

This did not feel like heaven.

Heaven, he thought, would be softer than this. It would not carry the faint, sterile sting of antiseptic in the air, sharp enough to settle at the back of his throat. It would not be this quiet in a way that felt watched rather than peaceful. And it would not, under any circumstance, feel gentle toward a man like him. He had never known what heaven was supposed to look like, never even tried to imagine it.

So the thought of this being heaven felt strange, almost absurd, like his mind had reached too far for something it didn’t understand. no, if this were heaven, it had made a mistake, but it wasn’t hell either.

Hell would have greeted him properly, maybe. It would have been loud, unbearable, honest in its cruelty. Fire, or something close to it. Pain that didn’t leave room for doubt. In hell, at least, he would understand where he was. There would be no confusion, no slow unraveling of thought.

And he would have accepted it, because that, at least, would make sense to him. He wasn’t a good man, after all.

He had done too much for anything else to fit. Too many faces that never left him, no matter how hard he tried not to remember. Too many moments where the line between survival and something darker blurred until it didn’t matter anymore which side he stood on.

So this? this quiet, more silence with something live behind the door, this almost-kindness, felt wrong in a way he couldn’t name it.

Like standing somewhere he hadn’t earned.

He tried to move but pain hit him fast, sharp enough to knock the air out of his chest before he could brace for it. It tore up his side and settled there, heavy and throbbing, like something inside him had been pulled apart and stitched back wrong. A rough sound slipped out of him, low and broken, before he could swallow it down.

The air smelled clean more like chemicals and something bitter sitting at the back of his throat. His mouth felt dry, tongue thick, like he hadn’t used it in days or months. There was a weight on his chest, or maybe just the feeling of it, pressure that made each breath slow and careful.

Something moved near his hand. Warm.

The weight shifted. A chair scraped lightly against the floor, the sound sharp in the quiet.

Joel’s vision dragged downward, slow and unsteady, like it didn’t want to cooperate. The light hurt his eyes, somehow. Everything looked washed out, edges blurred, shapes not quite holding still. He forced his eyes to focus anyway.

There was someone there.

A figure at his side, close enough that he could see the outline before the details came in. Hair. Shoulders. A face that felt familiar before he could place it.

Ellie?

His throat worked, tried to say her name, tried to push it past the dryness, past the weight sitting in his chest. But nothing came out, just air.

A low hiss escaped him before he could stop it as he tried to lift his arm, wanting nothing more than to brush the hair from your face. The pain flared hot through his chest, pulling a rough groan from deep in his throat. He hadn’t meant to wake you. In that half-second, a quiet sorrow settled over him, heavy and tender; he was sorry to pull you from whatever fragile rest you had found, sorry that even now, broken and useless, he still managed to disturb the one person who had stayed.

You stirred at the sound.

Your body tensed, shoulders lifting as if surfacing from deep water, and your eyes snapped open with the wide, startled clarity of someone who had trained herself to wake at the smallest sign of him. For a breathless moment you simply looked at him, hair tousled and falling loose around your face, the faint crease from the mattress still pressed into your cheek like a secret the night had left behind. The dim light caught in your eyes, turning them soft and luminous, and something in Joel’s chest tightened at the sight of you, impossibly alive in a world that had forgotten how to be gentle.

The slight flush still lingering on your skin. The way your lips parted, trembling just enough to betray the storm behind them. Everything about you felt etched with care, with sleepless hours and he drank it in without a word, letting the feeling settle somewhere deep where words could not reach.

"Joel?” you breathed. oh god, escaped from your lips.

The sound of his name in your voice slid through him like honey, low and trembling, almost fracturing on the second syllable. “J-Joel…”

It tasted fragile on the air between you, sweet and aching. He stared, the fog in his mind thinning slowly, and realized with a deep, visceral pull that you were not Ellie.

He didn’t know who you were.

You moved toward him without hesitation. Your hand rose, and when it found his face, the touch was so unbearably soft it made his chest tighten. Your palm carried the faint roughness of calluses, yet the skin was velvet-warm, alive with the pulse of your blood. Your thumb traced his cheekbone slowly, deliberately, sending small sparks of sensation racing across his jaw and down his neck. He could smell you clearly now, something faintly sweet, like crushed herbs or the inside of your wrist after a long summer night. You leaned in closer. Your breath brushed his lips first, warm and humid, carrying the ghost of water and exhaustion. Then your mouth pressed to his forehead, soft and lingering, the heat of it blooming across his skin like sunlight soaking into dry earth. He felt the gentle pressure of your lips, the faint tremble in them, the way your hair fell forward and tickled his temple.

His eyes closed on instinct. His body remembered everything his mind had not yet reclaimed, the quiet thunder of your heartbeat so close to his. A slow shiver moved through him, deep and involuntary, like the first touch of skin after years of winter.

Joel’s mouth opened, the words already forming somewhere deep in his chest. Who the hell are you? Where’s Ellie? What is this place? but nothing came. His throat was a dry riverbed, cracked and empty, the kind of desert silence that had swallowed whole towns back when the world still made sense.

He pushed again, harder, air scraping uselessly against raw tissue, and his brow pulled tight in that uneasy frown she knew too well, the one that carved lines between his eyes like he was bracing for a fight he couldn’t even start.

he saw that you noticed right away.

“Hey,” you said softly, thumb still moving in slow, steady circles over his knuckles like muscle memory. “It’s okay. The doctor just took the tube out. They said your voice is coming back, it just needs a little time. Just take it easy, okay?”

Tube.

The word hit him sideways. A tube? In his throat? The confusion sharpened, pressing in behind his ribs until it felt like something alive trying to get out. None of this lined up, He stared at you, eyes narrowed, trying to force the questions through the dryness anyway, but his lips only twitched uselessly.

you didn’t wait for him to try again. you reached for the plastic cup on the side table, the condensation cool against your fingers, and slid your other arm behind his shoulders with the careful ease of someone who had done this exact thing more times than she could count. She lifted him just enough, no rush, no fuss, and brought the straw to his lips.

“Here,” she murmured, voice low and close. “Drink some.”

The water touched his tongue, and slid down his throat like forgiveness he hadn’t asked for. He took small sips, eyes never leaving your face, the desert in his mouth easing just a fraction while everything else inside him stayed cracked wide open. you watched him the whole time, patient and steady and a little scared, like you were afraid the next thing he tried to say might break whatever was left of them both.

“where's Ellie?” he rasped. The word scraped out, dry and uncertain, barely more than breath.

Your expression faltered, just a small, exquisite fracture across your face. “She’s fine,” you whispered, the words warm against his skin, heavy with relief and unspoken nights.

The answer didn’t sit right. He doesn't know why? Just the word fine didn’t belong anywhere near the world he remembered.

He frowned, pain tightening behind his eyes, and the idea unsettled him more than the pain.

He closed his eyes for a second, overwhelmed by the quiet intensity of your presence. The warmth of your skin. The steady brush of your thumb over his knuckles. The way your body leaned toward his without calculation.

He hadn’t been touched like that in a long time. Not with softness that wasn’t earned through blood or apology. Not with care that didn’t feel conditional.

your forehead dipped gently against his temple, careful of whatever bandage lay hidden there.

“You scared me,” you whispered. There was no anger in it, just exhaustion. your fingers tightened more securely around his, like you were anchoring him to something solid. “I’ve been waiting for you to wake,” you said, he can hear the way your voice barely holding together. “You can’t do this to me. I… I can’t do it without you.”

He felt like a man standing in a house that used to belong to him, but the furniture had been rearranged and he no longer knew where the doors were. and not knowing what to do.

He opened his eyes this time, when he feel you pull away from him. you were watching him with your doe- alike eyes like he might disappear if you blinked.

Joel studied you. The soft press of your hands lingered on his shoulders as you eased back, just far enough to study him. Your gaze moved over his face with careful, practiced intensity, as though you were reading symptoms written in the lines of his brow and the tension around his mouth.

“Is anything hurt?” you asked, your voice low and steady. “Any pain I can’t see?”

He guessed you were a doctor, but the thought didn’t quite fit. A nurse, maybe? No, that didn’t sit right either. You wore a simple white fitted tee and jeans, nothing clinical about you. Still, there was something in the way you looked at him that made him wonder exactly who you were. He couldn’t put a name or title to it, only that you felt like someone who knew how to look for what wasn’t being said.

"Yeah,” he muttered. “Yeah… there’s pain.” His voice carried the heaviness of someone unused to admitting weakness aloud. Like the confession itself sat wrong in his mouth. He didn’t even know why he was telling you this. Maybe because your hands had stayed still the whole time. Maybe because you looked at him like he was something breakable and not just a man stitched together by old violence and stubbornness.

Or maybe because, somehow, it felt right. Joel swallowed hard, eyes fixed somewhere past your shoulder, toward nothing at all. “Side,” he added after a moment, the word catching slightly in his throat. His hand drifted unconsciously toward his ribs before stopping midway, fingers curling into his palm instead. “Right side… feels like it’s been torn open.”

The room settled around the silence between you. The low hum of the light overhead. The faint smell of antiseptic and rain clinging to his jacket. His breathing had gone uneven now, careful, measured, like every inhale needed permission first. “Head too,” he murmured quieter this time, jaw tightening. “Keeps poundin’.”

And when he finally looked at you, it wasn’t with embarrassment. Not exactly. It was something softer than that. Something almost boyish beneath all the exhaustion. Like he hated that you were seeing him like this.

“okay, okay. You’ll be okay,” you said. “And I’ll tell the doctor after this.” you sound somehow a little too excited for what Joel is about to see.

Joel stared at you for a second too long, and in that second he became suddenly aware of everything at once: the faint crease between your brows whenever you worried, the careful way your fingers hovered near him without forcing contact, the scent of soap and cold air lingering in your sweater. Small things. Forgettable things, maybe. Yet they reached him with startling precision, lodging somewhere beneath the ache in his ribs.

“You said…” His thumb brushed unconsciously against the edge of the blanket draped over him, fingers tense, uncertain. “You’ve been waiting. For me?”

And God, the way he said it, almost hesitant, made the question feel larger than it was. As if he already feared the answer before hearing it. As if some part of him couldn’t quite believe anybody would wait for him at all.

She nodded once, and the small gesture seemed to carry more weight than it should have. Two months, she said, and the number landed in him like a quiet shock, something too large to hold all at once. He looked at her as if the space between them had changed shape, as if her patience had been sitting there in the room all along, waiting with her. Her hand stayed around his, steady and unshowy, but it made him feel suddenly aware of his own pulse, the fragility of being touched with such care. He had the strange sense that he was being looked after in a way he did not know how to ask for, and maybe had never once expected. It unsettled him, and softened him at the same time. He wanted to understand why she had waited, why she had stayed, but all he could do was stand there inside the quiet of it, feeling the tenderness of her concern like something almost unbearable.

He was trying to summon something, a memory of her voice, her face, the way her thumb traced his skin like she had mapped it a thousand times.

“Where… what hospital is this?” he asked.

“You’re at St. David’s Medical Center,” you said

The thought flickered, distant and half-formed. His eyes shifted past you, taking in the room again. the steady light, and quiet, the way everything felt… intact.

“what? no, no, no…” he started, then stopped. its just came out as a disbelife and whisper to himself.

His hand shifted against the sheets, slow, like even that took effort. He looked back at you, really looked this time, like maybe the answer was in your face instead of the room.

“…How?” he asked finally, quieter now. “Is it still in Jackson?”

joel could see it in the way your breath caught, like something fragile inside you had been nudged out of place. your eyes searched his face, not for an answer—but for how much he meant by that.

“No,” you said after a beat, her voice gentler now. “It’s not in Jackson.”

Joel frowned.

The word no didn’t settle right. It only made things worse. His gaze drifted again, slower this time, like he was trying to force the room to make sense if he looked at it long enough.

"Then where the hell am i—” he muttered, the curse fraying at the edges before it could even finish, stolen by the sudden weight of exhaustion that pressed down on him like wet concrete.

He swallowed, the motion pulling a faint wince across his face as fresh pain bloomed raw along his throat. His chest rose and fell unevenly, each inhale a careful negotiation, like his body was still learning the rules of this impossible place.

“you're in Austin, Texas, joel....” you added.

That made him freeze.

This was not the quiet, measured stillness Joel had learned to carry — the kind a man develops after twenty years of surviving, when every decision could mean life or death. No, this was something altogether different. Sharper. Colder. It seized him completely, freezing the blood in his veins as though winter had come from inside his own body.

Austin. Texas.

The words echoed strangely in his mind, hollow and unnatural, like hearing someone speak your childhood language in a dream. Austin no longer existed. Not like this. Not clean and bright and humming with life, with machines that worked and lights that stayed on and warm hands holding his as if love were still a simple thing.

"...are you okay?"

In the world he remembered, Austin had burned. It had died screaming along with everything else — swallowed by infection and fire and the long, merciless collapse of civilization. It had taken his daughter with it. Sarah. To hear that name spoken so easily now, in this bright, impossible room, felt like a kind of blasphemy. As if someone had quietly dug up her grave and expected him to be grateful that the earth had given her back.

His eyes lifted back to yours, sharper now despite the haze still clouding the edges of his vision, the confusion hardening into something edged and dangerous.

“…What do you mean?” he said under his breath, the question low and rough, barely more than gravel dragged across concrete. Then the suspicion broke loose, raw and unfiltered, the old instincts clawing their way up before he could stop them. “Are you fucking kidding me?” His voice cracked on the words, still hoarse from the tube they’d pulled, but the accusation burned through anyway. “Are you a one of FEDRA? Is the girl that shot me one of your people... or your leader?”

The questions hung between you, heavy and trembling, carrying every nightmare he’d lived through: the blue uniforms, the quarantine zones, the cold efficiency of people who called slaughter order. His fingers tightened in your grasp without meaning to, not pulling away but holding on like the contact itself might keep the floor from dropping out beneath him.

“Joel…” Your voice came out small at first, cracked and uncertain. “What… what are you talking about?”

He didn’t answer right away. The anger was already sharpening, turning his jaw to stone. He could feel it in the way his fingers flexed inside yours, but pressing harder, almost accusing.

"just tell me?" his voice getting angrier somehow

Because if this was some new game, if you were part of it, if the clean white room, the way you looked at him like he was yours were all just another way to break him—then he’d rather the club had finished its swing.

Your breath hitched, the sound soft and unsteady. You leaned in closer without thinking, “I’m not with anyone like that. I'm willow, and I’m yours. I’ve been yours for years.” Your voice cracked, confusion and hurt braiding together until it was impossible to tell which was winning. " y-you even give me this ring, remember?" the ring on your finger catching the light like a taunt.

willow

It started low, a slow burn behind his ribs, the kind that had kept him alive for twenty years. He watched the way your shoulders tensed, the way your free hand hovered halfway to his cheek before dropping, trembling. That look, wide-eyed and lost, like he’d just spoken in a language you didn’t understand, only fed the fire. Because if this was real, if you really didn’t know what the fuck he was talking about, then either the world had gone completely insane… or you were lying to him. And the thought that you, of all people, this woman who kissed his forehead like it was a promise, might be lying made something ugly twist tight in his gut.

“Joel, babe. There’s no... there’s no one who shot you. It was a car accident. On the highway. You swerved to avoid a truck and… and you don’t remember any of that?” you went on, words tumbling faster now, laced with a panic that only made his chest burn hotter. Your free hand rose again, hovering near his face like you wanted to touch him and didn’t dare.

A car accident. The words sounded so clean, so ordinary, they made his stomach turn.

He let out a short, bitter breath that scraped raw against his ruined throat. “A car accident,” he echoed, voice low and edged with disbelief. The anger was fully awake now, crawling higher, licking at the base of his throat. “You expect me to believe that? After everything? After the way the world ended? You’re telling me I’ve been lying here two months and the whole damn thing was just some fucking fender-bender in Austin, Texas?”

“what?… please, tell me what’s going on in your head. I don’t understand any of this. We... we can get through this. Us. you, me, the girls—” The plea only stoked the anger higher.

He could see it in your eyes—the genuine bewilderment, the way you looked at him like he was the one breaking something precious—and it made him want to shove the words back at you, make you feel the same fracture splitting open inside him.

“Yeah, well I don’t understand a goddamn thing either,” he rasped, the roughness in his voice turning sharp, ugly. His fingers tightened around yours, not gentle anymore, the grip almost bruising. “One minute I’m on the floor in Jackson with Ellie screaming my name, the next I wake up in some fairy-tale hospital with a woman I’ve never seen before telling me we’ve got daughters and a life in a city that shouldn’t even be standing. So forgive me if I’m having a hard time buying the ‘car accident’ story while you sit there looking at me like I’ve lost my mind and throwing around some bullshit about us—”

You flinched this time, but you didn’t pull away. And that, more than anything, unsettled him.

Are you out of your goddamn mind, kid? he thought. If this body weren’t already half-dead on me, I could put you down easy. But you stayed there anyway, close enough for him to feel the warmth coming off your skin, close enough that your hand still rested against him like you had forgotten it was there. Joel watched the confusion in your eyes shift slowly into hurt, quiet and unguarded, and the sight of it only made something uglier coil tighter inside his chest.

Because part of him had already begun to believe you.

“Joel,” you whispered again, voice trembling now, “I’m not lying to you. I swear I’m not. I don’t know what have you been through to this, or Jackson, or any of it. I just know I’ve been sitting here every day waiting for you to wake up and come back to me. To us.”

The room felt smaller suddenly, the beeping monitors too loud, the space between your faces charged with everything neither of you could quite name. His anger simmered there, hot and restless, while your confusion pressed back like a mirror, reflecting every fracture until it felt like the beginning of an argument neither of you had the strength for—but both of you were already stepping into.

The word us hit him like a gut punch.

His face twisted into something ugly, something mean and disbelieving, the kind of look he used to give raiders right before he pulled the trigger. Who the fuck is us? The thought roared through him, hot and vicious. There is no us between you and me. There never was. He didn’t know you. He didn’t want to know you. This soft, pleading stranger with her ring and her tears and her gentle hands had no right to that word.

“No,” he said suddenly, his voice rough and low. “No. No, that’s not what happened.”

you turned to look at him. Joel’s breathing had grown sharper, the anxiety clawing its way back up his throat. He pushed himself up slightly against the pillows, ignoring the burn in his side.

“Someone… a girl,” he continued, the words tumbling out faster, more urgent. “She shot me in the knee. Point blank. Then she beat the shit out of me. She had this goddamn club and she—” His voice cracked, but he forced the rest out. “She swung it at my head. That’s what happened. I’m not crazy. I didn’t get hurt in some fucking car accident. I know what I felt. I know what I saw.”

The room went completely still.

“Joel… hey, what are you talking about? There was no girl. It was a car crash on I-35. You swerved, hit the guardrail hard. They had to cut you out of the truck.”

Joel shook his head, jaw tight, eyes wild with frustration. “No. You’re wrong. All of it is wrong.” His gaze flicked toward you by the window, then back to you. “I was in Jackson. Ellie was there. She was screaming at me to get up. This wasn’t some accident on a highway that doesn’t even exist anymore. This was real. The blood, the pain, the way my leg gave out .... that was real.”

His chest was heaving now, the panic rising again, hot and suffocating. He looked between the two of you like you were both part of some elaborate lie meant to break him.

“I’m telling you,” he rasped, voice cracking with exhaustion and anger, “a girl beat me half to death with a golf club. She wanted me to suffer. That’s the last thing I remember. Not some fucking truck. Not Austin. Not any of this.”

The silence that followed felt suffocating. you glanced at him helplessly, clearly at a loss.

Joel’s hands were shaking where they gripped the sheets. He didn’t know who to trust anymore. Everything he said sounded insane even to his own ears, but it was the only truth he had left.

You cut him off mid-sentence, voice desperate, trying to reach the man you thought you still knew. “Joel, please—just breathe. tommy, ellie, and sarah are all waiting for you to wake up, okay. all of them is fine, there's no such a things like that, ”

"Sarah." the name landed like a blade between his ribs. "she so worried about ya,"

His eyes snapped to yours, the kind of look that had once made grown men step back. Anger surged through him in a white-hot flood, pure and blinding, drowning everything else. How dare you say her name? How dare you speak it so casually, like it was just another word, like you had any right to it? It felt like mockery. Like you were twisting the knife in the oldest wound he had, the one that had never healed, the one that still bled every time he closed his eyes. Sarah—his Sarah, his little girl, gone in a spray of bullets and screams—was not yours to claim. Not like this.

“Who the hell do you think you are?” he snarled, voice low and trembling with fury, the words scraping out like broken glass. “You don’t get to say her name. You don’t get to stand there and mock me with it. My daughter is dead. She’s been dead for twenty goddamn years. And you’re using her name like—like it’s some fucking game to you?”

You blinked, confusion crashing over your face like cold water, eyes wide and glistening. “Who?" you asks. "Ellie? Sarah?” The names tumbled out of you in helpless bewilderment, soft and uncertain, as if testing them might make any of this real. his eyes snapped at you. “Joel, I—I don’t understand. Sarah’s our-" joel see when you corrected yourself. "....your daughter. she is at school right now with Ellie and Tommy waiting for the doctor to say you're awake. She’s been so scared—”

His eyes snapped again at the second mention of Sarah, harder this time, the rage and raw grief colliding until his vision blurred at the edges. The anger was everywhere now, choking him, making his chest heave with the effort not to shout.

Part of him wanted to tear his hand from yours, wanted to shove you back hard enough to wipe that look from your face, to split the hurt between you so he wouldn’t have to carry it alone. The instinct came fast, ugly, familiar. Like anger was easier to survive than fear ever was.

But the other part of him: the worn-down, splintering part that had been holding itself together by habit alone, couldn’t stop looking at you.

At the tears beginning to gather in your eyes, shining stubbornly even as you tried to blink them away. At the way your voice cracked around his name, soft and trembling, as though it meant something sacred to you. As though he meant something.

It was unbearable.

Not because you were weak. Not because you pitied him.

But because you looked at him like you still believed there was something left in him worth reaching for.

And God, that was crueler than anything. Crueler than the pain in his body.

The room seemed to draw inward around the two of you, walls bending closer with every sharp pulse of the monitors. The sound filled the silence too loudly, too steadily, until even the air between your faces felt alive with it, thin and electric and breaking apart by inches.

Joel kept staring at you with that same ugly look—suspicion tangled with anger, exhaustion sitting underneath it all like something ancient and incurable. His hands trembled inside yours despite himself, not with weakness alone but with the effort of holding everything in. And your expression only undid him further: the confusion there, the hurt slowly opening across your face like light through cracked glass.

You looked at him as though you could not understand how someone already half-destroyed could still keep choosing to wound himself further.

The feeling hit him again before he could outrun it.

Anxiety came down hard and sudden, vicious as a storm breaking through rotten wood. His chest seized violently, breath catching halfway in as though invisible hands had wrapped around his ribs and begun tightening, until even the smallest inhale hurt. A sharp pain bloomed beneath his sternum, hot and blinding, spreading with every frantic beat of his heart.

"you okay?"

For one terrible second, he thought his body might simply split apart from it.

Old grief rose first. Then fear. Then something worse than both.

Because beneath the panic, beneath the confusion and fury and pain, there was the unbearable feeling that he was losing something again before he had even remembered what it was.

And you were still there, holding his shaking hands like they belonged to someone worth saving. but then, “I don’t know who the fuck you are, okay?” The words tore out of him, raw and cruel, each one aimed to wound. “I don’t know you. I don’t remember your face, your voice, that goddamn ring on your finger—none of it. You keep talking about us and daughters and some perfect little life like I’m supposed to just nod and play along. But I don’t feel any of that. You’re a stranger to me. You’re a fucking stranger holding my hand like you own it, saying my dead daughter’s name like it’s nothing, and I can’t—”

He stopped, breath ragged, the anxiety clawing higher, tighter, making his voice shake with something ugly.

“I wake up and everything’s gone. Jackson. Ellie. Tommy. My Sarah. And instead I get you. Some woman I’ve never seen before telling me I’ve got a whole family I don’t remember. How the hell do you think that feels? Like I’m losing my goddamn mind. Or maybe I already lost it and this is the joke.”

The words landed like stones. He saw them hit you — watched the way your shoulders curved inward, the way your lips pressed together to trap whatever sound wanted to escape. He saw the fresh hurt bloom in your eyes, bright and devastating, and still he couldn’t stop the poison spilling out.

“You want me to believe you’re mine? That I chose this? That I gave you that ring and built some goddamn white-picket life in a city that shouldn’t exist anymore?” His laugh was bitter, broken. “I don’t even know if I could love someone like that anymore. Not after everything. Certainly not someone I can’t remember.”

But even as the venom left him, even as the anger tried to keep its grip, something inside his chest fractured wider.

He looked at your eyes: They were the saddest eyes he had ever seen in his life. for one brief second, felt something close to shame crawl beneath his skin.

Not just guilt but the terrible understanding that he was hurting someone who did not deserve to be hurt.

A tear slipped from your eye before you could stop it. Joel watched it trace a slow path down your cheek, catching the pale hospital light as it fell. And then came the flush blooming beneath your skin, delicate and sudden, spreading across your face like your body itself was embarrassed by the honesty of your grief.

You looked away for half a second, as if ashamed to be seen hurting in front of him.

That nearly undid him. Because beneath the exhaustion and the confusion and the anger twisting inside his chest, you suddenly looked unbearably young to him. Young in the way bruised things are open and exposed. Still foolish enough to care. And God, he did not know what to do with that.

Something tightened low in his stomach, sharp and uncomfortable, almost like grief but not quite. The sight of your tears made him feel clumsy inside his own skin, like his hands had become dangerous things without him noticing. Like every hard word he threw at you landed somewhere tender he hadn’t meant to touch. For the first time since waking up, Joel looked at you not like a threat, not like a stranger hovering too close to his bed—

but like someone he might already have ruined.

Joel watched as you lifted your hand and wiped the tear away roughly, almost angrily, like you were punishing yourself for letting it fall in front of him. The motion was jerky, ungraceful, nothing like the gentle way you had touched him earlier. It hurt more than he expected it to.

Then something buzzed in your pocket.

You pulled out a slim, sleek rectangle, a phone? but not like any phone or even radio they usually use, he remembered from before the outbreak. those thick and got keyboard on it. but now It look too thin as the screen glowing bright and alive with color. Just a perfectly functioning piece of the old world, as if the last twenty years had never happened. Joel stared at it, a fresh wave of unease crawling over his skin. Phones didn’t work anymore. Not like that. Seeing it in your hand felt wrong. Unnatural. Like proof that none of this was real.

you glanced at the screen, hesitated, then answered.

“Hey… no need, can you just come here, please” you said, your voice quieter now, trying to steady itself.

You turned slightly away from him, but not enough to hide anything. Joel could still see the shine of tears in your eyes, the way your free hand gripped the edge of the bed until your knuckles paled. “No, he’s awake. He just woke up a little while ago.” someone on other side say something, and you says. "yeah, he talking, i mean we are,"

He watched you the whole time.

His eyes didn’t leave your face, not even for a second. There was a tight, animal caution in his chest, the old instinct still working even though his body felt half-broken. Part of him kept waiting for the shift — for your hand to move suddenly, for something sharp to appear, for the gentleness to crack open and reveal what was really underneath. He wouldn’t have been surprised if you pulled a gun. In his experience, that was how these things usually ended.

While you were still on the phone, he turned his head slowly to the side, jaw clenched against the pain that flared down his neck. Through the gap in the thin curtain, the window showed him the city. They were high up. Very high. Buildings stood straight and whole, lights moving along the streets below, everything clean and ordinary in a way that made his stomach feel hollow. It didn’t look like a world that had ended. It looked like one that had simply kept going without him.

“Okay,” you said into the phone, voice quiet and tired. “Can you tell the doctor on the way here? Yeah… okay.”

You hung up and slipped the phone back into your pocket. For a moment you stood completely still, looking down at the floor like you needed the extra second to collect yourself. Then you lifted your head and met his eyes again.

Joel didn’t say anything. He just watched you. The flush was still on your cheeks, faint now, and your eyes were red at the edges. You had wiped the tear away so roughly it was like you were annoyed at yourself for crying. He noticed the small things how your fingers kept gripping the edge of the bed rail, even after everything he had said, the way your shoulders carried a weight that wasn’t just physical.

“Tommy’s downstairs,” you said quietly, without looking at him. “He’s going to come up in a minute.”

The squeaking sound of the chair cut through the silence like a small wound.

You dragged it back toward the wall with a slow, tired scrape, the rubber legs protesting against the linoleum. Joel tensed instantly, every muscle in his battered body pulling tight. His pulse spiked. For one sharp, instinctive second he was certain you were going to lift it — swing it hard across the room and bring it down on his head, finishing what the world had started. He braced for it, breath shallow, eyes never leaving you.

But you didn’t.

You simply collapsed into the chair, throwing your body down as if all the strength had suddenly left your legs. The movement was heavy, defeated. You curled forward, back rounding like a question mark, elbows digging into your knees, and buried your face in your palms. The posture was so raw, so private, that Joel felt he shouldn’t be watching. For a moment he was sure you were going to cry, really cry! the kind of crying that tore itself out of the chest and refused to be quiet.

He waited for the sound of it.

Instead, you stiffened, as though reminding yourself you were still in the room with him. You straightened your back just enough to look composed, though your shoulders stayed heavy and your head remained low. Your gaze fixed on the floor between your feet. Then, almost absentmindedly, your fingers began to move — tracing the band of the ring on your left hand, turning it slowly, nervously, around and around your finger like it was the only real thing left in the world.

Joel watched the small motion with a strange ache blooming behind his ribs. The way the light caught on the simple silver band as you twisted it. The way your thumb kept brushing over it, again and again, as if checking it was still there. As if checking he was still there.

There was something unbearably intimate about it. Something that made the air feel thick and warm between you, even with all the distance and silence and cruel words he had thrown at you earlier. He could see the exhaustion in every line of your body, the quiet war you were fighting just to keep yourself from falling apart in front of him.

And still, those eyes, when they eventually lifted again, held that same devastating softness.

He didn’t know what to do with any of it. The fear, the suspicion, the strange pull in his chest. So he simply kept watching you, silent and unsettled, as the fluorescent light hummed above you both and the city glowed indifferently beyond the window.

The silence stretched between you for a long moment, heavy and alive.

Then you lifted your head slightly, eyes still fixed somewhere near the floor, and asked in a voice so soft it barely disturbed the air:

“You don’t really remember me at all, do you?”

The question came out small and fragile, almost apologetic for existing. With it, a sad smile touched your lips — weak, trembling at the edges, the kind of smile that wasn’t really a smile at all. It was more like surrender. A small, tired curve that knew it wouldn’t reach your eyes and didn’t even try. It made something inside Joel tighten painfully.

He stared at you, chest still aching from the earlier surge of anxiety, his body heavy against the hospital bed. The question hung there, simple and devastating. He could see the way your fingers kept turning the ring around and around, slower now, as though the motion could steady you.

For a second he didn’t answer. He just looked at that weak, sorrowful smile and felt the strange weight of it settle deep in his stomach. It wasn’t fair. None of this was fair. You were looking at him like he had once meant everything, while all he could offer back was confusion and suspicion and the cold certainty that he had never seen your face before today.

“No,” he said finally, his voice low and rough, scraped raw from disuse. “I don’t.”

Your sad little smile faltered but didn’t disappear completely. It only became sadder, thinner, as if you had already known the answer but still needed to hear it out loud. Your eyes shimmered again, that unbearable softness returning full force, and Joel felt the now-familiar twist in his chest — guilt and something else he didn’t want to name it.

You nodded once, barely perceptible, still playing with the ring like it was a lifeline.

“okay... ” you whispered, almost to yourself. “at least you didn't forgot your family.”

You simply sat there in the chair, back slightly curved, wearing that small, broken smile like armor, while the city lights glowed quietly beyond the window and the distance between you felt wider than ever.

Joel kept watching you, unable to look away, the image of that weak smile burning itself into him long after you lowered your gaze again.

His eyes were fixed on you as you shook your head, then you let out a small, broken sound, almost like a chuckle in disbelief at what had happened.

“I don’t know what’s worse, Joel. That you don’t remember me… or that some part of me still believes if I just wait long enough, you’ll come back to me anyway. Even though I can see in your eyes that you already left.”

Joel felt the words sink into him like hooks.

Something heavy and painful lodged itself in his throat. He stared at you, at that small, devastated smile still clinging to your lips, at the way your shoulders curved like the weight of loving him was slowly crushing you. The anxiety in his chest tightened again, but this time it was mixed with a guilt so sharp it almost made him flinch.

Jesus Christ, he thought. How do you say something like that to a man who doesn’t even know your name? How do you sit there and bleed like this for someone who looks at you like a threat?

He hated it. He hated how your sadness made him feel small. He hated that some broken part of him wanted to reach out and touch your hand anyway. Most of all, he hated that he had nothing real to give you.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” he rasped finally, his voice low and rough, almost angry at how unsteady it sounded. “I can’t lie to you. I look at you and… I feel nothing. Not the way you want me to. There’s just this blank space where you say my life used to be.”

He swallowed hard, eyes dropping to your hands, to that ring you kept touching like a wound.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, the words feeling foreign and insufficient on his tongue. “I’m sorry you’re hurting like this. But I didn’t ask for any of it. I didn’t ask for you to wait two months by my bed. I didn’t ask for daughters I don’t remember. I woke up and everything I know is gone… and you’re looking at me like I’m supposed to fix that. Like I’m supposed to love you when I don’t even know who the hell you are.”

He met your eyes again, his own gaze tired and conflicted.

“I’m not him,” he said quietly, almost gently this time. “Whoever the man was who looked at you like you were his whole world… I ain’t him. Not anymore. Maybe I never will be again.”

Joel looked away toward the window, jaw tight, the city lights blurring slightly in his vision. Inside his chest, the guilt twisted deeper. Because even as he said the words, even as he tried to push you away, a small, terrified part of him wondered if he was making the biggest mistake of his life by letting someone who loved him this much slip through his fingers.

You looked at him for a long moment with those blank eyes, eyes so full of sadness they seemed emptied of everything else. There was no anger left in them, no fight. Just a vast, quiet exhaustion that made the room feel colder.

Then a sudden scoff from you that broke the silence, almost a sneer, like you were disgusted with yourself for still caring.

“i hope you do a little better and put a effort when you see the girls,” you said, your voice low and flat. “They’re your daughters. You’re their only hope right now.”

He stared at you as you said them. There was no longer any plea in them, only a weary resignation that somehow hurt more than any accusation. Joel watched as you pushed yourself up from the chair. Your movements were slow, heavy, like your body had grown too heavy to carry. You walked over to the large window he had been glancing at earlier and pulled the thin curtain open with one sharp tug. afternoon light flooded the room, softer and warmer than the harsh fluorescent glow. The city stretched out beneath you... alive, glowing, impossibly intact.

Joel stared past you at the view, his chest tightening again at the sight of a world that refused to match his memories. You stood there with your back to him, arms wrapped around yourself, silhouetted against the glass. The light caught in your hair and made the ring on your finger glint faintly. You didn’t turn around. You didn’t say anything else. You just stood there, looking out at the city like it might give you answers he couldn’t.

Joel felt something shift uncomfortably inside him. Those blank, sorrow-filled eyes stayed burned into his mind even now that you weren’t facing him. He wanted to look away, but he couldn’t. The silence between you felt thicker than before — full of everything you hadn’t said, and everything he didn’t know how to feel.

He stayed quiet, watching the gentle rise and fall of your shoulders, wondering how much longer you could keep holding yourself together when he kept breaking you apart.

The door burst open.

Both of you turned at the sound, your body pivoting fully from the window in one fluid, instinctive motion, no longer offering him your back. The golden sunlight that had been outlining your silhouette now spilled across your front, catching in your eyes and illuminating the quiet exhaustion etched into your features. Joel felt the shift like a current passing through the room. Your gaze landed on him first before moving to Tommy.

Tommy came in fast, boots loud against the floor, breathing hard like he had run the whole way from wherever bad news lived in this too-bright city. The rush of air that followed him carried the scent of outside—dust, engine oil, and the faint metallic tang of evening settling over concrete. His hair was disheveled, jacket half-buttoned, eyes wide with that familiar mix of panic and fierce love Joel almost recognized.

“Joel—Jesus Christ, willow said you were awake,” Tommy’s voice cracked as he crossed the room in long strides, stopping short when he saw you standing by the window, rigid and silent. "Jesus, you scared the hell out of us." His gaze flicked between the two of you, reading the thick air, the way your arms hugged your ribs like armor. Something in Tommy’s face softened with understanding, then tightened again with worry.

Tommy obviously knew you. There had been no hesitation in his brother when he looked at you, none of that suspicion Joel had first clung to because suspicion was easier than the alternative. Easier than believing you were exactly what you said you were.

Because if Tommy knew you, really knew you, then you hadn’t lied to him.

Which meant the look on your face earlier had been real too. The silence after his cruel words. The way your mouth parted slightly, as if you had almost said something back before deciding against it. He remembered it now with painful clarity. That quiet kind of hurt people try to hide because they don’t think they’re allowed to feel it in the first place.

And God, he had done that to you.

he’d rather die than speak to you now, knowing he was the one who hurt you.

...

YOU (WILLOW)

You sat in the parking lot with the food balanced on your lap, the paper bag already going translucent with grease. The Coke beside you had started sweating down the cup, dampening the fabric of your coat where it rested against your thigh. You could hear children somewhere outside laughing too loudly, backpacks slamming against lockers, car doors opening and closing in quick succession. Life continuing with this terrible ease.

when the doctor spoke, somehow made it worse.

Like if he had sounded alarmed, or uncertain, or visibly disturbed by any of this, maybe you could have matched his emotion properly. But he spoke in that careful, measured tone doctors used when they had already accepted the situation long before you had.

You sat across from him in the consultation room with your hands clasped so tightly together your knuckles hurt. There was a coffee stain on the sleeve of your sweater from two days ago. Or maybe three. You couldn’t really remember anymore. Time had begun collapsing strangely since the accident. Nights folding into mornings without edges between them.

“He remembers his brother,” you said. “his daughters.”

The doctor nodded once. “Yes.”

You stared at him. The fluorescent light above buzzed softly. Somewhere outside the room a phone rang twice and stopped. “But not me.”

Another pause.

You hated the pauses most. The pauses were where reality entered the room.

“Memory retrieval after brain trauma can be selective,” he explained. “Sometimes emotionally significant memories remain accessible. Sometimes certain relationships become… disconnected temporarily.”

Disconnected. The word made something sharp twist low in your stomach.

“He knew me before,” you said.

“Yes.”

“He loved me.” you murmur.

The doctor lowered his eyes briefly then. Not avoiding the question exactly. Just moving carefully around it, like somebody stepping over broken glass.

“I understand that.”

“No, I don’t think you do.” Your voice sounded strange suddenly. “Because if he remembers Ellie, and Tommy, and Sarah, then why not me?”

The question stayed there between you.

Why not me.

You realized then that you had been thinking it over and over since Joel opened his eyes.

Not: Will he recover?

Not: Will things go back to normal?

Just: Why not me.

The doctor folded his hands together on the desk. “The brain doesn’t organize memory according to fairness,” he said gently.

You almost laughed at that, not because it was funny, because the sentence felt obscene somehow. Fairness. As though this had anything to do with fairness anymore.

“He looked at me,” you said after a moment. “Like I frightened him.”

The doctor didn’t answer immediately. You kept speaking anyway because stopping felt impossible now.

“He kept asking for Ellie. He remembered Sarah immediately. Tommy too. He remembered things that apparently don’t even exist anymore inside his head. But when he looked at me,” your throat tightened suddenly. “Nothing. There was just nothing.”

Your voice cracked slightly on the last word and you looked down immediately, embarrassed by it. The doctor waited. You hated that too. The patience. The gentleness. As though your grief had become medically predictable.

“But he did know me,” you insisted again, quieter this time. “You understand that, right? We've been together like... almost five years. seeing him every single day, and we-we going to married, and-and i don't know have another kid. He used to…” You stopped.

'Used to' is the saddest phrases you could ever say. The phrase hollowed something inside your chest.

The doctor leaned back slightly in his chair.“Miss Grant,” he said carefully, “people often assume memory is purely factual. But autobiographical attachment is extremely complicated. Sometimes after trauma the brain preserves certain identities while suppressing others associated with emotional intensity, stress, or disorientation.”

You blinked at him. Suppressing others. The words sounded almost violent.

“So I’m stressful?” you asked.

“No, that’s not what I mean.”

“Then what do you mean?”

He hesitated.

And again you thought: there it is. That terrible little hesitation before somebody says something that changes your life permanently.

“What I mean,” he said slowly, “is that memory loss is not always random. Sometimes the mind protects itself in ways we don’t fully understand.”

You stared at him for a long moment. Then shook your head immediately. “No.”

He stayed silent.

“No,” you repeated. “Because that makes it sound intentional.”

“I’m not suggesting he chose this.”

“But why me?” you asked again, suddenly unable to stop. “Why am I the missing part? Why does he remember everyone except me?”

Your voice had gone thin now. Almost shaking.

You pressed your palms hard against your eyes for a second, breathing carefully.

“He remembered his daughters,” you whispered. “Do you understand how strange that is? He remembers being a father. Just not being my.....”

The doctor’s expression softened almost imperceptibly.

And somehow that softness finally broke something in you.

“He used to know me better than anyone,” you said quietly. “He used to look at me and…” You swallowed hard. “God. He used to look at me like I was home to him.”

The room stayed silent after that.

Then finally, very softly, the doctor said:

“I know this is painful.”

And the strange thing was, hearing him say painful almost made you angry. Because painful sounded far too small a word for what this actually was.

Painful was a migraine. A broken wrist. Bad news over the phone.

Because if Joel truly felt nothing, this would actually be simpler. Cleaner. You could grieve properly then. People survived rejection every day. Survived divorce. Survived widowhood.

But this was something stranger.

He looked at you like there was something inside him trying unsuccessfully to reach toward you through locked glass.

And maybe that was the cruelest possibility of all. To still exist somewhere inside another person without them being able to find you.

...

You took another bite of the burger because your body needed something, even if your mind rejected the idea of eating entirely. The meat tasted too salty now. Or maybe that was just the tears reaching the corners of your mouth. You wiped your face with the heel of your hand and stared through the windshield at nothing in particular.

It’s strange, you thought. How quickly a person can become lonely inside their own life.

Not even this morning, Joel had still known your name. Maybe not speaking it, because he was unconscious and machines had been breathing for him and the doctors kept using words like pressure and swelling and wait. But somewhere underneath all that, he had still belonged to you in the ordinary way husbands belong to their wives. His toothbrush still sat beside yours at home. His coffee mug still waited in the sink. The flannel he wore most often was still hanging over the chair in your bedroom because you hadn’t washed it yet. It smelled too much like him.

And now suddenly you were somebody standing at the edge of his bed introducing yourself like a stranger.

The thought made your stomach turn violently. You laughed a little under your breath then, though there was nothing funny in it. What are you supposed to do with a relationship after only one person remembers it?

You kept thinking maybe there was a correct way to behave. Some proper version of yourself that would make this easier for him. Less frightening. Maybe if you had not cried. Maybe if you had touched him less. Maybe if you had not looked so devastated every time he stared at you blankly.

But then another thought came immediately after. No, because even if you had done everything perfectly, he still would not remember you.

That was the unbearable thing. You rested your forehead briefly against the steering wheel. You still had to pick up the girls.

Your eyes burned from crying.

You took another bite of the burger and forced yourself to eat half because otherwise Tommy would notice later. Tommy noticed things. Not in the way Joel did, quietly and immediately, but eventually. Like a storm warning arriving a little after the rain had already started.

The burger had gone lukewarm.

You chewed anyway.

People always say grief steals your appetite. This had never been true for you. Grief did not make you less hungry. It simply made eating feel absurd. The body continuing with its ordinary needs while the heart behaved like something mortally wounded.

You chewed slowly.

A girl crossed the parking lot holding hands with her father. She was laughing at something he said, head tilted back completely without caution, the way children laugh when they trust somebody absolutely.

You had loved Joel for years before you realized the frightening part of it wasn’t losing him.

It was building an entire life around somebody until your memories no longer made sense without them inside it.

You thought about the hospital room again. Joel looking at you with suspicion first. Then anger. Then something worse afterward. Guilt.

That part stayed with you.

Because underneath all his fear, he had looked ashamed after making you cry. As though some instinct inside him still recoiled from hurting you even when his mind no longer understood why.

The thought settled into your chest strangely warm and painful at once. Maybe memory lived somewhere deeper than the brain. Somewhere inside the body itself. Or maybe you were becoming pathetic now. The kind of woman who searched for signs of love in tiny meaningless gestures because the larger thing had already disappeared.

You swallowed hard.

You rested your forehead briefly against the steering wheel. Your chest tightened until breathing hurt.

if you hold back on the emotions, if you don't allow yourself to go all the way through them, you can never get to being detached. You stay afraid of them.

You wondered if that was true.

Because lately you felt like all you had done was feel.

Fear.

Hope.

Relief.

Then grief.

Then hope again.

Then grief again.

An endless cycle.

The doctor had told you memory loss was complicated. That emotional pathways could survive even when memories disappeared. That Joel might still feel connected to you in ways he couldn't explain.

Might. Such a terrible word and hope lives inside words like might. So does suffering, You took another bite, chewed slowly.

The truth was, you had spent two months preparing yourself for almost every outcome imaginable.

For a second you honestly considered driving somewhere else entirely. Just continuing down the highway without stopping. Leaving the city. Leaving the hospital. Leaving the terrible ache of being looked at by your husband like you were some woman who wandered accidentally into his room.

But the thought vanished almost immediately because there was nowhere you could go where your life would not follow you.

You closed your eyes briefly. For one absurd moment, you think it might be easier to choke on the burger and die right here in the school parking lot. Not because you want to die—you don't. That's the strange thing. You want tomorrow. You want coffee in the morning. You want Sarah yelling from upstairs that she can't find her shoes even though they're exactly where she left them. You want Ellie stealing fries and denying it with complete sincerity. You want Joel. More specifically, you want the version of Joel who knows you. But grief has a way of making death seem less frightening than absence. Because death, at least, is honest. Death closes the door and leaves you outside it. This is different. This is being invited inside and discovering nobody recognizes your face.

You imagine the burger catching in your throat, imagine the panic of it, the desperate search for air, and think how ridiculous it would be for your life to end over fast food and heartbreak. Then again, heartbreak itself feels ridiculous. You spend years building a life with someone. You memorize the way they take their coffee, the shape of their silences, the exact look they get when they're trying not to laugh. They become woven into your days so completely that you stop noticing where they end and you begin. And then one morning they wake up and look at you like a stranger.

You swallow hard and feel the food move painfully down your throat. No, you don't want to die. What you want is far more impossible than that. You want to walk back into that hospital room and have Joel look at you the way he did yesterday. You want him to remember why he loved you. You want, just for five minutes, to stop feeling like you're mourning someone who is still alive.

Then you heard knock on the car window and Ellie’s voice outside the car.

“Willy?”

You looked up too fast, wiping your face immediately with both hands, still chewing the last bite of burger like an idiot. Ellie stood a few feet away outside the passenger window, backpack hanging off one shoulder, staring at you with that sharp, observant expression that always made you feel transparently human.

For one horrible second neither of you said anything. Then Ellie frowned slightly.

“…you okay?”

am i okay?

next chapter 🏹 (still working on it… coming soon I promise)

[onlythehobi]

no im not crying u are

[littledes1re]

Heyyy love ur works 🩷 I saw ur request are open now (yay) I would love to request maybe some things that come after fourth times a charm or sweet stuffed mess of reader being pregnant and Joel being a dotting father before she gives birth more breeding kink stuff and reader being insatiable with pregnancy??? 😛

Keepin' it full 

Fourth time's the Charm (pt.1)

Warnings:  18+, Smut, pinv, unprotected sex, pregnancy, breeding kink, praise kink, car sex, toxic!joel, slight mean!joel, you and Joel are divorced, unspecified Age gap, no outbreak

A/N: oo, I missed doing some breeding kink heheh. Also I'm almost done with the new sleazy!joel fic and i'm so excited to show it to you guys. Thank you for this request anon! I hope you enjoy!

The doctor's office lingered in the back of your mind like a bad aftertaste as you waddled into the parking lot, one hand supporting the heavy swell of your belly.

At six months, movement was an effort, each step a reminder of the life Joel had planted in you during that impulsive sink repair visit. The ultrasound images were tucked in your bag—baby healthy, active, everything perfect except the father who couldn't be bothered to show. 

You only called him because necessity is a bit hard: kids at school, no husband in hand, and no family that supports. He agreed to the pickup with all the enthusiasm of a man dodging child support.

His red truck sat idling at the park, engine rumbling and windows open.

Joel is slouched in the driver's seat, broad shoulders filling the space, his faded flannel shirt clinging to the solid lines of his dad bod—muscle earned from manual labor, softened just enough by years and beer to make him dangerously handsome.

He didn't look up as you hauled yourself into the passenger seat, the door groaning in protest as you slammed it. The car smelled of him: wood, sweat, and that faint, masculine musk that always twisted your gut despite everything.

Silence hung heavy as he pulled onto the road, the Texas sun beating down through the windshield. 

Finally, he broke the silence with a grunt. "S'a girl, again?"

You rubbed circles over your belly. "No, I don't know. Wanted it to be a surprise this time."

"Hell of a surprise." He snorted, eyes fixated on the road.

The words lit a fuse.

Months of resentment—skipping visits, dodging calls and responsibilities about the older kids, acting like fatherhood was a part-time gig—flared hot. 

"Weren't you the one who fucked a fourth one into me? Pounding away like it was your life's work to breed me, and now you can't even drag your ass to an appointment?" You asked, your eyebrows lifting up. 

Joel's jaw tightened, knuckles whitening on the wheel. "We ain't married no more, woman. What you expect?"

You twisted towards him, ignoring the twinge in your back.

"Responsibility, Joel. Maybe a little?" 

He shot you a sidelong glance then, dark eyes analysing you: the flush on your cheeks, the way your tits heaved with each breath, nipples pebbling against the thin cotton of your dress from the chill. Your belly dominated, round and taut, but his gaze dipped lower to where the hem of your dress hiked up, exposing that creamy expanse of your thighs. 

A slow, cocky smirk curled on his lips. Without warning, his rough hand landed on your leg, calluses scraping deliciously as his thumb stroked inward.

"What if I fill that pretty pussy up again?"

Heat slammed through you, equal parts fury and forbidden want. "You can't be fuckin' serious, Joel. I'm pregnant with your kid, and you're talking about filling me up again?" 

He chuckles low. "Dead serious, hun. Been thinkin' 'bout it since I saw you waddlin' out. Look at you—all ripe and glowin', tits full, belly swollen with what I put there. Makes my cock ache just watchin'."

Your breath hitched, pussy clenching despite the anger boiling in your veins.

He was such an asshole—irresponsible, selfish, the kind of man who fucked first and forgot later—but God, that voice, that possessive grip. 

Hormones raged, leaving you slick and needy, body betraying the sharp words on your tongue. 

"How the hell would that even work? I'm too big."

"You're what? On your 4th, 5th month?" He asks. "Not even that much of a belly yet." He didn't even know the exact month—classic Joel, all instinct, no details. "C'mon, quit whining. Say thank you for the ride. Good girls get rewards."

The truck lurched off the highway onto a rutted dirt path, tires crunching over gravel toward a secluded clearing ringed by dense trees. 

He cut the engine then, the sudden quiet amplifying your racing pulse. Joel unbuckled with a deliberate clink, eyes never leaving yours.

"Wait. We're really gonna do this? Here?"

"Mhm. Been hard since you climbed in, smellin' all sweet" He yanked his belt open, zipper rasping down. 

You watched, fixed, as he shoved his jeans low enough to free his cock—thick, veined, curving up stiff against his belly, that fat head already weeping pre-cum in shiny beads.

A traitorous throb pulsed between your legs. 

So you smirked. "That all for me?"

"Fuck yeah. You kill me like this. Makes me wanna knock you up over and over, keep that belly round with my seed." His voice dropping filthy promise lacing every word.

You unbuckled, heart hammering, and awkwardly maneuvered over the console, belly leading the way. 

Joel's strong hands caught your waist, steadying you as he twisted you around. Your back pressed to his chest, the swell of your stomach facing the wheel, his heat seeping through your dress.

"Careful now," he murmured, breath hot against your neck, one palm cupping your belly protectively. "Don't hurt my baby."

"Our baby," you corrected, voice breathy.

"Yes ma'am," he rumbled, compliant in the moment, the words sending a shiver down your spine.

His fingers dove under your dress, hooking your soaked panties and yanking them aside with zero edfort. The cool air kissed your dripping folds but then the head of his cock nudged your against your entrance. "Gonna slide you down nice and slow. Y'want that?"

"Mhm." You nodded, biting your lip as he guided you, the stretch burning oh so sweetly against your walls. 

Inch by thick inch, he lowered you, your cunt yielding to his girth, fluttering around the invasion.

Then, a sigh escaped you, full and aching, as he bottomed out—cock kissing your cervix, trapped deep in the vice of your pussy.

"Oh, there you go," Joel groaned, arm banding around you, hand splaying wide over your belly in slow, soothing strokes. His other hand gripped your hip, holding you. "So goddamn full now aren't you? And I'm gonna make it even worse. Missed this sweet cunt clenching down on me."

You had missed it too—his raw claim, the way he filled every empty space. 

The conception fuck had been frantic, him bending you over the kitchen aisle, rutting deep until he flooded in you, but this? This was...slower, more intimate for some reason. Your body was hypersensitive from pregnancy. Your pussy clenched around nothing no more; now it gripped him greedily, hormones turning every nerve into fire.

Joel shifted beneath you, hips canting up in a shallow thrust that dragged his cock along your walls. You whined, the sound high and needy, as pleasure sparked low. 

"That's it, baby. Ride my dick like you need it. You're soaking me already, don't you?"

He started moving then, controlled snaps of his hips driving up into you, the angle perfect—hitting that sweet spot inside that made stars burst behind your eyes. 

His hand on your belly pressed firmer, thumb tracing the curve as if memorizing it. 

"Look at this. So swollen." He murmurs. "I'm gonna pump you so full of cum it'll leak out for days."

You moaned, grinding down to meet him, annoyance melting into a raw want. "Joel—fuck, you're such a bastard."

"Yeah, and you love it. Love how I breed this pussy, make it mine."

His free hand roamed up, shoving your dress down to expose one breast, heavy and leaking a drop of colostrum. He pinched the nipple hard, rolling it until you gasped. 

"These tits—gonna be drippin' milk soon. Fuck, I wanna suck 'em dry while I fill you."

His thrusts picked up, wet slaps echoing in the cab as his balls smacked your ass, cock pistoning deep. Sweat slicked your skin, the truck rocking faintly with his rhythm. 

"Gonna knock you up again, hun. Flood that womb till it's overflowin'. Imagine it—your belly gettin' bigger, tits leakin', all 'cause I couldn't keep my cock outta you."

The dirty talk hit like lightning, that toxic breeding obsession you hated but craved, twisting in your core. It was wrong—him irresponsible, you vulnerable—but it made you clench harder, walls rippling around his thickness.

"Shut up—oh God."

He laughed darkly, nipping your earlobe, pace brutal now. "Can't help it. Y'make me feral. Wanna tie you down, fuck load after load into this greedy hole till you're bred proper. No more surprises—just my cum takin' root, stretchin' you out more."

His hand slipped between your thighs, rough fingers finding your clit, circling with just enough pressure to shatter you. 

You bucked, belly bouncing slightly, the fullness overwhelming as his cock dragged in and out, veins pulsing against your sensitive spots. 

"C'mon, baby. Milk my dick. Squeeze out every drop so I can stuff you full."

Pressure built, coiling tight, your moans turning desperate. "Joeljoeljoel."

Joel's breaths came ragged, hips slamming up harder, the head of his cock battering your cervix with each plunge. 

"M'right here. That's my girl. Takin' it so good." He murmurs. "Pussy suckin' me in like it wants my seed. Gonna give it to you, right into that cunt of yours."

You shattered, orgasm ripping through you like a storm, walls convulsing around him, gushing slick that soaked his balls and thighs. "Joel—fuck, yes!"

He growled, thrusts erratic, burying deep one last time. 

"Here it comes—fuck, take it all, honey."

Hot spurts erupted, flooding your pussy, pulse after pulse coating your womb in sticky warmth. 

He held you down, grinding to push it deeper, cum overflowing to drip down your thighs in messy rivulets. 

"Good girl. Ohhh—so fuckin' good. Bred full, just like you deserve."

You panted, slumped against him, his cock still twitching inside as he stroked your belly tenderly. 

The car reeked of sex—musky, filthy, cum and sweat mingling in the humid air. His hand stayed possessive, a temporary peace in the chaos, but you knew the spell would break. For now, though, with his seed leaking sticky from your stuffed pussy and his warmth enveloping you, it felt dangerously like belonging.

Taglist: @vickie5446 @thatgirlmendo @ihearttdilfs @pickyeater13 @sweetiegirl16 @afyreinjuly @shivispunk @kyloispunk @marisemonteiroo @meetmeatyourworst @joelmillerswife9 @iveseenstrangerthings50 @idrkman @blueberryfruittart @vanishintoyoubby @dlwrish @brittmb115 @xcallmetaniax @umadirectioner @millersweetheart @wildthyng @armandispunk @chick66i @bratty-spicee @am1a-niigo @hopelessromantic727 @styleslfreak @psclcain @susieqorion24 @rxsemarinusx @jandtmillersgirl @fertilise-me @mitskilover88 @lostboys1987girl @begginforthread @pinkangelglitterdusttt @facethepascal @ddiana111 @twilightblogss @cheeseizts @pedrosgirl03 @swimmingnightcolor @gabfromgreedycity @bartzabel4 @blueflowerstranger @madnessofadaydreamer @sadie6sinks6slut @hopelessromantic727 @miramindlesslywriting

Divider: @fae-and-wolf

[onlythehobi]

oh my God. i hate having a breeding kink bc it's clouding my judgment with all the toxicity

[littledes1re]

What if…we reverse the roles for a second and imagine it's you who takes Peepaw Joel's virginity?

Yes, of course old Joel dated. Plenty. I mean, look at him. Women were gushing for him. But going to bed with them? Never happened. And after the outbreak, sex just wasn't his priority. Survival was. Trust was. And by the time he reached Jackson, he'd built walls so high that even he forgot there was a virgin hiding behind them.

But Jackson changed things. Tommy was happy. Maria was pregnant. Joel watched those couples walk hand-in-hand, and something twisted in his gut—a hollow ache. He never had that. Not even once. And now he's sixty, belly soft from steady meals, hands calloused from years of work, he figured it's too damn late.

Who the hell would want a grumpy old virgin?

Then you came to Jackson.

Bold, young, too goddamn pretty. Everything Joel needed to stay away from, because his heart couldn't take it anymore. But when you placed a kiss on his cheek, told him he looked handsome, and invited him over to your house—he couldn't possibly say no.

"Ain't never...done this before," he blurted out the moment your hand slid under his shirt, while you sat on top of him. He braced for your reaction, embarrassed, but you only cooed, kissed him, and promised to take real good care of him.

And yes—Joel's cock was excited. He's old, but he's not dead. The moment your hands started roaming—his thigh, his belly, the zipper of his jeans—he hardened like a rock. Blood rushed to his groin with a desperation he'd never felt before.

But his insecurities hit hard. When you started to tug his shirt up, he grabbed your wrists. "Too much gut on an old man like me."

You just nuzzled your face into the soft skin of his belly and told him how much you wanted it pressed against you while he fucked you.

And when you finally wrapped your hand around his cock for the first time? That poor old man nearly had a heart attack. Deep, shaky moans spilled from his mouth. He tried to stay quiet at first, but the new sensations wrecked him—little gasps, grunts that turned into desperate groans, maybe even your name said like a prayer when he got close.

First time your cunt clenched around him? He was already gasping. A few pumps up and down, and he was babbling: "I'm gonna—fuck, I can't hold it—stop or—"

And he spilled inside you, all pathetic and breathless, gaping for air. His cock pulsed and pulsed, twitched and twitched until he collapsed, face buried in your neck, breathing hard. He was mortified. "That...that was damn pitiful. I'm sorry."

But you just stroked his hair, smiling to him. "It was perfect. And we've got all night."

And because he's old but not spent—once he caught his breath, his cock stirred again, curious and ready.

This time, you let him take control.

He was slower. More gentle. He wanted to please you. Wanted to make up for that quick finish. So he fingered you, licked you, followed your instructions until he had you gasping beneath him. Then he pushed in again, and he lasted longer. He learned. He memorized every sound you made.

And Peepaw Joel was not a virgin anymore.

[onlythehobi]

well, yes! as a virgin i approve a shuddering pathetic peepaw joel under me HILL YEAH

[auteurdelabre]

HOLDING PATTERN

Frankie Morales x F!Reader

a03 link here

Summary:

You move back to your childhood home in Florida to care for your ailing mother, only to find the past waiting for you in every room. Your always kind older cousin Santiago refuses to let you disappear into the sadness, pulling you into his world without hesitation. But Santi's world involves Frankie Morales; your cousin's best friend and the boy who broke your heart decades earlier. Thrust into each other’s orbit again old memories make their way to the surface, blurring the line between hatred and desire.Because the boy you learned to despise is the man you can't seem to forget.

THIS STORY IS ON A03

tags: Friends to Enemies, First Love, Childhood Friends, Brother's Best Friend trope kinda, Angst, Smut, Flashbacks, First person POV, Protective Frankie, First kiss, parent with terminal illness, HEA.

notes: Remember when I said this was the second to last chapter? So, I lied because this story needs a little more time to breathe... Don't hate me.

THEN

The party is so loud Frankie can barely hear himself think. Bodies bump into his shoulder, alcohol-soaked breath wafting over him. 

And he can't stop smiling. 

Frankie is twenty one, he's in the air force and he shouldn't be this giddy at the thought of being someone's boyfriend. But with Pip, he's nearly beside himself with joy. 

He sneaks a look at you across the party, watching with fondness as she talks to her girlfriends. He's in love with you, he acknowledges. But he's too scared to admit that part out loud to anyone. It's too soon to tell you that. Liking you feels safer. 

Even though it's not just liking that has him fantasizing about them living in his house when they're both done with school and training. Of shared dinners after work, long nights of lovemaking and laughter. He thinks of the marriage his parents had and how he will do everything different.

He's always been quiet, prone to deep reflection and slower to anger than most of his peers. The air force has taken a bit of that from him. It can feel dehumanizing at times, exhausting and frustrating. But when he's behind the stick of his favorite chopper, everything else fades.

He just wishes Texas wasn't so fucking far away. 

He thinks about asking Pip for a photo he can bring back to his barracks. Something to look at that reminds him he has a future waiting for him back here. Would it scare you to know how much he's imagined a future with you? That this summer hasn't just been amazing because of the sex, but for the quiet moments in between?

"Can you believe my parents locked the liquor cabinet? 

Frankie is brought back into the moment, Travis at his side holding a solo cup and whining. 

"They have so much in there and they never started locking it up until now. Fucking idiots. I wish they'd leave and never come b-." He catches himself, eyes going wide as he looks at Frankie. He's said an impossibly stupid thing. "Shit... I'm sorry, Frank."

"No worries," Frankie mumbles with a wince. "You seen Santi?" 

"Nope. But I've seen Christy," Travis replies, briefly flashing a wag of his pink tongue. "Damn, she looks good." 

"Oh yeah?" Frankie replies distractedly, dark eyes scanning the room. Travis watches this, voice turning exasperated. 

"He's here with some hot date apparently," Travis says with an eye roll. "Surprised you don't know about it, being his boyfriend and all." 

Frankie's jaw feathers. He's always had to maintain a civil relationship with Travis, but as they've gotten older he finds the boy more and more annoying.  It's also painfully obvious that he has a thing for you even though she's given no indication that she feels the same. And why would you? You like Frankie. He still can't quite believe it. Seems almost too good to be true. You’re so smart and gorgeous and funny and... He feels his cheeks heat delightedly. 

"I've been sorta busy lately," Frankie finally says distractedly when he sees Pip's head weaving through the crowd. 

You glance Frankie's way and he feels his whole body going warm when their gazes connect. Everything about you is just so fucking perfect. Even the subtle smirk you send his way.

Travis' must notice the gooey look Frankie shoots her. The small smile you share before averting your gazes. 

"You try anything with Pip and Hilary will kill you," Travis murmurs. "If she doesn't, Santi will."

Frankie is quiet, unhappy that he's been so obvious in his desire for you. 

When Travis turns, Frankie can see the young man's attention is fixed on your smiling face. The way you throw your head back when you laugh. His eyes scan down your body in a way Frankie knows he wishes his hands were. 

"Would be worth it though," Travis continues in a low voice. "I've been dying to get a piece of that ass for years." 

Ugly jealousy twists in Frankie's guts. His fingers are curling into a loosened fist at his side. 

"Yeah, well, like you said, Santi and Hilary would kill us." 

Travis laughs in response and Frankie watches as his attention moves over the other girls in your group. They land on Christy and her skimpy outfit. 

"Can you believe Christy's a real beauty queen?" Travis says, clicking his tongue appreciatively. "I mean I always thought she was hot, but that's insane."

"I guess." 

Frankie knows that Christy is attractive. He's not blind. But he also knows she only ever flirts with him to get to Santi. He also knows he doesn't care what she looks like or what she does because the only girl Frankie has ever truly wanted actually wants him back. 

It's hard not to smile when he thinks about that. How the girl he grew up alongside became the woman he can't think of life without.

You're standing there stiffly observing what Christy is saying. You look upset. This look is magnified when he notices Christy approaching from the corner of his eyes. 

"Hi Travis. Hi Francisco," Christy says. He notices her voice is pitched higher, bubblegum sweet. 

"Hey."

"Enjoying the party?"

She steps closer and from this distance he can smell the floral perfume she wears. Can see her nipples jutting through her thin camisole. He forces his eyes to the ground, feeling lecherous. 

"Sure." 

She tilts her face forward, ignoring the way he doesn't look her way. She's so close he feels the heat of her body. 

"You look good tonight, Francisco."  

Knowing that you're watching from across the room this makes Frankie flush with embarrassment. "Thanks," he mutters, voice low. 

Travis excuses himself with a sneer. Clearly Frankie is taking the attention he wants for himself. Once he's out of earshot, Christy leans forward again. 

"I need to tell you something."

"Okay."

"I always liked you, you know, during school," she says, giving a girlish giggle and ducking your head like she's feeling shy. "I can't believe I just told you that. I must be drunk."

Frankie takes a sip of his beer, head rising to look for you. But you've escaped somewhere, lost in the shuffle.

"I hear there are some empty bedrooms upstairs," Christy purrs, her hip bumping into his. "Should we go check one out?"

Frankie cringes, trying to think of a nice way to say no. 

"You said you're drunk," he says flatly. "I don't fuck drunk girls." 

"I'm not that drunk," she insists. 

He feels his jaw tighten. He's not an unkind person at heart, but her closeness is making him uncomfortable. "Not interested, sorry." 

Christy gives an overdramatic pout, jutting her chest his way. When she sees he's not giving in she moves her face in again. "C'mon Francisco," Christy says, lips almost brushing his cheek. "I'll make you s-"

"I'm with someone," Frankie interrupts, no longer interested in being polite. She pulls back in shock, eyelids fluttering dramatically.    

"What? Since when?" 

"For a while," he replies smoothly. "And I'm really into her." 

Saying it out loud makes his insides quiver delightedly. He almost wishes Pip was there to hear it. 

Christy looks like she's just swallowed a stink bug. She's not used to being rejected and that's clear in her expression. But then her face slowly smoothes out. She leans her hip against his again, trying her best to get him to grind against her. 

"I won't tell if you don't," she says, her mouth curling into a mischievous smile as she drops her voice. "Could be our little secret." 

Frankie places his empty beer cup down on the nearby side table. "Maybe Travis wants to hook up," Frankie replies. "He's heading back now." 

Christy briefly lifts her eyes to see Travis returning with two new solo cups before her attention flicks back to Frankie. 

"You're telling me you don't want to fuck a beauty queen?" She asks with a disbelieving scoff. 

Frankie shoots her a piteous look.  "Have a good night Christy." 

He gives her a kind smile, hoping that it will soften the harshness of his departure. She doesn't seem to enjoy it though. She rolls her eyes and goes stalking off in the direction of upstairs. 

Travis smirks, handing Frankie one of the cups. 

"Damn what did you say to Miss Florida? She looks pissed." 

Frankie shrugs. He doesn't care that Christy is offended. He doesn't want her. 

"You seen Pip?" 

He wants you at his side. Or at least he wants an eye line of you. 

"You really like her, huh?" 

Frankie feels his stomach bottom out, turning his attention to Travis. The young man is looking at him in a way he's never seen, or perhaps never noticed, before. A dark kind of look: cold and dangerous. 

"What are you talking about, man?"

"Pip. I see the way you look at her these days," Travis says smoothly, like this is a fact everyone knows. "And we all know she's been in love with you for years." 

The tips of Frankie's ears burned in both embarrassment and delight at the word. "I'm just used to her always being around." 

"Is that why you wear that hat everywhere?" 

Frankie's cheeks burn as he absently taps the rim of his hat. 

"This?" he says forcing a laugh. "I'm just used to it is all."

Travis laughs back but it’s a hollow sound. It doesn't touch his eyes, his mouth barely moves. 

"Right. Sure." His eyes flick to Frankie's head again. "You won't mind if I borrow it then?" 

His arm jerks out, hand swiping Frankie's ball cap right off of his head. Frankie goes to snatch it back, but Travis has already popped it on over his shorn curls. Before Frankie can attempt to take it back again, Travis hears his name being called. 

"You can have it back in a bit," Travis said with a cruel kind of amusement as he walks backwards towards the call. 

Frankie feels his teeth clench. Not just at having his shit taken, but knowing that Travis is probably on his way to tell Santiago about Frankie's obvious affection for his cousin. 

"Hey, man." 

A frustrated Frankie glances over to see several young men on the couch. All are fuzzily bearded and sleepy-looking. The bigger one with a baseball cap extends his arm, a joint held out in his fingers. 

"You want a toke?"

Frankie hesitates briefly before shrugging. "Sure." 

He didn't smoke pot often; his dad always knew when he did. He tried popping gum and spraying cologne but it couldn't compensate for the scent that clung to his clothing. But now his old man is gone. Frankie could do whatever he wanted. He's free in so many ways. 

He takes a deep inhale, letting the sweet smoke fill his lungs before thanking the guy on the couch, handing him back his joint. 

When the pot hits him a few minutes later it feels good. He takes a seat in one of the free chairs, listening to the men talk about government cover ups. But he's not really listening. He's daydreaming about his girlfriend. 

Pip. The most beautiful, smart, funny, sexy woman he's ever known. A woman who never takes bullshit. Who sees him at his worst and still likes him. 

He thinks he sees you stealing through the crowd and his heart leaps. He jumps to his feet, moving clumsily towards you. He calls your name but you don’t hear him over the crowd.  Frustrated, he tries to muscle through the groups when he tumbles into a familiar figure. 

"Frank? What're you doing?" 

It's Santi; one arm around a cute blonde. He looks at his friend with amusement, much to Frankie's relief. Travis must not have said anything. 

"I was looking for.... Well, you actually." Frankie runs his hand through his short hair, frustrated to feel his cap still missing. He feels naked without it. "Can we talk?" 

"Sure." 

"Uh... It's private. Can we talk outside?" 

Santi trails a look over Frankie before glancing back at his date. He mumbles something and she nods, shooting Frankie an annoyed look as she moves to grab another drink. 

Santi nods towards the back door, indicating Frankie should follow. "C'mon. Let's go." 

They make it into the backyard where several groups talk loudly. Some playing chicken on the grass. 

"It's Pip," Frankie says, rubbing his clammy hands on his jeans when they find a quiet spot. 

Santi furrows his thick brows. "What? She okay?" 

"Yeah, yeah, she's fine." Frankie feels his stomach twist, his head spacey. He's trying to say it but he feels like he is outside his body. 

Santiago Garcia is his best friend. The two of them have suffered through childhood, puberty, heartbreaks, abusive fathers, shitty home lives. There's the potential that he'll be giving all of that up. Years of friendship, of brotherhood, taken from him with this confession. 

So he has to ask himself, is Pip worth it? 

The speed of his decision surprises even him. 

"I like Pip," Frankie says, feeling the tips of his ears grow hot. "Like, a lot. And I want to date her."  

He physically flinches, awaiting the discipline for his affection. He waits for Santi to start cussing him out, for hatred and ugly accusations. 

"You ask her out yet?" 

A beat. 

Frankie isn't sure that Santi actually said that or he hallucinated it. He's further confused when Santi laughs, pointing across the room at one of their old friends. 

"Oh shit, did you see Jordan just bail off the table?" 

Frankie doesn't bother looking over in the direction of the laughter and whoops. All he can fixate on is his friend not looking upset at all. 

"... You're cool with it?" He says incredulously. "With me dating Pip?" 

"Does she like you back?"'

Frankie has to bite back a grin. "Uh, yeah. Pretty sure." 

"Then sure, why not? I mean.... She's a grown-up," Santi shrugs, eyes glazed from booze. "She can date whoever she wants." 

"You're not upset?"

"This has been a long time coming as far as I'm concerned. Plus I know I can trust you to treat her well." Santi shrugs, giving Frankie a mischievous look. "Better you than Travis." 

The two men laugh and the tightness in Frankie's chest unravels. He feels like he can breathe again. 

"Speaking of which... I'm pretty sure I saw Travis heading upstairs with Christy a while ago," Santiago says with a bemused look. "I just know that's going to end disastrously." 

"You never know," Frankie shrugs, smiling toothily. "Maybe it's fate." 

He doesn't actually believe that. He's just so relieved at Santi's response. 

"C'mon, lemme kick your ass at beer pong."

Frankie follows Santi to the other room, the two of them watching the game currently in progress. Frankie intends to only watch, but eventually it's dragged into the game but a very convincing Santi. 

"You're gonna be family soon enough," Santi jokes over the gathered crowd. "You better stay in my good books." 

Frankie knows he's kidding, but something about the concept of being a family with Santi and Pip and even Hilary makes his eyes water.

They win the next three games, hands sticky with booze, throat raw from cheers. Frankie feels naked without his hat the entire time. He taps out when the suggestion of a fourth round is mentioned. 

"I gotta go find Pip," he says with a light slur. 

Santi only punches him lightly in the shoulder, giving him a knowing look before turning back to start on the next round. 

Frankie manages to walk away from the busy table, his mood serene, and his heart full. He feels happy and warm and he wants his girl with him. He can be public with her now. He can't wait to tell her. 

He notices something dark blue on the coffee table, the familiar logo staring at him. It's half under a pizza box, forgotten, and Frankie grimaces. 

"Fucking Travis," Frankie mutters, grabbing his baseball hat and shaking crumbs from it. He places it on his head, feeling more secure already. 

"Oh my gosh are they making out?" 

Frankie hears the scattered whispers of amused teens nearby. Several of whom are gathered by the large bay window, peering out into the front yard. Normally he wouldn't care about something as banal as a party hookup but he wants to laugh about this with Pip later.

He pictures them back at his place under the covers, laughing about the party, holding each other as they fall asleep. 

He walks to the window, an amused smirk on his face. He joins the search in the darkness, eyes weaving until they land on the couple making out against the tree. Frankie goes to laugh when he sees that the boy is Travis, his movements quick and jerky. 

But the laughter, the smile, all of it dies the second he sees the girl Travis is making out with. The girl who holds onto him and kisses him back ardently. 

No. No she wouldn't. 

But the longer Frankie watches the more the figures become clearer. So clear that Frankie feels like he can hear your whines, the same ones you gave him only hours ago. He feels his heart crack when he observes how you touch Travis in that same soft way you do with Frankie. 

With that he's surging through the crowd, shouldering the front door open with a growl. Like a missile he's guided directly towards the oblivious couple. 

A part of him is so desperate for this to be a nightmare. A bad trip. Anything but Pip willingly making out with Travis after admitting her feelings for Frankie. His mind is completely blank, his feet marching quickly across the grass. His face is on fire, his heart breaking as he sees Pip being pressed into the tree by Travis. 

This turns Frankie's vision red. 

He doesn't remember much of what happens next. The memory is like snapshots of moments. Travis falling to the ground. The anger in a Pips eyes, the casual sneer at the thought of sleeping with Frankie. 

Pulling Travis off of you wasn't an issue. Having everyone circle and whisper didn't affect him. It was the coldness in your voice, the ugly look in your eyes and the disgusted scoff when you said you'd never sleep with him.  

What the fuck had happened?

He's numb by the time he turns away, everything in his body cold. He doesn't notice the laughter or whispers. He couldn't care less about that. All he can think of is your disgust, the chill in your gaze. How could he have ever thought he knew you, his Pip? 

You're a stranger to him. 

He hears his name being called, but its several blocks before a heavy hand lands on his shoulder, spinning him around. 

"Frankie, what the fuck happened?" 

Santi is doubled over with his hands on his knees, breathing heavily and looking at Frankie with utter confusion. 

"Forget it," Frankie says his expression dark. "Forget all that dumb shit I said about Pip earlier. I don't know what I was thinking."

"What-"

"Just drop it, okay?" Frankie snaps, eyes black with hatred. "Don't mention it again. I'm serious. Not to her, not to Travis, nobody."  Frankie has to look away from him when he speaks again. "As far as I'm concerned she doesn't exist." 

Santi is quiet, eyes big and sad. 

"Okay, Frank."

Santi is still talking, you know this because you can see his mouth moving across from you. But you're not getting any of what he says. You feel as if you're being held underwater, the world spinning and growing dark at the edges, sound muffled and your body numb before going sluggish. 

"No," you whisper, closing your eyes. "No," You repeat to yourself, but it's coming out in a whisper. The room is spinning and you grip either side of the table to stop your stomach from flipping. 

"You’re lying," you croak, head shaking violently from side to side. "That's not what happened.”

"I don't know what to tell you," Santi shrugs, brows tight. "He was with me the whole time playing beer pong." 

"No, no, that's not ..." Your throat closes up and you're suddenly spluttering for air because you can't formulate a response to what Santi is telling you. 

But your cousin doesn't lie to you, he never has. He's been there for you during the hard times as much as any brother would be. 

Bile rises in the back of your throat, your stomach heaving. You force your lips shut, swallowing aggressively. You will not vomit in a fucking Denny's. 

"Pip." Santi's voice is low and warped. Like he's a tape being rewound. "Breathe slowly. In and out."

You're starting to shake, legs going cold. 

Breathe. Breathe you fucking idiot. 

You take a deep, sputtering lungful of air, eyes blowing wide. Santi looks beside himself, hand holding your wrist. You clutch at his arm with your free hand, nails digging into the warm flesh there. 

"I saw it with my own eyes. I saw them."

"Travis came down and talked about how he fucked the beauty queen," Santi says quietly, as if it pains him to tell you this. 

"That can't be what happened," you say, lips trembling. "That can't be." 

Because that would mean you kissed Travis in front of Frankie for no reason. That this decades-long feud has been going on because of a misunderstanding. 

Years spent without the one man you've ever really loved, for no good fucking reason. 

Santi leans forward, voice light. "Pip, he never would have done that to you. He told me that night that he liked you. He wanted my blessing I think." 

You feel dizzy because things are starting to come together. Travis and Christy's secret relationship. The taking of Frankie's hat. The way the two of them look so similar from behind. It was Travis who fucked Christy in that bedroom, who came down afterwards and tried to do the same to you. Your skin crawls in revulsion at the thought of you letting him kiss you. 

And an even more distressing, you think of the hurt way Frankie looked at you at that party. The layered cruelty of you words and actions. Punishing him for a slight he never committed. 

Because you know deep down in your bones that what Santi has told you is the truth. That there's no planet in which Frankie Morales would willingly break your heart. 

The nosy patrons, the tired looking servers, everyone fades into the background as you stand, looking at your cousin with your lips quaking. 

"I have to go." 

THEN

Frankie lies in bed that night, heart aching, chest tight. It feels like finding out his parents are dead all over again. That same hopeless feeling. But during that you had been there to bring him comfort and affection. To hold him in his sleep. 

Now who does he have? 

He was going to answer your question later this evening. Of when he first realized he liked you as more than just Santi's cousin. 

The truth is he was pitifully unaware of you as a woman for most of your acquaintance. You'd just always been there in the gang, a sexless figure he liked to laugh with, to protect. 

But the summer of his eighteenth year you asked him to hunt lightning bugs while Santi and Travis were off camping. You had a mason jar and lid ready, your denim shorts high on your thighs. 

"Thanks for coming," you said, tapping the rim of his hat playfully. "Hilary says it's lame to still catch them." 

Frankie didn't tell you he felt the same. But he'd been bored and there was nothing else to do. Plus the summer air wasn't too heavy, the night balmy so Frankie led you both behind the old baseball field. 

Fireflies moved lazily in the dark, blinking like tiny dying stars and Frankie, only half heartedly invested, found himself watching you instead. 

Your smile was wide as you darted after a one flickering flash. The same look you wore when you beat the boys in a race, or said something to make everyone laugh. The smile you'd worn since childhood. 

He followed close behind, pretending to help, but getting caught up in watching how you moved, the way your face lit up when you succeeded in capturing your first.

"Got him!" You crowed, holding up your jar in triumph. 

"Not exactly a skill, Pip. Kids do it every summer." 

"Where's yours then?"

"Didn't feel like it."

You nudged your shoulder against his, rolling your eyes as the two of you took a seat on the grass. 

You never asked him about the air force or how he felt about it. You tucked your knees to your chest, eyes stuck on the jar. 

"They're so gorgeous."

You held up the jar to eye level, light flickering against your cheeks. You turned to grin at him, your face beautiful in the warm glow.

Beautiful. 

That wasn't really a word he associated with you before. But he couldn't deny that in this moment you were the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. Like a painting come to life. 

He was curious as to what it would be like to cup your cheek, to feel the plump of your lips beneath his thumb. 

Something warm in his chest caught him strangely off guard, making his head spin.You were almost three years younger than him. Sixteen to his eighteen. He wasn't supposed to think about you like that. 

He felt the need to fill the silence. 

"How come the sudden need for fireflies?"

"Uh, guess I just needed to get out of the house," you said quietly to the jar. "Mom was just ... "

You trailed off, face dropping. Frankie could see it, illuminated by the swarm inside the mason jar. 

Instinctively he shuffled closer, throwing his arm casually around your shoulder like he'd done a hundred times before. Only now you snuggled against him, exhaling lightly. 

"Thanks, Frankie." 

Your head was at his cheek and he inhaled the scent of your hair before he swallowed thickly. You felt good against him, and he longed for you to tip your face up to him so he could capture your mouth in a sweet kiss. 

It wasn't until that warm thread began to weave its way around his lower belly that he realized something had shifted. 

Something he wasn't going to be able to ignore. 

You can't breathe. 

You know you're managing it, gulping deep lungfuls, but it doesn't feel like enough. The air is so hot and humid; it feels like it's coating your insides.

All a misunderstanding. Frankie never cheated. Frankie never cheated. I walked away from the most amazing man because of a misunderstanding.

You stop the truck midway home, your stomach heaving. You manage to stumble out of the cab before you're bent over, vomiting into the grass at the side of the street. Cars whizz by, some calling out to you, telling you to party less hard. You don't even hear them. All you can picture is the hurt in Frankie's eyes. 

You empty your stomach, eyes wet, body trembling. Your throat is scorched when you finally crawl back behind the wheel, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. 

You finish the drive to your house, truck parked haphazardly. You realize you're crying when your view turns into a watercolor blur. You make it through the door, slumping against the wall just inside with a ragged cough. 

A figure grips your hand, lacing their fingers with yours. You stare at the chipped black nails and many rings and look over at your sister. 

"Hey, are you okay?" 

You tell yourself that you don't want to tell Hilary everything that happened. You need time to process this, but your chin wobbles, eyes filling again. 

"Let's go on the porch," she says gently tugging you. "C'mon."

You allow your sister to guide you out onto the porch, both of you seated on the old creaky chairs before she grabs a smoke from her pocket. 

You watch her light it with an old bic lighter, orange flame springing to life. She looks at you through tired eyes, face drawn as she exhales a ribbon of smoke. 

"What the hell is going on?" 

You grip the sides of your head, fingers tangled in your hair. 

"Hilary I fucked up so bad. I fucked up everything." 

Your fingers rake through your hair again and pull as the devastation floods you. The pain serves to keep you anchored in the moment.

She sucks in a slow breath. "What? When?"

"Frankie," you say through a sudden sob. "I thought... Fuck, Hilary, I hated him for so long..." 

The pain feels so sharp, like needles along your aorta. It propels you out of your chair, legs weak. You fall to your knees on the rotted porch planks holding your head in your hands as sobs ravage you.  

You shake; feeling Hilary kneel beside you, hand on your shoulder, pulling you to face her. 

"Tell me what happened." 

She soothes you by rubbing your arms, almost like one would do if someone was cold. It calms you a fraction, allowing you to catch your breath. 

"It was during Travis' party..."

The story pours out of you, ugly and raw and accompanied by warm tears that slip down your cheeks. You can't make eye contact with her during the story, terrified to see the piteous look she'll shoot you. 

You live through that horrible memory, the sounds of Christie's moans, the sight of the standard oil logo looking back at you. 

She's silent the entire time. As you finish the story and raise your eyes you see that she's just squinting at you, perplexed. 

"You thought Frankie cheated on you?" 

"I did," you tell her, eyes blurry. "I really thought I saw it with my own eyes. But it was fucking Travis wearing his hat. This is all so fucking stupid."  

She's frowning, creases starting between her brows.  

"That's why you were kissing some guy at the party," she whispers as if things are starting to fall into place for her. 

You don't even question how she knows that bit of information. Santi probably told her, which causes your face to heat up and embarrassment. 

"It was Travis," you tell her with deeper shame. "I was kissing Travis."

"That fucking snake." She exhales shakily, furious adrenaline clearly coursing through her body. "Fucks Christy and then tries to get you into bed."  Hilary looks like she wants to punch something. Simultaneously infuriated and disgusted. "Have you and Frankie talked about it?"

"I don't think I can say anything," you insist, heart pounding. "I just found out the truth from Santi. I'm still processing." 

"Go have a shower and clear your head then," Hilary says urging you inside. "And brush your teeth because your breath is fucking disgusting."

THEN

Frankie sees Hilary from time to time in town. She's usually buying cigarettes or heading off with some new guy. Tonight she's at one of the bonfires the locals put on at the start of every summer.

Frankie had nothing better to do and with Santi overseas and Travis moved, he doesn't have much of a connection here. He thinks of going home after this to the house of his childhood. The empty one with no warmth. The one he had Pip in for several weeks. 

Barely any time at all. 

"Hey Catfish," Hilary says, handing him a beer as she approaches. Like you, she'd taken the nickname and run with it when his patchy beard grew back. 

"Hey Hil." 

The two drink quietly next to one another looking at the flames of the bonfire. Frankie tells himself he's not going to ask about you. Not going to torment himself.  But it comes out, a slow murmur. 

"You talked to your sister lately?" 

"Not much," Hilary says. She takes another deep pull of her beer bottle. "She doesn't really love talking on the phone." 

"Mhm. She like school?" 

She gives him a look. "Why don't you just call and catch up with her yourself?"

"Not much to say." 

"I know you like her, Frankie," Hilary says shrewdly. "And I bet she'd love to hear from you." 

Frankie's face goes red, splotchy pink leading up his neck. He tries to shrug it off, but fails. 

Hilary saw him that night with the flowers, with the open look of desire he had for you. There's no point in lying to her. 

"I know she cares about you," Hilary says, eyes scanning his face. "And I know because she's never cared about a guy like that. Ever." 

"You don't know that whole story," Frankie says. 

"So tell me." 

He shakes his head. That's Pip's story to tell.

"Look, it's obvious the two of you like each other. Or liked. So I don't get why you both don't just admit that to each other." 

"We did, right before the party," Frankie snaps, before catching himself. "Hours before I saw her making out with-"

He slams his mouth shut, furious at having lost his temper and given away something so private. 

Hilary looks stunned. She seems to grope for words. 

"Wait, my sister was kissing some guy at a party?"

Frankie thinks about telling her that the guy was Travis, but he doesn't want to think about it too much. Saying the details makes it hurt worse. So he stays silent, eyes on the sand. 

"She must've been drinking," Hilary continues. "There's no way she'd do that sober." 

Frankie is quiet, not having considered this. Hilary blinks at him slowly, like an animal considering something. 

"I just, I know my sister, Frankie. She's not a cruel person. There must have been something deeper going on." 

Frankie is embarrassed to feel tears starting along his lash line. He blinks them back furiously, looking away as he shakes his head. 

“You should call her, Frankie,” Hilary adds before walking away from him. “She’s still at the dorms until tomorrow.”

He watches her move over to the group she arrived with, a cigarette hanging from her lips, a beer in her hand within moments. He watches as she whispers something to the muscular man at her right, laughing gaily when he nods, stripping down to his boxers and running into the surf.

She’s always been able to charm people, to convince them to be brave. And when Frankie strides back to his truck an hour later, he realizes that she convinced him too. However, she was gone with some guy from the bonfire before he could chase her down for your number. 

That’s led him here to the hospital where your mom works.  

Would you really want to hear from him? And mostly, why does he want to talk to you? You broke his fucking heart. You acted like you were into him, agreed to a relationship and that same night you were making out in front of everyone with fucking Travis. 

He's sick when he thinks about it. A memory he's tried time and time again to exorcise through booze and women. Because there have been other women in the four years since all of that happened. At first to prove he was over you and then to help him forget you. 

Neither worked. 

Frankie notices some nurses heading out of the hospital on their break. They talk quietly to one another between puffs of their cigarette. 

He taps his fingers on the steering wheel before removing the baseball cap nestled over his curls. He smooths his dark curls back, long fingers carding through the strands before popping the hat back on.

He raises his eyes to the rear view mirror, grimacing at his reflection, because this grey hat with the fishing logo doesn't sit right because it's not the one you gave him. That one sits at home in his bedroom, a shrine to your betrayal. Standard Heating Oil. 

He should have burned it. Should have given it away. Should've buried it where he didn't have to see it every day. And yet he couldn't bring himself to do it. Couldn't bear to erase that part of his life, of you, for good. 

Even after everything, he can't stop this deep want for you. A burning ache that won't be extinguished. 

He'd forgive you if you'd just explain what happened. How you could go from crying his name between his sheets to letting Travis stick his tongue down your throat. 

He needs answers. 

He needs to hear your voice. 

He pushes himself from the cab of the truck, fingers tapping at his thigh as he moves through to the nurses’ station. The hospital is very quiet at this time of night, voices hushed, wards closed. 

It doesn't take long to locate your mom. She works in the same unit she always has and tonight, despite the quiet atmosphere, looks frazzled. She's writing down something in her charts before she notices Frankie approaching. Her face drops and she comes around the desk, meeting him mid-stride in the hallway. 

"Francisco, what happened?" Her hands grip his elbows. "Is everything okay?"

Her breath seems overly minty when she says his name and he knows that its to cover the vodka she keeps in a nearby water bottle. 

"Everything is fine, ma'am," Frankie says, giving her a polite smile. "I promise."

"Santi? Hilary?"

"As far as I know."

"Thank Christ," she says, a hand at her sternum. 

When she gives a relieved smile it reminds him of yours. He never noticed until now that you both have the same smile. 

"It feels like ages since I saw you," she observes, arms crossing as she looks him over. "You've grown up into such a handsome young man." 

Frankie feels himself grow a bit embarrassed at the attention, looking down at the scuffed floor. "Thank you." 

"And I hear you're still flying helicopters? That's so exciting." 

Frankie can't help but smile shyly, pride suffusing him. 

"Yeah, it's pretty great." 

She nods, starting to walk down the hall to check on the charts. He follows beside her, hands in his pockets. 

She scribbles away, talking to him over her shoulder. 

"So, why are you here, honey? Anything I can help you with?"  

Frankie's neck and the tips of his ears go pink, his face warm. Saying this to your mom suddenly feels daunting. 

"It's, uh, well, I wanted to know if you had Pip's number at school." 

She falters only a moment, scanning him. "You don't have it?"

"No ma'am." 

"Of course I have it. Come back with me to the desk and I'll write it down for you." 

He follows her to the desk, sidestepping a young orderly. Your mom digs in her purse for her address book, a few items shifted. 

He sees a postcard inside as she rummages. It's from Seattle, obviously from Pip. She sends postcards home instead of visiting, he muses. Santi tells him as much.  

She notices him looking, her smile toothy as she produces the postcard. He catches your writing on the back, his heart clenching. 

"Just got this one from her today," she says holding it up. "Strange to imagine my baby all the way across the country, but these help." 

"I bet." 

Your mom digs in the desk for a pen and post it note, grumbling about the other nurses being disorganized. 

"Ah, there's one," she announces, brandishing a pen with the hospital logo on one side. "Why did you need her number? You sure Everything's okay?"

"Yes, ma'am. Just..." Frankie swallows, cheeks flaming as he stands there. "Uh... I wanted to speak to her." 

He meets her eyes and despite the glazed look she wears, he sees something else. A knowing, an understanding. A softness that moves to her mouth, hitching at one side. 

"I see." 

He watches her scribble down the number, tearing the yellow sheet from the others and holding it out to him. 

"Here you are, honey." 

Frankie reaches out to take the paper, eyes already memorizing the digits before he folds the page and stuffs it in his jeans pocket. 

"Thank you very much." 

Your mother nods, looking at him curiously. 

"I bet she'll be really excited to hear from you." 

Not so sure about that, he thinks.

"I hope so." 

A beat. The two of them don't move, neither sure how to end the conversation. 

"Your parents would be so proud of you, Francisco. I just know it." Your mother adjusts her scrub top, looking at Frankie with tenderness. "I mean, hell, I'm not even your mom and I'm so proud of all you've done with your life." 

The words are gentle and said with genuine affection so sweet that it makes Frankie's eyes grow damp. 

He'll never hear those words from his parents. No observance of his hard work. No celebration for his accomplishments. Hearing them from your mom takes his breath away. 

He tries to thank her but the words are getting stuck in his throat. 

As a mother she seems to sense this, walking over to him and wrapping her arms around his middle. He's a head taller than her, but it doesn't stop making him feel like a child again when she squeezes.

"If you ever need anything, you come see me," your mom tells him. "To talk, to eat, to sleep. Anytime. You promise?"

"Yes ma'am," Frankie says, a tear escaping down his cheek. "I promise." 

He moves from her with a small smile, the drive back home quick. But once inside the quiet house his bravado fades and he takes his time puttering around the kitchen.

The Post-It note sits on his kitchen table, but it could be in the trash for all he cares. He had the number memorized before your mom even finished handing it to him. The phone sits in is cradle on the table, intimidating in its stillness.

He can imagine your soft surprised voice. He loves how you say his name. The slope you put to the end of it. He feels his mouth lift at the corners in anticipation. 

"Just do it," he rasps to himself. "Just fucking do it." 

He picks up the phone, fingers trembling. He internally practices how to start the conversation. 

Hi Pip. Congrats on graduating. No, that's fucking stupid. Hey Pip, it's been a while. How've you been? Hey Pip, you broke my heart and I want to know why. Hey Pip-

"Hello?"

A man's voice. 

Frankie frowns at the phone, confused. This is your dorm room. Hilary mentioned that you live with girls a few times over the years. So why is a guy answering your phone at this time of night? 

"Hello? Is anyone there?" 

I dialed the wrong number, Frankie decides. Stupid of me.

But he still grips the receiver tightly, holding his breath. 

"Nothing." 

He goes to hang up when a voice drifts in the background. A voice he knows all too well. 

"Just hang up and let's go to bed." 

You. 

You telling another man it's time to go to bed. A leaden rock drops inside Frankie's stomach, causing an anguished noise to escape him the second the phone receiver is placed back on the cradle. 

He stares at it in numb shock for a few moments, mind going to the worst places possible. Your and some faceless guy in bed together. Him able to draw sounds from you that Frankie was incapable of. 

What was Frankie thinking? That you'd magically stay single all this time? That you'd be pining away for him like he has for you? 

Humiliation scalds his cheeks, sorrow heavy on his shoulders as he moves to the bedroom. He throws himself onto the bed he once shared with you, holding a pillow to his chest and falling into a dreamless sleep. 

The shower is restorative, the mint toothpaste still clinging to your teeth. You feel better as you enter into the kitchen. 

Hilary is seated there, ashtray half filled. You join her, breathing unevenly. Your body is still vibrating with all of this new information. 

“You need to talk to Frankie about what happened.”

An anxious twist starts low in your belly. "I don't know what to do or what to say. I don't want to bring up all this hurt again. He doesn't deserve it."

"You need to tell him."

“Why?” You keep your voice quiet, not wanting to be overheard by your mother. "It’s been almost twenty years." 

"Because he deserves to know," Hilary defends, brows crossing. "And you know it." 

You think of the lipstick tube you found in his house that one day. The clear sign that Frankie has found someone else; a woman that feels comfortable enough to leave her things behind at his home. 

You push yourself up to your feet, starting to pace around the room.

"Frankie is over all of this, Hil. I'm just the loser that never moved on." 

She gives you a sneer.

"Bullshit. I know he cares about you. He's always cared about you. Even after the party."

"Not true," you scoff. "Until this visit, Frankie has loathed me."

"No," Hilary says shaking her head. "He hasn't." She pauses, grimacing. "I shouldn't be telling you this."

You stop your pacing, eyes over your shoulder. "What?"

"Frankie has been visiting Mom since she got sick." 

You draw back, dropping into the same seat. “What?”

"I was working doubles to pay for stuff for a while and he knew I wasn't at home as much because of it. Santi probably told him. So he started showing up to bring her treats, clean the house, visit over tea. When she could walk he'd take her for walks." 

"No. That's not possible. Mom never..." You pause your sentence. 

Mops. Brooms. Bringing by your mom's favorite brownies. The way she looked at him. The way he knew exactly how to be gentle with her. 

"He only stopped when he heard you were coming back," Hilary says and looks hesitant, like she's betraying his trust by telling you. "He made me promise not to tell you anything." 

"Why would he do all that?”

Hilary sighs, lighting up a new cigarette and giving you a leveling look. 

"Why the fuck do you think?" 

THEN

"A beach birthday is such a fun idea," Inaya says walking alongside Frankie, a cooler full of drinks carried between them. "I'm so bored during the summer." 

Frankie grunts and nods, pulling his baseball cap down a little lower over his eyes. A red one this time. One from the flight school he teaches at.

It's where he met the very beautiful Inaya when she came to take lessons. She works at a daycare during the school year, she's patient and she thinks Frankie is charming.

They both keep it casual. What started as drinks after class has turned into the odd dinner out, sleeping together when they both feel like it. Sometimes it's just nice to go to the movies with someone who isn't Benny or Will. 

Frankie likes Inaya because she fills a lot of the silence between them with chatter about traveling, about her job and her family. 

He's jealous of her stories of close multi-generational family life. That she's excited about visiting her grandparents back in India. It seems surreal that anyone could enjoy being around their family.

She also carries a pain, and it's the only thing she doesn't like to talk about. The death of her fiance, Michael, when they were both still in their twenties. He was in the air force too, shot down over Paraguay. 

He thinks that's why she likes to keep things surface level. It's easier for both of them that way. 

"Do you think Santi will like the gift card?"

"He'll like anything," Frankie assures her.

She laughs, head tilted back. Frankie brought her today because the other guys have been bugging him about bringing her out. They keep telling him that he needs to have a proper adult relationship instead of flings. 

In Frankie's opinion they're the last people he'd turn to for romantic advice. Santi is a serial heart breaker whether he's in Florida or working in Columbia. Will has been seeing the same girl off and on for the last few years and Benny is so focused on his boxing career he might as well be celibate.

"I know you guys served together in Argentina, right?" 

"Yep." 

"Loquacious as always, Morales," she says shouldering him playfully. 

Frankie scans the perimeter, taking in what the BBQ's are, where the bonfire has been started. He takes note of how many umbrellas and towels are lying out, how many bodies rest in various states of repose, sunglasses on, drinks in hand. 

It's a habit that won't leave him, one that he cultivated overseas; making sure no danger lurks anywhere if he can control it. Yet there's only one danger that he can't see. One that terrifies him more than any other. 

You. 

As far as he knows you won't be showing up. You're in Seattle, living a life away from your home life in Florida. Still, his stomach clenches anxiously as his eyes drift over the smiling faces. He searches each one as Inaya makes some crack about millennials and driftwood. 

His shoulders lower when he doesn't see your face, the knot in his stomach loosening. 

He can survive this. 

Inaya is a hit with the guys, not to Frankie's surprise. Will seems particularly enamored with her, hiding it poorly from Janette who hangs off his arm possessively. Frankie cracks a beer, smirking over at Santi who has observed the same. He drifts over to his friend, waving at those who wish him a happy birthday.

"Oye perdejo," Santi greets him, tapping his beer can against Frankie's. "Stop having so much fun." 

Frankie rolls his eyes. If it was just the guys he'd be able to relax. But with this crowd of revelers he just feels awkward. He's never really enjoyed big crowds of drunken people.

"Enjoying your party?"

"Depends, what'd you get me?"

Frankie digs into the back pocket of his shorts holding a small envelope his way. "Gift card." 

"So sentimental," Santi quips, snatching it and shoving it into his pocket as he motions to Inaya laughing with Benny. "So, your girlfriend's pretty great."

"Not my girlfriend," Frankie murmurs huskily against his beer can, eyes hidden behind his aviators. 

"Right." Santi nods, his own eyes fixed so long on Frankie's profile that he feels his cheeks burn.

"What?"

"Nothing." Santi taps his beer can with his pointer finger absently, a small wistful look on his face. "Just wondering when you're gonna be honest with yourself."

"About what?"

"About the reason that you never want commitment with anyone."

Frankie's heart is in his throat. “There’s no reason. Just not the settling down type.”

His friend presses his lips together, exhaling through his nose. "Frank, c'mon-"

"I'm gonna go check on Inaya."

It's clear he wants to say more and Frankie wants nothing less. Santi gives a rueful shake of his head as Frankie crosses the sand, stopping to grab a beer bottle from the cooler before coming to stand next to a bemused Inaya . She's standing politely listening to Benny peacock.

"I'm still new but they're already calling me the 'blue-chip prospect' of the division."

"That's so cool," Inaya says with such sincerity Frankie would think it was real if he didn't know her so well. She glances over at Frankie taking a deep pull of his beer. 

"Forgot mine?"

"You didn't ask for one." 

Inaya gives an exaggerated look of exasperation over at Benny. 

"Since Frank here decided chivalry is dead, I guess I'll have to go get a beer myself," she says, elbowing a smirking Frankie in the ribs. "Be right back." 

"Dig to the bottom," he calls after her. "Stuff on top is still warm."

Benny is smiling broadly when he looks back. Will slowly approaches as well, Janette having just left in a fit. 

"So," the younger Miller says in a teasing drawl. "She's pretty great, Fish."

Before Frankie can explain that he and she are casual, something stops him; something in the air. A strange sense that has gooseflesh starting on his arms and the back of his neck. 

 Santi's voice rings out over the crowd. 

"Hi, Pip! There you are!"

Everything narrows down to a pinprick. The world is muted, save for his shallow breathing. He might as well be back in Argentina with the guys, focus fixed on his surroundings. His heart pumps slowly, body tight all over. His arms have tensed up, knuckles white around his beer bottle. 

It's you. 

He doesn't even need to turn around to know exactly how you'll walk, the way the sun will highlight parts of your hair, the curve of your mouth. 

But he does. 

He moves slowly, sunglasses plucked and moved to hang from the collar of his t-shirt. His pulse plays a cruel staccato in his neck as he finally views you and your sister approaching the group in. 

It's been almost ten years since he last saw you and time has done nothing but add to your beauty. You've developed into your curves; you walk more confidently, your hair loose instead of its customary low ponytail. 

Deep, aching want spreads through his body as he takes in the way your eyes shyly look around, just as they did when you were teens. You may be more at ease in crowds, but you've never really shaken off that initial insecurity. 

"Is that the cousin?" 

"Thought she was in Seattle," Benny murmurs to Will. 

"As far as I know she still is," his brother agrees.

He looks over to Frankie who shrugs even though he knows very well you are. Did you fly out just for this? Why the hell didn't Santi tell him? 

"Here take this first," you say to Santi, your voice makes Frankie's mouth dry. 

He remembers that quiet murmur in his ear wishing him a good morning. He remembers the way you looked when you told him you loved him. He remembers the perfect comfort of being with you whether it was riding bikes through the neighborhood or between sheets. 

You shared more than sex. You shared childhood. A history. Each other's ups and downs. The awkward stages. The milestones no child should have to endure. There is joy at seeing you here and now, pure and honest. 

"She's hot," Benny observes, eyes trailing over you slowly in a way that tells Frankie everything he needs to know about his friend’s intentions. 

"Down boy," Will chuckles. "Pope will kill you if you mess with Pip." 

It all comes rushing back in that moment. And then all of a sudden that same pathetic joy turns to a feeble flame that is easily extinguished. All that's left is ash and ruin at the reminder of your callousness. Your sickening betrayal. 

Fury plumes up Frankie’s throat, a scowl etched across his full mouth when your gaze finally shifts over to him and your eyes connect. He doesn't expect your stare to betray the same simmering agitation, nor an accusation in every blink you don't make. But he long gave up any ability to understand your anger. 

Finally, like a physical severing, the two of you tear your eyes away and turn back to your respective conversations. 

"Lemme get you a burger," Frankie hears Santi offer you. 

Frankie clears his throat, not wanting to hear your reply. He doesn't give a shit about you. He never should have. 

Will's eyes drift over to Frankie who has turned back away from you, fingers tightening around his beer bottle. He feels like he's going to punch something. 

"You okay, Fish?" Will asks, puzzled. He scratches at his eyebrow as he stares at him. 

"M'fine," Frankie mutters. 

He moves from around the BBQ, trying to distance himself. He glances around for Inaya, horrified when he notices her laughter from across the fire. She's standing with you, beer extended as the two of you talk. 

Why the fuck is she talking with you? 

He ducks his head, grabbing some veggies and popping them onto a plate. He sees some blonde guy from one of Santi's poker nights. 

The guy - Barry? Terry? - greets him, starting a lively conversation with him about how they need to have a rematch so he can win back his money. Frankie is only half listening, he keeps sneaking looks out the corner of his eyes at you and Inaya. 

The two of you are still talking, making his stomach a quiver uneasily. 

He distracts himself with conversation, trying to look un-phased that you're here. Before long an hour has passed and Frankie can't stop the itch under his skin. The one that compels him to casually scan the party. 

Inaya is nowhere to be found, but even if she was Frankie wouldn't notice. His dark eyes are dragging over the sand for you and you alone. 

He spots you over by the BBQ, looking tense as you go about fixing a burger. You've got that serious look you wear when you're frustrated. Brows pinched, jaw clenched. 

You could be six, sixteen, and twenty six all at once. You'll always have that same expression and Frankie will always melt at the sight of it. 

He misses you. Misses the way you could comfort him like no one else. Misses the way you said his name. Misses the scent of your skin. He misses lightning bugs and ghost stories around campfires. 

And he knows in that horrible moment, that he's still so in love with you. Despite the party. Despite the man in your dorm room. Despite Seattle. Despite the silence. He misses you so much it feels like a physical pull of his sternum. One that forces his feet over the cooling sand, just to be near you. 

He halts a few steps away, watching the way your body tightens at his nearness. Can you hear his shallow breathing? Can you just sense him? He holds his breath and comes to stand next to you, reaching for a plate that he doesn't even need. He can't eat right now, his stomach is in knots. 

He tilts, eyes finally catching yours and he thinks he might faint or throw up. He's not sure which. You're not glaring at him anymore; instead it seems you're cataloging his features, taking in what a decade has done to him. 

What do you see? The lines between his brows? The patchy quality to his beard that he never grew out of? The length of his messy hair? Or are you looking at the hat he wears today? The old green one from his closet? 

Say something, Frankie tells himself when he realizes he's just been staring at you. Say something. Anything.

"Didn't know you'd be here. Didn't think you'd fly back for it," he adds before clearing his throat, hating how stilted he sounds.  

Your focus moves back to your plate. He watches you work, ears growing warm. 

"Sure." 

Silence extends as you both busy yourself with condiments and sides to your burgers. He keeps sneaking looks at your profile, questions running through his mind. Why did you never call him to explain? Don't you understand he would have forgiven you? Who was that guy in your dorm? Do you miss Frankie? 

"Your girlfriend seems nice," you say. 

Fuck. Inaya. 

He could tell you she's just a friend from work. Could tell you that he just met her recently. But he's never lied to you before, so why start now? 

"She's not really my girlfriend. We just... Hang out together sometimes." 

He doesn't want to talk about Inaya. He wants to talk about that night. He wants to know what happened. He wants to know if you still care about him. 

"Guess some things never change,” you say with a curl to your upper lip. Gone is the sweet voice he remembers, now replaced with something cold and flinty. 

"Huh?"  

“You’ve just always been good at making girls think they mean more to you than they actually do," you clarify.  

Old hurt comes rolling back, like a furious locomotive up his spine. "What's that supposed to mean?"  

Your name is called by Santi and the other guys. Tom has arrived and is clearly eager to meet you. You give a false smile and wave their way before looking back up at Frankie. 

"It means whatever you want it to, Frankie," you say with a disgusted scoff. "Just keep me out of it."  

He watches you leave, hips swaying as you move over the sand to greet the guys. They'll love you, he's sure. 

"That's her, huh?'

Frankie nearly jumps when he hears Inaya's soft voice at his elbow. "Huh? Who?"

"Morales," she sighs in mock exasperation. "C'mon."

Her eyes move from Pip back to Frankie and his nostrils flare slightly, eyes squinting. 

"I don't know what the fuck you're talking about, In." 

She steps closer, voice quiet, only for him. 

"I think I just met the reason you don't want to commit to a relationship."

Frankie's eyes narrow on her, anger clear in his expression. "Since when do you want commitment?"

"Not now," she says with a roll of her eyes. "But someday with someone." 

"Not everyone has your penchant for romance, I guess," Frankie hisses, cheeks splotchy

She looks at him with a worried expression. His jaw tightens, long fingers twitching at his sides as he shuffles in the sand. Inaya knows him well enough to recognize the signs. 

"You wanna leave?"

Frankie glances over her shoulder to see you at the rest of the guys laughing loudly. Just like he suspected, they love you already. 

"Yeah." 

She nods, taking his hand in hers and heading back to the truck. He doesn't bother saying goodbye to anyone. He just wants to slink off into the encroaching dusk and forget this ever happened. 

“That Benny is like an oversized puppy who doesn't know whether to bite or chase its tail,” Inaya laughs, her feet propped up on the dashboard as he drives.

Frankie can smirk at that, nodding. "Spot on." 

"You know, today I think I saw how you would have been as a boy," Inaya says affectionately, "All nervous and serious, hiding under that hat.”

She reaches over and tugs at the stray curl under Frankie's ear. He flinches away from her, scowling. 

"Quit it, I'm driving." 

She giggles, hair dancing in the air from the open window. She glances at the passing houses when she speaks next. 

"Pip seemed cool." 

Frankie is silent. He goes to turn on the radio but Inaya stills his fingers. She pulls herself into a properly seated position, braid falling over one shoulder. 

"Frank, c'mon. I know something happened there. You were avoiding her like the plague for most of the party. And the second you saw her you were, like, in a trance." 

Frankie swallows thickly, trying not to look unsettled. He had no idea he appeared that way to others. Is that what inspired Santi's stupid comments earlier? He's quiet, knowing that his silence is its own damning admission.

Inaya reaches across the cab of the truck, fingers light on his forearm. 

"I just wanna know what happened. I'm your friend, let me help you." 

Friends. He and Pip were friends. Inaya is nothing like you. The comparison makes him furious. 

"We're not friends, Inaya," Frankie snaps, teeth clenched as he jerks to a stop at a red light. 

Inaya takes a slow breath in, fingers lacing in her lap. "We're not?"

"No," Frankie says with a brutal curl of his lip. "We watch movies and eat food and sometimes we fuck. That's it." 

For a moment he thinks she might slap him, but she remains self possessed, voice controlled. 

"I see." 

The light turns green and the truck jostles to life as he aggressively pushes down the accelerator. The rest of the ride is incredibly tense. Inaya flicks the radio on this time and Frankie is thankful for the normally annoying sound of Barry Manilow. 

He eventually drops her off in front of her apartment building, turning the engine off with a slow twist of his keys. Frankie feels dead, his body heavy and useless. 

The two sit in a heavy silence, the day and the harsh words from earlier still echoing around the cab of the truck. Both seem to know this is the last time they'll see each other. 

Inaya unbuckles her seatbelt, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth before she looks his way. 

"We get one shot at life, Frankie," she says as she opens her door and climbs out. "Don't waste yours." 

Frankie doesn't say anything. He just watches her move to the building as he settles himself behind his steering wheel. He waits until she's safely inside before he pulls away, eyes wet and heart aching. 

“I need to see him.”

You move on shaky legs, eyes wild and shaky hands gripping the strap of your purse. Everything you’ve learned in the last hour has shifted your universe in a monumental way. There’s no way you can just sit here any longer

Hilary stands, trying to grab at your wrist at you attempt to leave. “Hey, slow down.”

“I need to see Frankie,” you say sharply. “Right now.”

“You can always call him up and ask him to come over." 

“Face to face.”

"You shouldn't be driving," Hilary tells you, face soft with concern. "Take a minute to breathe.”

"I'll be fine," you insist, shaking off her hand. "I promise." 

Your hurried feet almost catch on the carpet as you rush for the door. Hilary is calling after you, but you don't hear her. All that pounds in your ears is the thrum of your heartbeat. 

Frankie. Frankie. Frankie. 

Images of your time together are assaulting you, the kite, the pool, your first kiss, the funeral and his arms around you. His eyes, those beautiful fucking eyes. 

Your vision is blurry, but you blink the building tears back as you practically tear the door of your truck open. 

You need to see Frankie right this second. You need to clear this up. No more misunderstandings. 

You peel out of the driveway, small little hiccupping sobs escaping you as your foot slams against the accelerator.

You think of the lost years. Of the twenties you two could have shared, could have spent building a life together. Instead you diverged like branches away from one another. Lives led with carried animosity. All because of a fucking misunderstanding. 

I fucked up.

All this time we could have been together.

I didn't trust him.

We could have had so much time. 

These thoughts make your breath catch in your chest, distracting you the vehicle that slams into the side of you truck. For a moment everything seems to go in slow motion. You take in the squeal and scent of burnt tires, the crunch of metal.

And then darkness.

DON'T HATE ME.

dividers by @saradika-graphics

taglist

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[onlythehobi]

ARE U FUCKING KIDDING MEJAJZKZKD THAT ENDING OJ MY HIDNI I AM SO SAD WITH EACH NEW REVELATION

JTS ALWATS BEEN THEM

[auteurdelabre]

Frankie Morales x F!Reader

a03 link here

Summary:

You move back to your childhood home in Florida to care for your ailing mother, only to find the past waiting for you in every room. Your always kind older cousin Santiago refuses to let you disappear into the sadness, pulling you into his world without hesitation. But Santi's world involves Frankie Morales; your cousin's best friend and the boy who broke your heart decades earlier. Thrust into each other’s orbit again old memories make their way to the surface, blurring the line between hatred and desire.Because the boy you learned to despise is the man you can't seem to forget.

THIS STORY IS ON A03

tags: Friends to Enemies, First Love, Childhood Friends, Brother's Best Friend trope kinda, Angst, Smut, Flashbacks, First person POV, Protective Frankie, First kiss, parent with terminal illness, HEA.

notes: There will be two more chapters after this! A finale and an epilogue! I got carried away... Thank you to everyone who reads and reviews and reblogs and shares how my story makes them feel.

THEN

You're on the lip of the ledge curled tight, the window open, letting the smoke out. You use a small cup as an ashtray and it's full.  

Frankie went back to Texas today. 

You heard it from Santi over breakfast. He mentioned it along with other innocuous facts like the girl from the party that he met is weird, that he's thinking of doing a backpacking trip to South America, that he's going to miss you when you're gone to Seattle for school.

You had to sit there at the table with your heart breaking, forcing your face to remain neutral. 

And now your throat burns and your eyes are swollen. You pull your knees to your chest, inhaling deeply from the cigarette before holding in the smoke. You hold it so long in your chest it feels like a punishment, the curling wisps exhaling from you in a rush. 

"Since when do you smoke?" 

Hilary stands at your door, eyes kohl-rimmed, tank top low. You scowl.

"What? Like you don't do it all the time?"

Hilary isn't put off by your vitriol. To her you'll always be an amusing little puppy, nothing to fear; all bark no bite. 

"What is your deal? You've been a bitch all week." 

It's been five days since Frankie broke your heart. Five days of his silence, of your sobs. Five days of not understanding how he could claim to like you and then turn around and fuck someone else. 

And now he's gone. 

You think of Frankie entering the plane, all shoulders and muscled arms. You think of Christy who probably drove him to the airport. You think of him settling in, eyes closed as he returns to a life you'll never know. 

"Leave me alone," you say turning back to the window. You stamp out your cigarette in the cup, the ash bitter on your tongue. 

You hear the pad of Hillary's footsteps over the carpeted floor, her voice nearing you. 

"Are you nervous about leaving for school or something?" 

In two weeks time you'll be in Seattle going to school and forgetting everything about this summer. You can’t wait.

"No." 

"Is it Frankie?" She steps even nearer, voice softer than you've ever heard it. "Did he... try anything?"

You go rigid, eyes burning. "Of course not."

He just broke my heart. 

"I didn't think so. He's always been really respectful." Now she's at your feet, looking to your face in concern. "I just noticed he hasn't been here since that night he brought those flo-"

You jump down from the ledge, eyes burning in fury. Why is she trying to act like a big sister now? She's always pushed you to the side, ignored you. And now, what? She thinks that she's going to offer some great life lessons?

"I don't ever want to hear the name Frankie again." 

This stuns her into taking a step back, eyes surveying your face. She even gives a soft, disbelieving huff. 

"What? I thought he was, like, your best friend." 

"Well, you thought wrong. Just fuck off, would you? Pretty sure there's a bedpan that needs washing." 

It comes out so much uglier than you were expecting, but you don't even flinch. This bitterness inside of you wants to splay out its tendrils and infect everyone. 

Hilary goes red in the face, mouth curling into a snarl. 

"I can't wait until you're gone," she throws over her shoulder as she exits the bedroom. "Do us all a favor and never come back."

Then she's gone, rushing from the room and slamming the door to hers. 

Fuming, you stride down the hallway preparing to exit the house. Maybe you'll go for a walk. 

But your mom is just entering in from the back door. She's wearing her nursing scrubs and about twelve hours of crumbly looking mascara. She carries a brown paper grocery bag in one arm. You can see several vodka bottles peeking out the top. 

"Hello honey. Can you start the ov-"

"I'm heading out," you mumble, slipping on your speakers. Maybe Santi is at home and will want a visit. 

"Wait, I brought home dinner," your mom insists, kicking off her nursing shoes; ugly white loafers.

"I'm not hungry." 

"You will sit down and eat this dinner. I'm not made of money," she snarks, placing the bag onto the counter. 

"Could've fooled me," you bite back. "How many vodka bottles did you get?" 

She goes completely stiff, not unlike your reaction earlier in the bedroom. You've gone too far. You wait for a harsh reprimand, a slap across the face. But what comes next is so much worse. 

She just lowers her head, face crumpling. A single tear rolls down her left cheek, disappearing into the starched collar of her nurse's uniform. 

"Just go." She says quietly. "Just leave."

Those worlds will run through your head for the rest of your life. In the face of adversity, uncertainty, you will always just leave. 

Your mom is confused to see Hilary arriving from the airport, squinting up at your sister when she steps through the door with her suitcase.

"Why are you here?"

"Good to see you too Mom," Hilary replies, un-phased. She kisses the top of your mom's head before rolling the suitcase down the hall. "I'm unpacking."

You follow her down to the old bedroom. You made her bed up with fresh sheets, plumped her pillows to try to make it look cheery.

You stand at the doorway, shoulder pressed against it. It is like old times with you uncertain if you should enter.

"This is weird," she says, looking your way as she unpacks into the dresser she'd used since she was a teenager.

"What's weird?"

"Us being here at the same time again."

You can't help but nod at that. It does feel strange being back here. Like being slingshotted through time.

"Yeah."

You think about what she'd said in the truck earlier. About people never changing. It hurts to hear it. You don't want it to be true.

"I'm really glad you're here," you eventually tell her with wet eyes.

She doesn't face you but her voice is thick when she replies.

"Me too."

THEN

The day you leave for Seattle is a morose one. Your mom isn't sober enough to take you to the airport and Hilary had to work.

Santi is already gone abroad for training and so it’s just you, your second hand suitcase and a backpack taking the bus to the airport where you sit with your dog eared copy of ''Dandelion Wine" and watch the happy couples. 

A serious looking man is reading a magazine while his girlfriend rests her head on his shoulder, eyes closed. Another couple is stealing kissing and blushing, the rings on their fingers making it obvious they're heading to some tropical honeymoon. An elderly man and woman smile as they start playing cards on a food court table. 

Every sight makes you sick with both revulsion and jealousy. It makes you think about how Frankie doesn't have your school apartment address. How he won't be able to send you letters. Not that he would. 

If he had written you a letter, you would have mailed back black bits of charred paper to his return address. Curled bits of parchment with his chicken scratch on it. 

But not before you read it. 

Not before you pored over it like you did with his letters the years before. Only now you would be scouring each line for an explanation of his behavior. How a man you were in love with could suddenly change overnight. 

You think about your mom passed out on the couch that morning. The crumpled envelope full of a few twenties she gave you the night before, her voice slurred as she told you to be safe.  You think of the cloying humidity and the sharp pain and bad memories that linger back in Florida and you have to force your stomach to stop it's rocking. 

When your plane eventually touches down in the Seattle airport hours later you instinctively you know you're never going back home. Not if you can help it. You're going to step off the plane into a new life. 

And you're never looking back. 

Rosalita doesn't have to come by as often during the day with the two of you there. But she stays most nights and her steady presence in the home seems to calm you all enough that you can get some sleep. 

Rosalita doesn't bother trying to get your mom to walk anymore though. She makes sure she's got the right medication, that her lips aren't too chapped and that she's comfortable.  

"Right now it's all about comfort," she tells you both quietly over tea one evening. "No more worrying about calories or smoking. Now’s the time to say yes." 

Having Hilary at home is such a relief. You've had two weeks of her brash attitude and constant chatter to fill your brain to the brim. There's no room left for Frankie. No room to think about his perfect mouth or the way you melted into his arms.

You take on extra projects for your job, work late into the night, until your eyes are blurry and your fingers cramped. You appreciate the distraction. 

But even through that, memories of Frankie's mouth won't leave you. The murmured hush of 'baby' in your ears. And the memories that keep flooding back with every day you stay here. 

You want to leave.

Want to run.

Want to forget. 

Santi comes over to visit with Hilary, the two of them standing on the back porch sharing a covert cigarette while you wash the dishes. You watch the two of them laugh lowly, shoulders shaking. It feels good to see. There's not a ton of good these days. It feels like there may not be much good ever again. 

Later that afternoon you lay on your side, looking to Hilary resting on the couch opposite you. She looks younger, more peaceful without that habitual scowl she wears. For the first time in forever you consider that there's a reason she wears a scowl. 

You got to leave, she didn't.

A Frasier re-run plays in the background, the gentle laugh track rousing your sister from her nap. She yawns, mascara smudged under her eyes. She was up late with your mother last night. You could hear them talking low and quiet in her bedroom. You envy how easily she does this. How unaffected she appears. She's always been the stronger one. 

"I used to be able to sleep on this couch all night," she says blinking over at you. "Now I think I've thrown out my fucking back."

The two of you exchange quiet chuckles and you remember giggling late into the night on the evenings she felt like indulging you with stories about her teenage adventures. You had clung to those stories in fascination, dreaming of the day you would be able to go to the mall and wear low rise jeans. 

Now you're both older, lines around your eyes and fatigue in both your bodies. And it feels less intimidating to ask her questions. 

"How come Justin didn't come back with you?"

She looks away from you, lashes fluttering. You shift, body tired from the position. But you don't rush her. You just wait until she inevitably raises her eyes to you. 

"We broke up right before I decided to come back." 

"Why?"

"He was too..."'she trails off, one hand aloft. She's searching for the right description. "Nice."

A beat. 

"He's... Too nice?"

She nods again, looking nauseated. "Yeah. I mean, I have these ideas, right? Pick up and move to a new country, start a new life, and he just... Went with it." She frowns. "No arguing, no complaining." 

"... Right." 

"Plus he was just there all the time. Wanting to hang out. Wanting to hold my hand and be all mushy." 

"It sounds like he just cares about you." 

She gives you a rueful look. One that communicates everything. She doesn’t trust it. That stops you short as you realize your sister has only known the transactional relationship. The thought of being given love so freely doesn't compute for her. 

"He just loves you, Hil." 

"Whatever. It’s over now." 

She waves the idea away. The conversation is closed, her body language clear.  

A light rain has started tapping on the roof. One that will bring more humidity and short fuses. You think in the face of this you might as well keep talking. To ask the hard questions. 

"Hil, did you ever resent me leaving here? For barely coming home when we were younger?"

She stretches her back, speaking around a yawn.  "No. Not really." 

"How is that possible? I barely came around."

You watch her settle again, eyes half open. She tilts her head your way.

"The same reason I didn't let you drink or shoplift at the mall with me." 

"Because I was your annoying little sister?"

"I mean, yeah, you were," she grins before sobering. "It's because I knew that you were meant for better things. I knew your future wasn't here in the same town we grew up in. And I knew if you started doing all the shit I did, you wouldn't be able to leave." 

She settles on her back.

"If you'd stayed, I would have felt like I failed as your sister," she continues. "You needed space to breathe. To become your own person." She beams over at you and you can see her eyes are damp. "And look at you. You did. Your own apartment, a job you're good at. No booze or drugs or criminal record ruining your life." 

You say nothing; the only sound in the room is the wet blink you give. 

"I like to think I'm part of the reason you're so successful."

If she was anyone else you would tackle her with a hug. But you know she would want nothing less. You want to thank her but know how she feels about that as well. So you’re quiet, coiled in gratitude.

"But I forced you to stay here with Mom," you whisper, not trusting your voice to stay even. 

She rolls her eyes, arms going behind her neck. "You couldn't force me to do anything and you know it."

That draws a small little giggle from you. She gets a strange look on her face. A mixture of embarrassment and amusement. 

"You know, I actually liked living here with Mom."

"What?"

"I liked having someone in the house when I got home. I actually missed this house if you can believe it." 

You can't. This house is everything you've tried to forget.

"I liked how the sun felt on the porch in the morning. How I knew everyone in town. I didn't mind my life. I liked being useful, I guess." 

"You did a lot for her." 

"Happy to do it." 

"How were you not resentful for it? After what she put us through as kids?"

Hilary goes quiet, mouth pressed together in a tight line. 

"Because when I needed bail money, she was there. When I needed a place to stay she let me move back in. She talked to me when I was down, made me meals when I was too depressed to get out of bed." Hilary sniffs. "Yeah, she drank too much. But we all have our vices, you know?" 

You're quiet, taking this information in. You wish you'd had this conversation with her years ago. 

"No, she wasn't a perfect mom to us as kids. Not by a long shot. But she also tried to make up for it." Hilary yawns again. "I guess I don't want to judge her for who she used to be. I just want to accept her for who she became." 

She's a complicated person, your sister. A living contradiction. Loving, withdrawn, cold and warm. You find yourself captivated by her straightforward sincerity.

"I wish I could have seen more of that side to her," you admit. "I shouldn't have stayed away so long." 

"But you're here now," she tells you. 

Yeah. You're here now. 

Back in your childhood home with your sister and mother. Back on the couch you used to watch Saturday morning cartoons on. 

You think of your childhood together. Of Hilary and her popularity. Of the summer bonfires and days in the water.  Of Hilary protecting you in her own, strange way.  For some reason something sticks out to you as you dance through time, a comment Hilary made around the bonfire that one summer. The time she told you to stay away from Travis without much reasoning. 

"Why did you dislike Travis so much?" You say after a pause. "I mean, I know he was an asshole but..."

You're surprised when your sister's face goes pink. She ducks her head slightly, pulling her sweatshirt up over her chin. She mumbles something that you can't hear and you ask her to repeat herself. 

"Because I slept with him,” Hilary says louder with a groan. 

Your eyes blow wide. "You did not."

"Sure did," Hilary says, lowering her hands from her face. "Why do you think I told you to stay away from him? He was sleeping with anyone and everyone. Thank God I was smart enough to use a condom." 

Your stomach drops as you think of that party, of you backed up against the tree and Travis's filthy words at your ear. At the discomfort you felt being so close to him and the way he told you he wanted you for so long. 

"We were, like, fifteen. We'd all been drinking and Travis saw an opportunity," she explains with a sobering look. "Only happened once but it was enough. Worst sex of my life." 

"Wow." 

"Is not like I was the only one!” Hilary defends, clearly embarrassed. “He and Christy had a whole hook up thing going on for years." 

"Excuse me? Christy could barely stand him." 

"In public," Hilary says with a smirk. "But trust me; it was common knowledge in my friend circles. They were fucking all the time." 

You stare into space and parse through the interactions between Christy and Travis, unable to see any link, any proof. But your sister wouldn't lie. 

The two of you go quiet, the rain still heard through the partly cracked window. After a few minutes you can hear your sister begin to snore. She's asleep and soon you follow. 

THEN

Your college graduation party is fairly muted compared to the parties you used to attend back in Florida, but it's still riotous enough to go late and involve your entire dorm floor in on the festivities. 

The furniture has been moved, your roommates have bought plenty of booze and someone keeps playing shitty Eminem beats while people get drunker and drunker.  Some guys from nearby dorms are here as well, all rules about co-ed mingling in the dorms after 11pm forgotten.

It's graduation after all. 

Grady from your Intro to Business class is here, nursing a warm beer and catching your eyes every so often. He's got light brown hair that falls into his dark blue eyes. He wears cargo pants and an oversized rock T-shirt from some band you've never heard of. He's handsome in a classical way and pretty clever. 

You've been busy at school, keeping your head down. You're social, you love to laugh and smile. Things you find easier to do now that you're not back in Florida. You feel like a different person here, someone who doesn't carry baggage of an alcoholic mom and an absent father. You get to just be you; a woman with goals. 

You haven't dated anyone since the Frankie debacle, and you don't want you. Despite how everything went down, the thought of inviting another man into your life that way seems too intimidating. 

And that's worked for you, but now? It's your graduation and you realize as you look around at your friends that you haven't had much of a life outside of your studies and these four walls. 

Maybe that's why you smile when Grady offers to stay behind when the rest of the party files out. When your roommates have gone to their separate bedrooms and the two of you remain in the kitchen cleaning out cups.

"I can't believe I waited until our last day to tell you this, but I've had a crush on you for years," he admits, blush going to his cheeks. 

"Well I'm glad you told me, even if it is our last day," you tease. 

"Guess we better make tonight count then, huh?"

He says it in a sweet way, eyes searching yours. It's not said with brash confidence, something you find utterly repulsive in the other men you've met here. With Grady it's just a sweet earnestness, a hope that you feel the same way he does. 

"Yeah," you say, rinsing a sudsy cup before holding it his way. "We better." 

He takes the cup, drying it with a goofy grin on his face. You're about to say something to him when the dorm phone rings. 

It's nearly two in the morning, definitely too late for phone calls. 

"Want me to answer it?" Grady asks wiping his hands and heading over to lift the receiver when you give him a nod, your soapy hands working on more of the dishes. You hear the dorm phone being lifted from the cradle.

"Hello?" 

You continue washing the cups, glancing over your shoulder when there's a long stretch of quiet. 

"Hello?" Grady says again, a little bit louder. "Is anyone there?"

He pauses, looking at you with a quirked brow, shaking his head. "Nothing." 

"Just hang up," you reply, shrugging with a yawn, wiping the soap from your hands. "And then let's go to bed." 

He nods, replacing the phone to its cradle and coming your way. He kisses you softly on the mouth, too soft. But you let him; you tilt your head and welcome his tongue behind your teeth. 

You invite him into your bed, you watch as he slithers down your body, kissing your inner thighs and murmuring about how beautiful you are. But you can't enjoy it because your body still craves the touch of a man you left behind in your memories. The scent of his sweat, the way he groaned your name. 

The life you were supposed to lead with him. Letters and phone calls and long distance love. This graduation would have marked the end of your distance. The star of your reunion. Instead, it's just a bitter reminder of the tie that has been severed. 

Grady doesn't notice your reticence until his mouth latches over your sex and you let out a hiccupping sob. He stops abruptly, and despite you covering your face and insisting that you want to continue he begins dressing again, murmuring that it's late and he better get back to his dorm. 

At the sound of your door closing you roll onto your side, hugging a pillow to your chest. Tears slide down your cheeks as you imagine the life you'll never lead with a man you'll never have. 

"Blue Heron is out." 

You glance up from your laptop, brows tight. You've just finished a meeting, your eyes sore from staring at your laptop. 

"Huh? Why?" 

Hilary holds up her phone, the screen cracked. "I just looked and the place is pretty much condemned." 

You stand, crossing the room to take the phone from her. You scroll, reading quickly. 

Blue Heron Campground Condemned Following Structural Safety Concerns Blue Heron campground has officially been closed after local inspectors condemned several of the property’s main facilities due to severe floor instability and structural deterioration.

"Fuck."

You two sisters share a look, a silent frustration and devastation mixed into one stare. 

It's a helpless feeling; the one thing the two of you thought you could control is slipping through your fingers. Much like your mother in the next room. This was the one thing you thought you could do for her.

"Yeah." She finally nods grimly. "Fuck." 

There's a sudden commotion from the kitchen. What sounds like Rosalita gasping and the two of you take off running towards the sound. 

You hear a deep voice as you prepare to round the wall, heart dropping to your feet. 

"I'm sorry, Ros-"

"No no, it’s fine; you just surprised me, Mister Frankie." 

You slam back against the wall, hiding from the duo as Hilary shoots you a confused look. Still, she silently passes by you, walking into the kitchen. 

"Hey Morales." 

"Hey, Hil. Glad to see you back." 

"Yeah, couldn't stay away from the muggy weather and gators, I guess." 

Frankie chuckles gently, but you feel like it sounds forced. Like he doesn't actually want to be here, but he can't stay away. 

"What did you bring?" You hear Hillary cross the kitchen floor. "Triple fudge brownies?"

"Yeah, I thought you guys might want them."

"That's sweet of you." There's the chatter of dishes being pulled down from the cupboard. 

You wait for Frankie to excuse himself, but the silence between them lingers a beat. You wonder if he's waiting for you to appear. 

"You want one, Rosalita?" Hilary asks. 

"No. I'm fine, thank you. I am just going to the store." 

The door opens and closes and you wait, ears straining to see if Frankie exited along with Rosalita. Hilary finally speaks again, voice gentle. 

"How about you Morales? You want one?" 

"Uh... Sure." 

Fuck.  

You cover your face with your hands, knowing that if you walk off you'll make noise, but not wanting to enter into the kitchen either. You feel stuck. 

There's the clink of cutlery on plates, quiet chewing. 

"So were you in the neighborhood carrying brownies?"

A pause. 

"I wanted to how everyone is doing." 

The subtext isn't subtle. He probably wants to know where the two of you stand after that day you fell into him, kissing him as if you had longed for the press of his lips for years. Maybe, if you’re honest with yourself, a part of you had been.

"We're doing okay," Hilary answers lightly "I mean, Mom can't really leave bed much. I don’t think she has much time left." 

Frankie makes a soft, clicking noise against his teeth. It's authentic, sad and slow. 

"But, you know, it's nice all of us being under one roof again. Feels like old times when you and Santi used to drop by and annoy the shit out of me." 

The two chuckle before lapsing into a comfortable silence. 

"And your sister? How’s she?" 

There's your answer. Your pulse tics in your neck as you think about him sitting there, beautiful and sad, asking about you.

"She's having a tough go, I think," Hillary admits. "I'm used to being in the house, being with Mom. She's more... Sensitive than I am."

You wonder if she thinks you've ducked back down the hall, or perhaps she wants you to hear this. 

"She's a lot tougher than people think," Frankie tells her. For a moment you wish you could see his face. 

"You're probably right," Hilary says. You hear the gentle scrape of forks against plates again. "I mean, you would know. You knew her best." 

"I thought I did," Frankie says. His words are soft around the edges, hesitant. "Not so sure I ever did though." 

"Trust me, you did." 

This gives you pause. You didn't think Hillary really observed much about you and Frankie. But now you're starting to wonder. 

"Thanks so much for bringing these," Hilary says. "I haven't had them in ages."

"Yeah, your mom usually goes crazy for them. Would it... Could I say goodbye to her?" 

"Of course," Hilary says. "She's kind of in and out of consciousness but I think she'd appreciate it."'

They move too quickly for you to back away in time without giving yourself away. When his tall frame comes into view from around the corner he pauses, eyes widening when he sees you there pressed against the wall. 

"Pip..." His voice is husky and soft, eyes stuck on your face. 

Just the sight of him has your face hot with shame. Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. You recall his plump lips against yours, the scent of his skin, the sensation of being held in his lap as if cherished. 

Hilary is behind Frankie now, giving you a curious look. But you say nothing. Instead you lower your gaze to the ground and remain silent. 

Frankie swallows lightly, eyes on the ground as he passes you. Your eyes shutter when he moves by you in the narrow hallway, warm arm grazing yours. 

Then it's too much. His body, his nearness, your mother in the next room. It's all too much and you rush into your childhood bedroom, heart in your throat. 

Even with the door closed you can still hear Frankie's footsteps leading to your mother's room, can still hear the dark timber of his voice. Despite it being muffled through the walls, it's still a rich sound.

You think you can hear your mother's faint rasping voice, then the sound of gentle laughter. You're surprised by this. You don't know how much time passes but eventually you glance up to see Hilary cracking the door open, brows raised. 

"He's gone." 

"Okay."

She has that look of a person keeping something contained. Like she wants to voice something but it's carefully side stepping it. She adopts a more casual pose. 

"Santi just sent a text asking if we want to go play pool. You wanna go?"

"Rosalita is leaving soon." 

"Oh, shit, that's right." Hilary fishes her phone from her back pocket, preparing to compose a text. "I'll tell him we can't make it." 

You shake your head and push yourself off the mattress. You move to her, forcing your voice to sound steady. 

"Not a chance. Go get your ass to the pool hall. I'll stay here with Mom." 

She hesitates, in decision clear in her overly-plucked brows. 

"You sure?" 

She knows you feel more and more uneasy being at home alone with your mother. Terrified that something terrible will happen when you're alone. 

"Yes," You say firmly. "I'll be okay." 

THEN

You're twenty six when Santi's 30th comes around. His birthdays are always a cause for celebration and this year his party is being held at the beach. It's a BBQ and bonfire back home. He begged you to fly home to attend. He wants you to meet his army friends he served with not so long ago. Will, Benny, Tom. 

You are three and a half years into your first real job and you love it. But you've taken no vacation time and no sick days in those two years. Diane from HR had commented on this only a week before, her instructions to 'book some time off ' still in your head

"Is Travis coming?" You ask lightly, phone held tightly to your ear. 

"Nah, I don't really see him anymore." 

"And Frankie?" 

You hold your breath as Santi replies. 

"He's working." 

The last you heard through the grapevine, Frankie was overseas flying helicopters, so if he's working you know you're safe to go. 

You try not to sound too relieved when you agree to attend. Santi is delighted, giving you the details before you hear girlish giggling in the background. 

You didn't ask for details on Frankie, even though you thought about him. You worried for him, imagining his handsome face contorted, ears covered in oversized headphones. He wouldn't still wear your hat of course. 

But in your fantasies he did. 

Knowing you'd get to avoid his big, beautiful eyes and sweet dimple, you flew back home with only the faintest twist in your stomach. 

You're mom is working part time now. The mortgage paid off which means she has plenty of time to drink. You observe she's already three sheets when you arrive as she stumbles towards you, arms extended. 

"There she is," she slurs, the gin wafting over your cheek. "My little girl."

When she pulls back to look at you with bleary eyes you notice the red spider webs under the skin of her cheeks and along the end of her nose. 

"You're here."

You glance over to see Hilary holding a bowl of cereal, munching away. She gives you a small nod. Hilary lives with your mom from time to time when her relationships fail or she's not working. Right now it's both. 

"You coming to the BBQ?"

"Yep." 

"You get him a gift?"

"My presence is his present." 

You laugh, telling her that you'll put her name on your card. You got him an engraved flask. She hesitates before thanking you. 

Later that night when your mom is passed out on the couch, you and your sister take sweating jars of sweet tea onto the porch.

"You seeing anyone?" She asks, a lit cigarette hung loosely at the corner of her mouth. 

"There's this guy I started seeing recently, Greg," you tell her with a shrug. Ice clatters in the mason jar as you take a sip of your drink. 

"He nice?"

"Very." You feel yourself grow shy. "He's a really great guy." 

She surveys your face for a long while, a calm smile on her face. Like she's proud of you for picking a good one, unlike the string of losers she brings home. 

And even though you'll never voice this thought out loud, you can't help but think that Greg is nothing like Frankie. Not as tall, not as handsome, voice not as deep. His hair doesn't have that natural tousled look. Doesn't curl under one ear. He doesn't have pouty lips and big hands. 

But he is kind. He doesn't take you to parties and fuck other women. He doesn't act like he loves you and then toss you aside. 

You tell yourself he won't hurt you like Frankie did. That Greg is safe. 

You're okay.

Hilary is soon gone to the pool hall in a plume of cigarette smoke and heavy eyeliner. She promised she wouldn't be too late but you told her to be. She's earned it. Rosalita has left for the night, giving you a gentle hug and promising she'll be back tomorrow. 

So now it's you and Mom.

Since your mother stopped leaving her bed, you can admit that like a coward, you haven't ventured into her bedroom very much. You don't say it out loud but you're petrified of finding her rigid corpse there one morning. Her concave chest and milky eyes in a waxen face. 

So you usually stand at the doorway, always with a task. Does she want water? Crackers? New blankets? 

These tasks keep you busy, focused. You can't let your mind drift to dark places if you're over-scheduled. So tonight you do the same.  You stand at the doorway of her bedroom, peering in. She looks distantly into the room, eyes unfocused. You wonder what she’s thinking about.

"Hey Mom. Want a brownie?"

She looks your way and cracks a huge smile, which, if she wasn't so thin, would look less ghoulish. 

"Yes." 

You bring out the lap tray and the plated brownie, sitting it in front of her.

"My favorite ones!" She exclaims.

You rise up the back of her bed, pushing pillows until she's comfortably seated up. 

She weakly jabs at the brownie, lifting the fork shakily to her mouth before abandoning the plan all together. She drops the fork with a clatter onto the plate and picks the brownie up in between two trembling fingers. You watch as she pops a few crumbs onto her tongue. 

The bliss that crosses her face makes you want to call Frankie and thank him personally

"It's so good," she murmurs. 

You nod; charmed by the sweet way she smiles at you. As if life is just so simple when you have a brownie to eat.

"Frankie dropped them off earlier," you say quietly, just for the pleasure of saying his name to someone else. 

Her eyes are small and confused. "Frankie?" 

You shuffle more onto the bed, one leg crooked as you lean back on your palms. 

"Francisco Morales. He came to see you earlier."

She takes another bite of brownie. "Is he still in the front yard?"

"Huh? No. Why would he be?"

"He carried you home. You twisted your ankle." 

For a long moment you just stare at her, one brow arched before a memory hits you acutely. 

You were eleven at the time, playing baseball with the three boys. Santi's arm was in a sling from a bike accident the week before so he was designated pitcher. Travis was the one at bat and he hit the far ball. Frankie was nearer to them, you were deep in the outfield. 

In your eagerness to prove your athletic prowess to the older boys, you backed up rapidly not paying attention to your surroundings. 

When your foot landed wrong in an unseen gopher hole and you went toppling back, felt the sharp twist of your ankle. You yelped so loudly you think the neighbor heard you. You were crying, face warm from the sun and sticky from your tears. The throbbing your ankle was overwhelming. 

And suddenly Frankie's strong arms were crooked under your knees and back, pulling you into his arms. You're face landed in the slope of his neck and inhaled his old spice deodorant and fresh sweat scent.  

"Hold on," he told you breathlessly. "I've got you, Pip."

The pain was insurmountable. No wonder you barely remembered it, your mind must have pushed it out. But you do remember wrapping your arms around his neck and crying gently into his throat. 

You barely remember him rushing you home, the way he panted against your ear as he raced through the neighborhood, or the way Santi was shouting after him about getting you ice. Travis hadn't bothered coming along, not that you were disappointed. If anything you were thankful for it. 

But you do remember the terrified look on your mother's face that day when she saw Frankie carrying you home. The way she ran his way, the scent of vodka. You'd been in too much pain to be embarrassed about it. 

It's funny that this is a memory that sticks out in your mother's mind. 

"Did he find the mop?"

You peer at her, torn from the memory as she looks up at you. Her eyes look too big for her face. You try to register what she's asking you. 

"What mop?"

She sighs, frustrated with your confusion. Her mouth goes a little slack before she smacks her lips together and motions to the brownie. "I'm done with this." 

You remove the brownie and the tray placing both on the dresser before returning to her side of the bed. 

You watch her eyes go soft around the edges, her chin trembling slightly. 

"You know I would do it differently," she says in an ardent tone of voice. 

"What would you do different, mom?" 

"I would do so much differently. No more booze. No more Florida and paying off a mortgage for a home your dad wanted." 

You watch her wince before placing a shaky hand over her swollen belly.

"Do we have more medicine? It hurts." 

"Of course."

You rise, shaking a morphine tablet out of its container and placing it on her dry tongue. You urge some water into her, watching in relief as her throat bobs. She’s still fairly coherent, still looking at you with interest. It emboldens you as you take your seat at the edge of her bed again.

"Mom, why did you stay here after dad left?"

"Your friends were here. Family. It was bad enough your father left; I didn't need you and your sister..." Suddenly she's gone from that, mind moving through time as you sit there staring at her. "Is your boyfriend coming by again?"

"Who?”

"Francisco." 

"He's not my boyfriend, Mom. He never was." 

"Of course he was," your mom says with a light laugh. "He was always here with your cousin. I remember how you looked at each other." 

Your pulse is pounding in your temple, confusion and heartache combined. Your mom was so often home and sober. When would she have ever noticed? 

"Are you going to marry him? I remember one phone call..." she trails off, voice slurring.

You watch her eyes start to shutter. She's groggy now, the medication taking hold. 

"Mom, what are you talking about?" 

But she's fading too quickly to answer you, eyelids heavy as she struggles to listen to you. And you realize that this could be the last time you speak to her. The last time to tell her everything you've had pent up. 

You think of the acidic words on your tongue that have been there since you returned. All the ugly things you've wanted to say to her about her alcoholism, about how she wasn't there enough. 

But it all seems so... Unnecessary. 

You think of the long hours she worked. The loneliness of being a single mom to two girls. You think of the things she must have had to see at her job and still come home with a smile and sometimes, muffins. 

You think about how she always encouraged your education, and while she couldn't afford to send you anywhere, it was her cutting out scholarships from the paper. It was her giving you the last of her booze money before you left. 

You realize you've looked at so much with the expectation of disappointment. Of being pushed aside. Your mom. Hilary. Greg. Frankie. 

And now? Now it just feels so much better to let it go. To accept that your mom could have done better, but she could have done a lot worse. 

So when you take her gnarled hand in yours, thumb tracing over bony knuckles, there isn't any ire left in you. Only a heart swollen with compassion. 

"I wasn't fair to you these last few years," you say gently. "I blamed you for a lot. Some of it deserved, but some of it just carried anger I should have let go a long time ago. " 

Her heavy lidded eyes tell you she wants to apologize. That she wants to explain but she's so tired so you just smile gently at her, brushing her hair back from her face. 

“I need you to know that I forgive you, Mom. More than that, I love you." 

She doesn't reply, but her shuttering eyes are wet. Her wrinkled lips are trying to form words, but they can't. But that's okay because you don't need any. 

"I love you, mom," you repeat, feeling the words deep in your soul. 

You mean them. 

You continue to hold her hand long after, watching as her face turns placid, chest rising slowly. She's asleep. Before you tuck her in, pressing a kiss to her forehead, you think you see the faintest whisper of a smile accompany the single tear that slides down her cheek. 

THEN

The afternoon of Santi's birthday party you put on your best sundress, put a ribbon in your hair and dab color to your lips. You spritz some perfume to your neck and wrists, looking at yourself in the cheap mirror you had as a child.

You look good. 

You snap a photo of yourself, sending it off to Greg with a giggle, your thumbnail wedged between your front teeth. 

"Ready to go?" 

Hilary is wearing a jean skirt and a black tank that shows off her cleavage. Her body has always been incredible and you feel slightly insecure as the two of you drive over to the beach with a cooler in your trunk. 

The sand is gritty under your feet as you hold your sandals loosely crooked on your second and third fingers. 

The crowd is in the distance, lots of laughter and the scent of hamburgers drifting your way. 

"Hope the guys aren't gross," your sister mutters. "I'm just glad Travis won't be here." 

"Me too." 

Travis moved out west a few years ago with his girlfriend. No one mourned the loss of him.

Your nose wrinkles in disgust when you think about the party at his place. You can't seem to forget his groping hands, the way he wouldn't stop, the things he said. And that always leads you to remembering Frankie's furious face. The anger that radiated off of him.

You're thankful that you won't see either of them today.

At least that's what you're thinking until you approach and see a familiar head of dark curls partially hidden under a green hat. 

For a minute you don't even register that it's him. His back is facing you, and it's even broader than last time. He's filled out, his body that of a man in his early thirties, not his mid twenties. He's wearing a grey T-shirt and when he lifts the beer bottle to his mouth you see it flex, the gold of his skin creamy in the fading sunlight. 

"Hil! Pip! There you are," Santi says with a wave, excusing himself from the crowd around the BBQ. 

You see Frankie's shoulders flinch, like he's been hit in the side. And when he turns slowly and finally looks at you, really looks at you, you see the years of silence and resentment locked away until this moment, now set free. 

You think it must match your hardened gaze because your teeth clench, your face forcing itself into a smile as your cousin comes to wrap you and your sister in a hug. 

"Lemme get you a burger!"

"Here, take this first," you say handing him the wrapped gift. He smiles even broader, becomes even more handsome if that's possible.

"You didn't have to do that." 

"Of course I did!" 

"She just put my name on the card," Hilary snarks behind you. "Me showing up is your gift."

"Do they accept returns?" 

Hilary grins widely. "Fuck you, you brat. Get me a burger." 

You laugh with them, watching out the corner of your eyes is Frankie slinks away to the opposite side of the BBQ, ensuring that the two of you won't collide.

Santi wraps an arm around your sister, leading her to the burgers and some friends she clearly recognizes from around town. All of a sudden it feels like old parties, with you standing awkwardly while your sister goes off being Miss Popular.

"If you want a beer I think you should know the ones on top are really warm. This once is nice and cold." 

A beautiful south Asian woman appears, a beer in one hand extended your way. She's stunning with long legs and dark hair loosely braided down her back. 

"Oh, I don't really like beer." You don't usually enjoy any alcohol. But you can't tell people the real reason why. "I'm designated driver," you add.

"Oh. Smart," she says, cracking the beer and taking a sip. She motions in the direction of the group. "We just took a cab here." 

She remains there at your elbow, her big dark eyes gazing at you with obvious interest. 

"Any chance there's a Pepsi?" You ask, trying to break the silence. 

She nods, speaking as she digs into the ice chest, fingers rattling the quickly melting ice. 

"You’re Pip, right?"

"Yeah."

"I'm Inaya," she says as she grins widely, you're not surprised to see she has the most beautiful smile. 

"It's so nice to finally meet you," she says brightly, passing you the drink. "Santi has told me so much about you." 

This must be Santi's latest conquest, you think. She looks the type - beautiful and delicate looking. 

"That's sweet of him, considering we grew up together and he has tons of dirt on me." You laugh, taking the can. "If you want, I can share the stories I have on him. Just ask." 

She giggles, and her laugh is melodic. 

"Actually, do you have any on Frankie?" She says as she covertly points his way. "I need some good stories to torment him with. He's always so tight lipped about his past." 

You follow her pointed finger to see Frankie chuckling with a blonde man, dark eyes crinkled under the rim of his cap. It's a new one bearing the logo of some lumber yard. 

With a devastating swoop of your stomach, you realize that she's not with Santi. She's here with Frankie. 

"I was surprised to see him," you mutter, trying not to breathe too heavily. 

"He got home a day early," she gives another tinkling laugh, which you now find grating. "And I'm so glad because I was way too nervous to come alone. This is my first time meeting all his friends. Aside from Santi. He's your cousin, right?" 

"Yep." 

You don't know if she's privy to what happened between you and Frankie. And if she is, Santi's birthday is not the place to discuss it. 

"So," she prompts, running her hands for her hair in a way that's completely unforced. "Any stories I can torture Frankie with?"

You smile weakly. The heat of the day feels oppressive, the stench of the barbecue overpowering. The nearby shrieks people and low murmur of sunbathers are already giving you a headache. 

"None worth telling," you insist. "He was always the good kid.”

Almost as if he can hear your kind, Frankie's 's attention drifts amongst the partygoers. You stand rooted to the spot as his eyes make their way to you, the surprise registering there as he watches you and his girlfriend talking. 

You're convinced that familiar scent of Old Spice and fresh sweat is carried on the breeze to you. It makes your palms grow damp. 

You excuse yourself, going to stand with another group of women you don't recognize. They're loud and funny and they welcome you into the conversation without thought. 

It's an hour later when your stomach grumbles and you decide is time for a burger. You saunter up to the picnic table, eyes on the topping and variety of chips. You swipe your arm over your forehead, brushing hair out of your eyes.

Music is playing faintly, the sight of the water quite calming. Hilary is laughing with a group, and for a moment the day feels almost relaxing.

But as you go to reach for a burger bun it's like something in the air shifts behind you, the hair on the back of your neck prickling.  

You know without even looking over your shoulder that it’s Frankie.

He moves to stand beside you, his hand going for a paper plate. 

After a few moments of breathing deeply, eyes lifting to sneak a glance at him. 

Up this close you see the new lines to his face. The cheeks that have filled out, the light scruff that covers his chin and above his top lip. He's a new person. A man, no longer the boy you remember. 

But still there is that same hair tucked under a cap, still those watchful eyes that slant your way now. Ever calculating, ever observing. 

"Didn't know you'd be here," he mumbles. 

You don't answer him; you just look back at your plate squirt the mustard over your bun. 

"Didn't think you'd fly back for it," he adds before clearing his throat. 

"Sure," you reply, voice tight.  

You watch his large hand go to grab a burger bun from the center of the table, momentarily hypnotized by the deep shores of his knuckles, the width of his fingers. 

You toss some potato salad onto the plate, trying to quell the frantic tempo of your heart. 

"Your girlfriend seems nice." 

His hand stops mid hover over a plate of onions. At least he has the good grace to look embarrassed, pink crawling up his neck and splotching his tanned cheeks. 

"She's not really my girlfriend..." He trails off, voice hushed. "We just... Hang out together sometimes."

Hang out. He means fuck. 

Something about his intentional ambiguity takes you right back to that night at the party. To the night he betrayed you. When he said one thing and then did another. Here he is again, leading a girl on for his own selfish gain.  

It makes your insides flame with fury. Years of repressed anger and emotional avoidance all culminate in a maelstrom behind your ribs. 

"Guess some things never change,” you say with a vicious snarl his way. 

He blinks slowly, dumbly. "Huh?" 

The reaction makes you even more infuriated.

“You’ve just always been good at making girls think they mean more to you than they actually do," you clarify. 

Now his brows drag down, mouth in a frown. His eyes bounce back between your own, true confusion clouding his expression. 

"What's that supposed to mean?" 

You hear your name being called. Santi is waving over at you from the portable BBQ.  A group of handsome but serious men stand around him, beers in their hands. You think you recognize them from the photo Santi showed you: his army buddies. 

You turn back to Frankie, noting that his glare hasn't left your face. 

"It means whatever you want it to, Frankie," you say with a disgusted scoff. "Just keep me out of it." 

You turn, walking over to Santi and the group of guys. All the while you feel Frankie's eyes on your back. The way you know he's still glaring at you.

You introduce yourself, being as charming as possible. Benny, Will and Tom. Women who are as gentle as they are intimidating. And when you finally turn several moments later you see Frankie and Inaya hand in hand, moving across the beach to his truck. 

When they drive off you expect to feel a sick sort of satisfaction, but instead all you're left with is a hollowness in your chest and tears that burn along your waterline.

The scent of oil and coffee hangs in the air, wafting over the busy restaurant. Denny's, a former haunt for you and your cousin. 

"Are you excited about going back to South America?" You ask, leaning back in the cracked red faux-leather booth. 

Santi sits across from you, curled over a steaming mug of black coffee. 

"Being home for a bit was fun, but I feel ready to get back into things again." 

He leans back in the booth, arms stretched wide. He looks so relaxed, so happy. It gladdens you to see your normally stressed cousin looking so restored. 

You know his job is hard combating drug cartels. That he puts on the careless playboy act because his real life has real stakes. 

"I must admit it's been nice having you around this summer," you say, perusing the menu. "I think I would've stayed inside all this time without you forcing me to be social." 

He grins. "The guys love you. Benny says if you need anything when I'm gone he's got you. Frankie too." 

Your jaw shifts. "Mhmm." 

Santi must note your quiet displeasure because he shifts focus. 

"Auntie seems to be..." Santi trails off, briefly worrying his bottom lip with his teeth. "I'm glad I got to see her this summer." 

"I'm glad too." 

"How are you doing with it?"

"Surviving," you offer, finger scraping against the plastic menu, tone light.  

Santi removes his arms from the back of the booth and tilts your way, voice low. 

"C'mon, Pip. Be real." 

The server comes to deliver your breakfasts of pancakes, eggs, bacon. All your favorites that you share with gusto. 

"I have no idea how I'm feeling," you say with a weak laugh as you mix sugar into your coffee. "I just kind of wake up go through the motions and then go to sleep and do it all over again the next day." 

Seeing your increasing solemnity, you watch as your cousins broad smile turns muted. "How is Hilary doing?" 

"She's good... I mean, I think." You pat some butter onto your toast. "I mean, she broke up with Justin." 

"Yeah she told me." 

"She tell you why?"

"Sounded like it just ran its course." 

You fold your hands on the table. 

"She broke up with him because he was too nice." 

"No shit?" Santi almost laughs. "Damn, she's crazy sometimes." 

"Tell me about it."

You're amused when you see syrup slip down your cousin's chin. 

"You eat like you're on the run." 

"Who says I'm not?" He winks at you.

Your pancakes are barely touched, your mouth dry. You can't stop thinking about what Hilary said about Travis fucking everyone.  

"Can I ask you something?"

 "Go ahead." 

"Did you... Did Travis ever talk to you about Christy?"

"Travis? Damn, I haven't thought about him in years. Why would he be talking about Christy?" 

You shrug. "No reason." 

Santiago takes a bite of his bacon, making an upset groaning noise. 

"She was at pool the other night and I swear I was going to claw my eyes out." He shakes his head, left cheek full. "No one likes to talk about Christy as much as Christy does. Why do you ask?" 

"No reason," you lie. "Hilary and I were talking about old times last night and I guess she's stuck in my brain." 

"Well, she wouldn't leave me the fuck alone," Santi says taking a swig of coffee. "I mean, I slept with her once during a visit back, like, six years ago and she won't let it go." 

You fall quiet and nod, poking at your quickly cooling eggs. Seems like everyone fucked Christy at one point.

"The only one who can't stand her more than me is Frankie," Santi scoffs into his chipped coffee mug. 

You go rigid, jaw feathering. You feel like you're vibrating and not just from the coffee you've been drinking all morning. 

"She was all over us both at the pool hall and he was so annoyed he left early." 

You bite back a scathing retort about how Frankie probably didn't mind it as much as Santi thinks. And yet, a fire heats low in your belly. An ugly, pulsing jealousy. 

"You two seem to be getting on better this visit though," he says. "Not as much bickering." 

"I guess," you mutter to your plate.  

"Anything you want to tell me?" Santi wheedles, tapping his fork against his plate lightly. 

"Huh?"

"Oh, come on, Pip," Santi says with a roll of his eyes. "Are you seriously trying to tell me that you're not into each other?" 

The waitress comes by to refill your emptied coffee mugs, giving you a moment to collect yourself. Finally she leaves and you lean over the table, voice a hush. 

"What are you on about?"  

"Frankie asked me for your number. He keeps asking how you are," Santi says. "And you keep getting weird every time I bring him up." 

"I'm not getting weird."  Even as you say it, you can hear the strain in your voice. 

"I'm just saying, maybe it's time to bury the hatchet." 

You say nothing as you shovel a bite of pancake into your downturned mouth. 

You think about Frankie and the couch and the safety you felt wrapped up in his arms. The perfect feeling of calm serenity along with the scorching heat of need when he kissed you. How it felt like no time had passed at all. 

"Or maybe it's time you two finally made a serious go of it," Santi croons with a waggle of his dark brows.

The pancakes go tacky in your mouth, fork almost clattering onto the tabletop. Everything starts going slow, and then your heart hiccups and it begins speeding up at once. 

"... What?" 

"Like a real relationship." 

You watch your cousin take another bite of pancake. The syrup clings to his lower lip and you stare at it in a confused daze before he rubs it away with a napkin. 

"Why the hell would Frankie and I want to be in a real relationship?" 

"Because you've been into him since we were kids," Santi says with a playful cock of his head when your eyes blow wide. 

"It was a crush at best," you say with a withering look his way. Pain exists there in your chest. A low, burning sensation that feels just as acute as it did in your youth.

"I dunno. I was picking up some serious vibes from both of you until that stupid party Travis threw. Then you both got weird." 

You try to raise the mug to your mouth without it shaking but are unsuccessful. Little creamy dots dribble onto the plate next to your breakfast. Santi notices.

"Are you okay?" 

"I'm fine," you snap, letting the mug slam down, spraying more coffee onto the table. "I just don't know where you're getting this crazy information and why you think Frankie and I should give it a shot." 

A woman with two children scowls over at you for disturbing them. An old man with a hat scoffs under his breath. You sink down in the booth, cheeks hot. 

"You don't have to lie to me, Pip." 

You raise your eyes, feeling more vulnerable than you ever have in the presence of your cousin. He's looking at you with eyes soft around the edges. The eyes of someone who observes, who keeps information close. 

And in that moment you realize he's known all along. That it was more than a crush you felt for Frankie, that your feelings weren't always just surface level. 

"I really cared about him," you whisper, tears starting in the corner of your eyes.

"I wasn't blind. I knew, Pip."

Something about the way he says the nickname makes you feel like an awkward teen again. It makes years of resentment bubble forth. 

"Yeah, well, did he tell you that he strung me around all summer and made it seem like he felt the same? That he told me he wanted us to do long distance?"

Santi looks like you've just told him the moon landing was faked. He just stares, mouth slightly dropping. You've never seen his eyes so wide and round before. 

"And did he tell you that hours after telling me that he had feelings for me that I caught him fucking Christy upstairs in Travis' parents' bedroom?" You say, voice finally cracking. "Did he tell you that he broke my fucking heart?" 

The tears are free flowing down your cheeks, the sobs catching in your chest as you try to slow your breathing. 

"Then he has the nerve to hate me all these years? Because I, what? I kissed Travis because I was devastated? What is that in comparison to fucking the girl who made my teenage life miserable?"  

Your chest is heaving, cheeks and neck on fire. You know nearby diners are looking your way, watching the altercation. 

But you can't stop, it just spills out of you, years of pain and hurt and anger. You cover your face, embarrassed and livid in one swoop. 

And you expect Santi to apologize, to insist he had no idea that Frankie had done this to you. But he's not. He's just staring at you with a concerned look. 

"Pip," he finally says. "That's not what happened." 

dividers by @saradika-graphics

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[onlythehobi]

IT WAS A MISUNDERSTANDING I KNEW IT I KNEW IT FRANKIE WOULD NEVER DO THAT TO ME NOW WE HAVE TO RUN TO HIM AND KISS HIM i scream as i get dragged back to the asylum

[auteurdelabre]

Frankie Morales x F!Reader

a03 link here

Summary:

You move back to your childhood home in Florida to care for your ailing mother, only to find the past waiting for you in every room. Your always kind older cousin Santiago refuses to let you disappear into the sadness, pulling you into his world without hesitation. But Santi's world involves Frankie Morales; your cousin's best friend and the boy who broke your heart decades earlier. Thrust into each other’s orbit again old memories make their way to the surface, blurring the line between hatred and desire.Because the boy you learned to despise is the man you can't seem to forget.

THIS STORY IS ON A03

tags: Friends to Enemies, First Love, Childhood Friends, Brother's Best Friend trope kinda, Angst, Smut, Flashbacks, First person POV, Protective Frankie, First kiss, parent with terminal illness, HEA.

notes: I cannot believe how much this story means to me. And how much your comments about it touch me. To those who have experienced the death of a parent, know that I see you and I love you. For those who had a hard mother's day, I'm so sorry. I love you.

warning: LONG chapter! over 16k

THEN

"Can you gimme another one?" Frankie asks, his breath hot against your sticky cheek.

You whine brokenly, hand groping behind you to grab the back of his sweaty neck and hold. He wears two weeks’ worth of stubble which rasps against your cheeks as he continues. 

"Not gonna stop until you do," he promises with a breathless kiss to your shoulder. "I bet you can give me two more at least."

The two of you have been fucking all afternoon despite the muggy weather. Your bodies are glistening with sweat, sliding off of one another. A fan blows uselessly in the corner. 

Frankie has you on all fours and he cages you under his body, rolling his hips, fucking you into the mattress before the heat overwhelms you and you complain. 

"S'too damn hot!" 

He apologizes, pulling you up to balance back against his sweaty chest. The two of you take a moment, a breather. The bed creaks as he gently tugs your hair and pulls your face back to face him over your shoulder.  

"I need another one, Pip." 

You stare up at him, eyes fuzzy at the edges, pupils like expanding moons. He’s so gorgeous all damp and pink.

One arm is banded across your waist, the other sliding to play with your clit when your hips start to roll. . You practically growl as your lips connect, all tongues and groans until you speak against the corner of his mouth.   

"Wait. Sit back," you instruct. "I wanna ride you."'

You haven't done that yet and Frankie's face goes red to the tips in excitement. He pulls from you gently before flopping into his back, eyes raking over your body as he pulls himself into a sitting position. 

His back kisses the headboard, his eyes taking you in with delight. You crawl up to him, and you watch as he groans, body twitching. 

"Goddamn, you look good naked."

You face burns when you give him a toothy grin. "Shut the fuck up." 

You rise up and quickly straddle him with your thighs, forearms balanced on his wide shoulders. 

He watches you from under thick lashes, pupils widening as you begin lowering yourself with slow determination. He feels so much bigger from this angle. 

"Take your time," he coos when he senses your frustration, arms wrapping around your middle to hold tightly. "We have all the time in the world."

It has been two weeks since he came back for his parent’s funeral and the two of you have been sleeping with each other every day since then. 

"We could just practice with each other," he’d suggested the morning after you lost your virginity. His body was warm, his cock hard and pressing into your thigh. 

"Yeah, so we get good at it," you agreed, moving to help Frankie remove his t-shirt from over your head. "You'll be ready for base and I'll be ready for college." 

"Yeah," he'd said, sliding his body down the bed and hooking your right leg over his shoulder. "Practice until we're experts."

You know he'll never see you as anything but Pip, Santi's annoying cousin. So you don't put it into your head. You don't cling to a dreamy future that won't come true. 

You stay satisfied that he takes you to bed and that he's always so gentle until you ask him not to be. 

With the house empty there's no need to rush. You take your time exploring each other's bodies. You try all the positions you've read about in magazines, eager to run your lips over every piece of flesh.

This is too casual to be considered some clandestine affair. The only time that you keep it hushed is when you're around your friend's, sure the distance yourself, no lingering looks. 

Sometimes it's hard though. The lines feel blurred when he asks you to spend the night or be cooks dinner for the two of you. It starts to feel domestic, you coming to his place, usually at sunset. Him having prepared something simple like chicken for the two of you to eat.

The longer that time goes on sometimes you watch television together, cuddled up on the couch. Those nights he runs his fingers through your hair with his eyes on the TV. Sometimes you think you catch him gazing at you when you pretend to sleep on his lap. 

And he feels so good, the entire time you're with him everything feels so right. 

But he's going back to Texas in August. You won't see him for several years again. You can't get mushy now. You can't afford to let this crush develop into something it never was. 

"You’re so-" Frankie cuts himself off with a ragged moan. "How are you so fucking good at this?" 

It's your first time riding a man and you're surprised yourself at how easy it is. What was so intimidating feels so natural when it's Frankie you're doing it with. 

And now as he groans your name and grips your hips, you feel yourself start to tremble. You're close and he knows it. You've been bouncing in his lap for ten minutes now and his fingers have been worrying your clit the entire time. 

"That's right," he says smiling up at you as he watches you throw your head back. "Just like that, baby. Just like that."

He calls you baby often. Sometimes just when you're on the couch relaxing or when he brings you a lemonade to combat the heat. 

Your hips are starting to rut, your moans turning into frantic grunts as your body spasms, breasts bouncing furiously as you ride him. You chase that pleasure that seems just out of reach, your whines increasing in frequency. You think you're saying his name, but it might just be incoherent babbling at this point. 

Frankie seems to note your growing distress. His big hands come to slide back the sweaty strands that have fallen into your face, sticking to your cheeks. 

"Just let go," he whispers, hands moving lower to tug you closer. He presses damp kisses to your neck, voice hot and rumbling against your pulse point. "I've got you." 

"Fuck, Frankie, I'm- I'm-"

He grins up at your fucked-out expression before you dip your damp chest to meet his. His mouth is covering yours, kissing you deeply as you shatter around him. 

Practice, you tell yourself as the two of you fall into a mid afternoon slumber minutes later, bodies entwined. 

It's just practice.

You wake up in a soft bed feeling disoriented. The space you're in is unfamiliar yet not completely foreign.  It takes you several blinks to clear the blur from your swollen eyes and when you do, you realize that you are in Frankie's childhood bedroom. 

The sun isn't close to rising meaning you haven't been asleep all that long. You feel empty, rung out like an old sponge. 

Your face flames as you recall throwing yourself into Frankie's arms. You cried yourself silly before he brought you inside, practically carrying you to his bed and insisting you could take a quick nap in the bed. 

You hadn't fought him on it. Just sniffled into his neck your agreement and allowed him to help you down onto sweetly scented flannel bed sheets. 

You sit up properly, head swimming when your feet touch the thick carpet underneath the bed. 

Baby. He called you baby. 

You're too overwrought with the other emotions of the day to fixate on that one word. Your mother's illness pushes that thought clean out of your head. Everything is terrible and ugly and you sincerely feel you're unable to cope. 

"Hey. You okay?"

Frankie is standing outside the open bedroom door, peeking in slightly. He's so broad and tall he practically takes up the whole frame. His wide shoulders stretch the fabric of his t-shirt, the sleeves hugging the thick curve of his arms. You look away from them. 

You shrug. Is it possible to feel okay about this? You don't think so. You blink slowly, feeling the burn in your eyes as you stand. His eyes watch your ascent, widening as you wobble, calming when he can tell you're balanced. 

"Can I borrow your phone?" You ask, surprised by the hoarseness of your voice. "I have to call Rosalita." 

Frankie nods, fishing his cell from the back pocket of his jeans and holding it out in your direction. 

Baby. 

You're careful not to touch his fingertips as you take it from him, hands light as you begin dialing quickly. 

He goes to give you space, walking out of the room with one backwards look your way. 

Rosalita answers on the second ring, tone concerned as she asks who this is. 

"Hey, Rosalita? It's me. I'm just at a..." you glance after Frankie who has left to walk back down the hall, "... a friend's house. I forgot my phone at home. I just didn't want you to worry." 

"Of course my dear. I am so thankful you called. Will you be home soon?" 

You pause, gnawing at the fingernail you've got lodged between your front teeth. 

"Shouldn't be here too long." 

You do say your goodbyes and you and the call. The background of Frankie's phone glows and you take a moment to look at it.

It's a dog, a chocolate lab if you're correct. It looks like it's just growing out of the puppy stage. You smile; curious as to who it belongs to. 

You make your way down the hallway, trying to smooth back your hair the best you can. You can only assume that your mascara is smudged wildly, your hair a mess around your head. 

Frankie is facing the sink, starting to hand wash the dishes that sit there waiting. They look clean already, but his hands still move over them with precision. He does this in silence, a guarded hunch to his shoulders. 

He seems nervous.

He glances up when he hears you enter the kitchen and the smile he shoots you is thin. He motions to the table set with two very frosted cinnamon buns. You can smell the sweetness from where you stand, eyes taking in the familiar oversized shape, the detail on the edges of the bun itself. 

"Thought you'd want one."

You go to politely refuse when your eyes slide back to the pastry.  "Wait, are those..." 

Frankie grins to himself. "Yep. The Village bakery. Grabbed em this morning." 

You move quickly across the room, plopping yourself into the chair before your plate. You've never been able to say no to these. You take a bite of the sweet cinnamon treat, eyes closing momentarily. The frosting slides over your tongue and you're transported to ten, with Santi giving you half of his. 

Frankie brings a cup of chamomile tea, sliding the thick mug towards you. You take it gratefully, mouth full of sweet cinnamon and frosting that you swallow quickly. 

"I haven't had one since I lived here." 

"A while then."

"Yeah." 

You gaze at him for a beat, taking in the lines at the corner of his eyes, the sparse flecks of gray at his temple and beard. The eleven lines that have always existed since you knew him are deep. 

You realize you missed so much time with him. You skipped over his twenties when he grew out the buzz cut. Barely recall his thirties when he filled out more, jaw sharp but cheeks softened with age. 

"Who's the dog?"

His dark brows knit. "Huh?"

You motion to the phone you've laid on the table. "The dog on your phone." 

"Oh." Frankie leans back, amusement clear. "That's Lobo, my aunt's dog. The picture is super old. He's like five now." 

"She brought her dog here?"

"No no." He shakes his head, plump pink mouth curved into a small o shape. "I went back to visit." 

"You went back to Argentina?"

"Just for a couple weeks. It was really nice. I got to see where my folks grew up. Was introduced to some cousins I'd never met before.  It was cool." 

"I'm so glad you got to do that." Your smile is genuine. "Was it gorgeous? 

"The parts I saw, yeah." 

"I'm so jealous," you say with a cinnamon scented sigh. "I want to travel everywhere." 

His head tilts slightly, the flash of the hat logo peeking out. "Do you get to travel much for your job?"

"I wish. I talk to people from all over the world, but I do it at home in my sweats." 

You take another bite, the gooey cinnamon making you feel more relaxed. Frankie leans his cheek into his fist propped up by his arm on the table.  

"What's Seattle like?"

"Nothing like here," you reply with a smile. "The weather isn't sticky, the traffic is way less stressful. The coffee is way better. There's so much green. Way less stress about hurricanes. The air is just ... Better."

You're not sure if it's the actual air or the distance between your old lif that makes it easier to breathe. 

"The food isn't as good though," you offer diplomatically. "I miss pan de Cuba. And the beaches suck. But aside from that? I really like it." 

"So you'd never move back here is what you're saying," Frankie smirks. 

"No. Never." 

Not just because of the reasons listed. But because this place holds nothing you want to keep. 

Frankie looks at you with a faraway look, nodding. 

"Haven't you ever wanted to live somewhere new?" 

Frankie has a soft little curl to his mouth which juxtaposes his suddenly tense posture in his seat. 

"Let's sit on the couch," he offers, wincing as he stands. "These chairs kill my back." 

You rise without thinking, plate and mug in hand and follow him to the old couch pressed against the wall, just like it always was. Despite the fact that it's new with much plumper cushions, it's still the same color and shape as his old childhood one. 

You feel your eyes drift around the room as you walk towards it, scanning the shelves you pass in interest. You want to see what books he reads now, what little tchotchkies have been found worthy enough of cluttering his space. 

But it's so impossibly bare in here. You suppose you didn't notice as much during the poker game because it was so full of people. 

You look over your shoulder and see the stenciled archway leading into the kitchen. Something stirs in your heart, pain and sweetness combined. Frankie hasn't changed anything in the house and you know why. 

Your eyes move to the fireplace, a wistful little smile on your face as you recall the time Santi singed his hair when he lit it to make indoor s'mores. 

The smile fades when you spot a shell pink lipstick tube sitting near one side of the fireplace top.  It's a trendy brand, the kind a younger woman would use. A woman who has clearly been in Frankie's house, someone comfortable enough to leave her things behind. 

Your stomach tightens at the thought even though it has no reason to. Good on Frankie for getting laid. 

Except you don't actually feel that way

You take a seat on the couch, balancing your mug on one knee, placing the cinnamon bun plate on the coffee table.  

Frankie lowers himself down next to you, sitting close enough that the couch dips under his weight, the cushion pulling you slightly toward him. His posture is relaxed but there’s a subtle rigidity in the way his back stays straight. Like a forced nonchalance. 

"How are you feeling now? Better?" 

"I don't know about better. I guess, more calm." You feel embarrassment creep up your neck. "I'm so sorry for just barging over here." 

"It's fine. Totally fine. I'm glad I was home." 

One of his hands rests on his thigh, fingers flexing once and then going still. The other moves to drape along the back of the couch, not quite close enough to touch you. 

"It's weird being back here," you murmur. "I can't believe you still live here." 

"How come?"

"You wanted to fly all over the world," you remind him. You drag your free hand through the air with a flourish. "You wanted to see everything." 

His lips part briefly, and then press together again, like he almost says something and then changes his mind. 

"Frankie?" 

His name feels like a hard candy on your tongue, sweet and familiar but sharp should you bite it and let the jagged shards explode in your mouth.  "Yeah?" 

"Can I ask what happened?" 

"When?" 

You shoot him a meaningful look, one brow arched. You know when. 

The baseball cap casts a soft shadow over his face when he lowers his head, dark hair curling just beneath the edges. You like how it always curls under his left ear. 

"Frankie."

His jaw feathers, teeth clenched. He won't look at you. 

"Frankie," you repeat. 

His gaze flickers toward you and away again, quick and careful. He scratches the side of his nose.

"You should go." 

Anger boils hot in your belly at the dismissive tone he uses. "No." 

"I'm serious." 

"So am I." 

It feels like you're ten again being left behind while the guys went to watch fireworks for the fourth of July. "Why did you start using? Why aren't you flying anymore?" 

You pause for a beat, taking a deep breath before speaking again. 

"Frankie, please just talk to me." 

He stares at you with an expression you can't name.

He's waiting for you to leave and you have every reason to do so. He clearly doesn't want you here, his words, his body language - all of it compels you to fuck right off. It reminds you that you don't know him anymore. That you're different people than you were when you were kids. Back when it was a different version of Frankie and a different version of you. 

But still you linger, eyes roving the threadbare t-shirt that strains over his wide shoulders. His tshirts used to smell like tide detergent and sunlight, bleached so many times they felt stiff under your cheek. 

You long to touch the sleeve, just to test if it feels the same. Your eyes rise, seeing Frankie's reflection staring back at you. The two of you remain locked in a look of mutual concern before he shifts his attention away again. 

"You listened to me talk about my mom. Hell, you even bandaged her up. I can't bandage anything or anyone for you," you murmur. "So let me do this. Let me listen." 

He must feel the weight of your gaze because he makes a clicking noise in the back of his throat. He hangs his head between his shoulders, thick fingers wrapping around the edge of his knees. The silence that follows feels anticipatory. 

"I saw a lot of shit when I was deployed," Frankie finally murmurs. 

He exhales slowly before looking at you. You're still across the couch from him, behind an invisible line. 

"You see certain things, you do certain things... It changes you. You can't forget it even when you're back home." 

He's killed people.

That's what he doesn't want to say out loud.

You're not stupid; Santi has told you about his own experiences. You know he's seen combat; he's been in tough situations. Frankie is not that sensitive teen you had your first kiss with. No longer the shy boy you gave a hat. He's different, he's angry, he's haunted.

"My dad always talked about his time serving when I was growing up. The things he saw and how he was able to compartmentalize. I figured it'd be like that for me too. Except the shit I saw and did..." 

He exhales through his nose, scratching at the side of his jaw. His short nails drag through his beard, making a rasping sound. 

"I couldn't just put it away like he did. I just felt angry and scared all the time."

His arms come to cross over his chest, a guard for a heart that beats steadily behind bleached ribs. 

"Guys at work did coke sometimes. They gave me a line at some party and I remember feeling so good. All those ugly thoughts and memories, the fear- all of it was gone. I was numb to it. I felt powerful."

You hold your breath, watching as his eyes scan you. You don't want to stop him from sharing by twitching or showing judgment.

"So I kept doing it. Started as once in a while at a party, then on weekends, then during the week after work. But the more I did it, the worse those memories were when I was sober. So it started being before work, after work. On hard days it was during work. And then one week we get a random drug test..." 

He doesn't have to explain further, it's pretty obvious how things played out. 

"All I ever wanted to do was fly. Fly away from here. Fly away from my problems. I just wanted to be up there in the sky, in the clouds." He sighs, eyes closing. "But I always ended up here. Down in the dirt." 

Now his eyes rise to find yours, searching almost like you're a lifeline. 

"I won't get to fly for another six months and that's if I can find a place out here that'll hire me with a record." He runs his hands down his face. "The one thing I'm good at and I can't even do it anymore." 

From this short distance you can see his dark eyes are misty. 

Despite everything he's said, despite the realization that you don't know him anymore, your heart swells. He may not be that shy boy you first met, but those eyes staring across the couch? Those are the same eyes you fell in love with. The eyes that a part of you will always love. 

So it doesn't feel too strange to move forward and slide your arms around his neck. It even feels natural when his arms band around your waist, pulling you into his lap. 

He doesn't cry. Not out loud. His has always been one to carry a secret pain, the kind seen in his eyes but never vocalized. But you feel it in the curl of his fingers against your back, and the gentle hitch to his breathing. 

You hold each other for what seems like forever. Sewn together by arms and memories, drinking in the scent of his neck, feeling the bristle of his beard against your shoulder. 

"You'll fly again," you whisper, a promise, an oath. You believe it when you say it.

Frankie will fly again.

He pulls back eventually, dark eyes still glossy. He scans your face, looking for an answer to a question he's too afraid to ask. And it's like you realize you're in his lap, tangled in his arms and your core squeezes.  

The realization that you're aroused makes you feel disgusting and you avert your gaze. You shouldn't be feeling like this with Frankie. Not right now. Not when he's being so vulnerable. You prepare to move off of him, hips shifting. But he shakes his head, brows jumping. 

"No...Don't..." 

His hands snake through your hair, tugging gently, urging your face back up. His eyes trail a sluggish route across your face. You're convinced that he must hear your heart's rapid tempo because for a moment that's all you can hear.

Tha-thump.

Tha-thump.

Tha-thump.

His words keep rattling around in your head, pinging from side to side. 

I've got you baby. I'm here. 

Only when Frankie sees that you haven't moved, haven't pushed him away in disgust does he urge your face to his and press his mouth to yours. His lips are warm and dry, soft when they slant over yours. And it's so much better than you remembered. The sweetness of nostalgia tempered with the excitement of novelty. 

It's been years since you last felt Frankie's mouth, the tender touch of his hands, the way he used to hold you like he wanted you to be a part of him, to live behind his ribs as his new and steady heart. 

A lifetime ago when the future was stretched out in front of you, when Frankie was the most perfect man you'd ever met and you couldn't imagine not loving everything about him. 

When your hands land on his chest he pulls back abruptly, mouth still grazing yours as he searches your eyes. Hot air huffs over your chin, his pupils wide with arousal. He's staring at your mouth, like he's can't believe what's happening when his face soars to yours again. 

"I'm sorry, I sh-"

He doesn't have time to say anything more because you're gripping his collar and dragging his face back to yours, deepening the kiss with tender urgency. His lips are soft and perfect, his body molded against yours.  

His arms are long, winding around your shoulders and your middle, holding you like a human cocoon. You muse that you'll emerge different, more vibrant. His body is solid, the width of his shoulders easy to cling to. The feeling of him is intoxicating, like you're drunk on lust. Maybe you are. 

His teeth snag around your lower lip, sucking it into his mouth before nipping lightly. Lightning skitters up your core, gooseflesh rising rapidly. You keen, fingers fisted in his t-shirt, holding him desperately. You want to feel him, every part of him. Your mouth drags to his jaw; kissing, sucking, licking. 

"Fuck, baby-"

The nickname does something to snap you out of your stupor, pulling back with your fingers trembling over your lips. Frankie's own mouth is swollen, reddened and parted. His pebbled neck is bright pink, and you can feel the desire pouring out of him.  

"I need to go," you say through ragged gasps as you push off of him. He lets you go this time, arms dropping uselessly to either side of his hips.  

He's breathing heavily as he shakes his head. 

"Don't leave," he pleads brown eyes big and sorrowful. "Please, just stay."  

The desperation is so clear in his gaze and in his deep voice. And it's almost enough to convince you. For you to stay here and sink into the memory and familiarity. 

But then your eyes snag on the forgotten tube of lipstick by the fireplace. The one from a nameless woman. Who knows when she was last here.  And suddenly you're thrown back through the years and that familiar tightness is back in your chest. The one that remembers his deception. 

"I have to go."

"Can I drive you?" 

"I want to walk. I need the fresh air." 

His lips thin but he nods, sitting there looking so defeated. 

"Be safe."

THEN

"Do you see it?"

"Nope." 

The two of you are in his backyard, the sun having set hours ago. The night is quiet and peaceful. Cicadas are the only things heard, perhaps a far off frog. 

You sit wedged between Frankie's long legs on a cheap lounge chair. He has a beer next to him on the ground, but it's fairly untouched. 

You wanted to look at the stars tonight. Santi had mentioned something about being about to see Venus with the naked eye.  

So far all you've seen is stars and a plane flying by. It reminds you of Frankie's flying, of his existence amongst the clouds. 

"I'm so jealous you get to ride in a helicopter all day." 

"I don't ride them all day," Frankie says, stroking your shoulder. He's got you leaning back against his chest. "I still have classes you know."

"Pfft, whatever," you say with a roll of your eyes. "You're in the sky more than the average person, Morales." 

You yelp through a laugh when he gently pinches your side. 

"Smartass." 

His breathing stirs the hair at the top of your head. Rhythmic and soothing.

"Are you going to Travis' party this Saturday?" 

"Of course." 

You take his left hand between yours, ice following the deep shores of his knuckles like the dips and valleys he must glide his helicopter between. 

"I wish I could ride in one," you offer, kissing his fingertips absently. "It must be amazing." 

"There's flight places around here that offer rides." 

"Expensive," you remind him. "And besides I only want to ride if..." 

You stop yourself before it slips out. The admission that makes your heart throb in your chest. 

You only want to ride if Frankie's the one flying. 

You've had fantasies of exactly that, of seeing Frankie in his element. You have imagined him taking you over mountains, soaring through the sky. And sometimes you even fantasize that he'll take you somewhere quiet, landing in gorgeous empty fields with flowers and soft grass. 

You picture him declaring his long hidden love for you, of taking you right there in the open, his muscled body over yours as he groans your names between sweet promises of forever. 

He knows this. He must because he kisses your temple and his voice goes low and earnest. 

"Can I take you to breakfast Sunday?" Frankie asks quietly. "Then for a ride? I found a place that rents out to people in the military. Got a good deal."

"Really? You’ll fly me in a real helicopter?" Your eyes are wide. 

"Yep."

"I'd love to go with you. Are the guys-"

"Just you," Frankie cuts in. "I want it to be just us."

His eyes are big and vulnerable, staring into yours. You think he might be holding his breath. There's no mistaking what he's saying.

He wants to take me on a date. 

This was only ever a casual thing. Something to pass the summer days between trips to the river and nights playing pool with the guys. 

But Frankie is offering you more. 

Your heart flips brutally in your chest and you can feel your face warming at the realization that you very much want more with him. 

"I'd love to."

Your mother is still asleep and you're finishing up a particularly aggravating meeting with a very loud very opinionated coworker days after your run in with Frankie. An experience you’re trying very hard not to fixate on. 

Your head throbs as you rub at your temples with your middle fingers. 

Your mom's questions about Greg have been in your head for days now as well. His smiling face dancing at the edge of your subconscious. You still have his number saved in your phone, you don't know why. Perhaps you wanted it as proof that someone loved you at one time. Maybe you were just too lazy to erase it. You're not sure. 

You know that you can't hear his voice; you can't be drawn into a long conversation about your past relationship with a voice that once whispered loving sentiment to you in the dark. 

Texting exists and that feels safe. So you bring up the message, thumb dancing along your screen. 

Hey Triple G, long time no talk. 

You expect to have to wait a long while And go to make yourself a sandwich. You're surprised that when you return less than 10 minutes later, a reply is waiting for you. 

No fucking way.  How are you?  I can't believe you still have my number.  Guess I needed it in case I wanted my finances analyzed.   So wise of you. You always were a great planner. 

You smile a bit at your phone. You can hear the cadence of his voice when you read his texts. 

How have you been?  Can I give you a call? Easier than texting. 

You pause, heart skipping. This is going better than expected, the fear tempered by curiosity. 

Yeah okay. 

Even though you're expecting it, when the phone rings moments later, you still almost drop it. 

"Hello?"

"It really is you." 

"You were expecting a Nigerian prince?"

"I don't know what I was expecting," he says with the soft chuckle. "But it's nice to hear your voice." 

You hate yourself for a moment; because the genuine way he says that makes your heart actually throb with missing him. It's over in a flash, a lightning strike, but you can't ignore that you felt it. 

"How are you?" He continues. "Where are you?" 

"I'm back home in Florida." 

You hear Greg's inhale. He knows all about your history with your mother. The visit's home that never materialized. The promise that you would introduce them. The most he ever got was a staticy phone call with her one Christmas that you were feeling benevolent. 

"Your mom...?" 

"Not doing great," you admit quietly. "Uh, dementia and just because the universe is an asshole, liver disease too." 

"Jesus, I'm sorry, sweets." 

Sweets. His nickname for you. It hurts to hear it tonight. But it also warms something inside your chest, something that has been cold the last few months. 

"I'm staying with her until," you blink, "until things..."

You can't say it. Can't say out loud that you're only here until she dies. That you're systematically inventorying her life in the house here. The house you will sell off the moment you can, ridding yourself of the memories you never wanted to keep in the first place. 

"I get it," Greg says in a voice of comfort. 

"Yeah. You always did." 

Silence slips in, not exactly comfortable but also not as strained as you were assuming it would be. 

"So, why the contact out of the blue?" Greg inquires, voice turning worried. "Are you okay? Like-"

"Sad but okay," you assure him. "I'll be honest, I don't know how else I could feel it this moment.”

"Is your sister helping you?"

"Fuck no," you say with a shake of your head, despite the the fact that he won't be able to see it. "But she's done her time. She took care of my mom for a while. She's with her fiancé up in some cabin in the middle of nowhere. But at least my cousin is around. He helps out when he can." 

"Othello?" 

You let out a full-throated laugh. "Santiago," you correct. 

"Well that's good," Greg offers in a voice that almost touches on condescending. "It's good you have someone else there for you." 

You think that perhaps at this moment he's trying to suss out if you're in a relationship or not. 

"So are you bald yet?" You ask, giggling behind your hand. "I know that was a big concern for you the last time I saw you." 

Greg gives a full belly laugh over the phone . "Oh eff off," he says with a dark scoff.

"Don't edit yourself on my account, you say with a small smirk at the sound of his banal form of swearing. "The Greg of my day definitely had a filthy mouth." 

You don't mean for it to come off as a double entendre, but you grimace anyway in embarrassment. Greg pauses, and you're sure that he's going to mention the inappropriateness of that remark. But instead you just hear a soft sigh, a thing of mournful regret. 

"It's not that. It's just, my, uh, my son is in the room playing. I don't want him picking up on my bad habits."

Your stomach plummets. 

Not because you always wanted a child with Greg yourself, you can't say that was ever in the cards. And it's not because you wish that you were there with him right now. It's that he broke your heart and is now walking around contented and happy. The thought of it fills you with a sudden rage. 

"Jen will kill me if he starts swearing at daycare," he adds with an uneasy laugh when you don't respond right away. 

Your jaw bulges as your teeth clamp together. You don't want to hear about how he found the right person. How he started that family with the woman he cheated on you with. Jen from accounting. Jen with the happy home life and shiny hair. 

"Why did you cheat on me, Greg?" 

No buildup, no more polite conversation. You've done away with that now. All you want from him is information; you don't care about his home life.

You hear another sigh come down the telephone, bolstering himself for a very uncomfortable conversation. 

"Ah. I see. So that's what the call is about." 

If he was any other guy he would hang up on you just to avoid the awkwardness of this conversation. But because he's Triple G, Good Guy Greg, he's going to answer you. 

"You really want to go there?"

"I do." 

You hear him shift; probably looking over your shoulder to make sure his son isn't listening in. 

"I didn't mean for it to happen," Greg finally murmurs, voice lowered. "And if I could go back in time and change how things went, I would. I should've ended things, not cheated." 

You suck at your teeth, leaning back in your office chair as you roll your eyes. 

"Yeah yeah I've heard that one before. Just be real with me, Greg. Why did you do it?" 

You can hear a soft tinkle of a child's toy in the background, the snatches of a television humming low with a child's show. Greg must have turned it on to entertain him. 

Does his son look like him? Or is he a redhead like his mother?

It doesn't matter. 

"When we first got together things were great. Probably the most amazing three months I'd ever experienced with a partner. But the longer things went on, and the more serious things got it’s like you started to pull away." 

"Bullshit." 

You'd hope to come away with something better, something more informative that could shape your future self.

His voice returns to you sternly. 

"I'm not going to argue with you. I'm just telling you how I remember things. And I remember that the more serious things got, the more you tried to push me away, the less you let me touch you." 

"That is such a cliché," you mutter, disappointed. 

"Do you not remember the days I would come home and you'd be waiting there for me, furious?"

"What? No." 

"Oh c'mon," Greg says, and now he sounds a little put out. “It started becoming, like, a weekly thing. I'd come home late because of work and you'd be there to badger me."

"Badger you?"

You feel your fingers tightening around the cell phone held to your ear. 

"At first I thought it was because you were just missing me," Greg says with a disbelieving noise in the back of his throat. "But then you blew up at me, convinced I was cheating on you."  

"You did cheat on me!'

"Not then!" His voice rises. "Not until months down the line when you started to hate me." 

"I never hated you, Greg. Never." 

You mean that. 

"Sweets c'mon. By the end we weren't having sex, you never wanted to stay over at my place and you were always making excuses as to why I couldn't meet your mom." 

This throws you for a loop. So much so that your mouth just opens and closes for a moment, like a fish on land. 

"W-what? That's not..."

"I can hear you getting upset," Greg says, voice returning to its normal dulcet register. 

"I'm not upset. I just don't remember things like you do. I remember us being happy and then one day you telling me you cheated." 

"You don't remember all the times you accused me of cheating?"

It's hazy, the memory grey at the edges. "I guess I did once or twice." 

"You sat there and told me that it was inevitable. That it didn't matter how much you loved me, I was still going to break your heart anyway. That you were destined to end up just like your mother." 

Going through your memories right now is like trying to push through a particularly stubborn patch of snow. It's hard, unyielding and it frustrates you.

"No. No that's not... I only said that because you were cheating on me," you defend weakly. 

"That's not true. I didn't check out of our relationship until you'd make it clear there was no trust left." 

Your breathing grows unsteady. You don't remember it like this. Could so much really have been erased from your memory in 5 years. Or did you block it?

"It didn't matter how many times I told you that there was nothing going or how many times I showed you my phone and my location. There was no trust left by the end.' his voice sounds tight, like he's swallowing emotions. "And I really think you didn't love me enough to try and save us." 

Bits and pieces of your relationship suddenly float around your mind. The way you hugged him but pressed your nose to his neck, to ensure a woman's perfume didn't linger. The way you glanced over his shoulder every time he was composing a text. 

"It's like you wanted me to cheat," Greg is saying, drawing your attention back. "Just so you could prove... Something." 

Those words ricochet around your skull, like a bouncing ball against a rubber room. 

"Well I was right, wasn't I?' you reason shakily, bolstered by your own hurt.”You did cheat on me. I just called it early on." 

"It always felt more like a self fulfilling prophecy to me," he says back, no snark in his tone. 

A tense silence follows. One where you want to come up with a vitriolic response, but are left only feeling like a chastised child.

"I really am sorry that I hurt you," Greg says in a tone as delicate as a butterfly’s wing. "That was wrong. No matter how you slice it, I never should have been unfaithful."

You can hear a toddlers voice in the background, a whining plaintive sound. The conversation is winding down; you can tell Greg is tired. 

"Anyway, I gotta go put Chad to bed-"

"You named your kid Chad?" 

You don't mean for it to come out so ugly, the mockery and disdain clear in your tone. But you don't amend it. The ensuing silence makes you feel embarrassed enough to look down at your feet. 

"I'm gonna go," he finally says in a voice you recognize as terse. "Take care of yourself." 

He doesn't wait for your farewell before ending the call but that's fine, you weren't going to give him one anyway.

THEN

Frankie and you are lying in his bed, letting the whirring fan glide over your naked bodies. You're on your belly, hair sticky on the back of your neck. He's on his back, one arm under his neck, the other one tracing shapes along your spine. 

You've just finished a very intense sex session that started with a back massage and ended with him edging you until you threatened to kill him if he didn't let you come. The two of you are now spent, sleepy and loose limbed overtop his soft bedsheets. Sex with Frankie is always so relaxing. 

You give a stretch, reaching over the side of the mattress to grab your purse. Frankie watches from one cracked open eye to see you retrieve a cigarette, a flame sparking to life at the end of your bic lighter. 

"You smoke?" He asks when you take a deep inhale, the end of the cigarette glowing a light orange. 

"Once in a while." 

You started last month when Hilary forgot she left a pack under her bed. After a few test runs in the backyard, you think you've gotten the hang of it. You can make little smoke o's in the air now. 

"Gimme a puff."

You study him from across the narrow bed to see if he's serious. He's got long fingers extended your way, his face placid. 

You hand it over to him, still waiting for him to laugh at you and confess he's never smoked before. But he doesn't, he just closes his eyes and brings it to his lips with the kind of practiced ease of a professional smoker. 

Your gaze fixates on the softness of his plush mouth as it settles around the cigarette.

Your pulse tics as his lips part just enough to pull in a slow inhale. His lean throat bobs as he holds it in his lungs before expelling it in a slow stream that curls seductively over his bottom lip. 

Smoking should not be that sexy. 

His hand drifts back toward you, offering the cigarette back. 

"Lots of guys smoke on the base," he explains. 

"Huh. Wouldn't have guessed that." 

His fingers linger against yours as he hands it back to you, the shared warmth causing you both to smile at one another. 

"What time is it?" You ask after a few minutes of passing the cigarette back and forth to one another. He glances at his watch, eyes narrowed on the face.  

"Almost six." 

"Shit!" 

You jump up, pulling your summer dress on over your head in a hurry. When you know you're coming to Frankie's place you don't even bother with a bra and panties. There's no point, he tugs the clothes from you basically the second the front door is closed behind you. 

"What's the rush?" Frankie asks, stamping out the cigarette on the empty condom wrapper sitting next to his bedside lamp. 

"Travis' party, remember?" 

"But it doesn't start until, like, eight." 

You roll your eyes good-naturedly at this. 

"Believe it or not, Morales, I don't want to show up smelling like sex." You give him a once over. "Which means you need a shower too."

"Why?" Frankie teases. "Maybe I want to show up smelling like sex." 

You look down at him with your hands propped on your hips, trying not to smirk. 

"Yeah right, what if Christy is there tonight?" 

"So what if she is?" 

"Well, maybe you'll want to test out what we've been practicing. A notch in your belt before you leave back for Texas." 

You say it airily, but you gauge his reaction. It's no mystery that Christy has a crush on Frankie. She told her friends at a bonfire earlier in the summer when she found out he was returning home for the funeral. You'd been there, silently seething. 

Frankie sobers, abruptly pulling himself to a sitting position as you tug on your socks on. You glance at your purse, the dark blue rim sticking out over the edge reminding you. The main reason for your trip over here. 

You fish the Standard Oil baseball cap out of your bag, holding it out in Frankie's direction.

"I almost forgot. I figured you'd want to wear this for the party so you can cover up that horrible haircut." 

You say it with a playful laugh, waiting for him to call you a pain in the ass or something equally benign. Instead he looks at it briefly before plucking it from between your fingers with a flat gaze your way. 

"Thanks. So, are you leaving now or what?" 

That's it? That's the response you're going to get after years of protecting that hat. Years of keeping it perched on your shelf, making sure it doesn't accumulate dust? 

"What the hell is your problem?" 

"What? I said thank you," he mumbles. 

"You're being rude," you shoot back. 

"How am I being rude?" 

"You're acting all miserable all of a sudden!"

"Because you just suggested that I should hook up with Christy tonight at the party," he snaps. 

"I didn't suggest it," you fire back. "It was just an observation because she likes you!" 

"Who gives a shit if Christy likes me?" 

"I just figured you'd want to hook up with someone else before you go!"

Frankie looks like he's back at has parents funeral. That same dark, withdrawn look overtaking his body. 

"Is that what you'll be doing?" He asks in a raspy murmur. "Hooking up with some random guy tonight?" 

You think about how to answer him as you slowly straighten. You want to seem cool, seem desirable. In order to do that you'll have to appear nonchalant. 

But when your eyes connect with his, all thoughts of bravado and falseness leave your mind entirely. This is Frankie, you're honest with him. 

"No. I'm not hooking up with anyone else." 

Frankie's tugging on his jeans now, a scowl on his face as he stands next to the bed. 

"Have you been hooking up with anyone else these past few weeks?" He asks, focusing his attention on his fingers doing up his zipper. 

You balk, the thought never having occurred to you. 

"No," you breathe. "Have you been?"

You hold your breath as your way to his response, the blood roaring in your ears. Frankie raises his head, giving you a frosty look. 

"And if I have?" 

You feel like you've been dealt a devastating punch in your gut. If he tells you he's been hooking up with other girls this summer, you think you might burst into tears. 

When you don't reply he exhales. 

"Of course I haven't been," he scoffs, slipping the t-shirt over his muscled torso. 

"Okay," you say, voice tight. "That's good."

The air in the room has changed. Frankie's jaw is feathering, eyes on the ceiling. The two of you stand beside the bed in heavy awkwardness.

"It doesn't really matter though. You'll have a new guy the second I leave anyway," he mutters, pinching his brow briefly. 

You can't understand his vacillation in mood. Weren't you just having a good time? Weren't you just laying in bed laughing and sharing a cigarette? 

And why is he acting all hurt? He's the one that suggested practicing in the first place! 

"Why do you care?" You ask sharply. "This is all just practice, right?" 

Frankie surprises you by throwing his cap to the floor, watching it bounce under the bed before throwing up his hands in exasperation. 

"Seriously, Pip? You really think that's what this has been all month? Practice?" 

You square your shoulders, voice coming out shaky and furious. 

"It's what you said! You're the one who said we should practice!" You shout cheeks warm. "You're the one who said we shouldn't tell Santi!" 

"Because I thought you'd get tired of me!" Frankie roars back. "And I didn't want Santi dragged into this if it was just a fling for you." 

"And it wasn't that for you!?" 

"No!" 

The volume of your voices is lowering increment by increment, sentence by sentence. But now both drop to a quiet hesitancy. 

"You wanted a distraction," you reason. "I could've been anyone."

He winces, like the suggestion hurts him

"You think I would have done that with just any girl?" Frankie asks you, eyes luminous. "I wanted it because it was you, Pip." 

Like a dog hearing a far-off noise you cock your head curiously. "What? Why?"

His broad chest is expanding quickly under his shirt as he takes in deep gulps of air. He's starting to shift from foot to foot, like he wants to go streaming out of the room. 

"Because I like you!" He finally says in a voice so raw and ragged it catches at the edges.

The flooring of his room suddenly feels uneven, so much so that you stumble a bit even though you're not attempting to move anywhere. Because the words you say don't make any sense to you. 

Frankie actually likes you? Like..Romantically? You're so floored that you just blink at him for a moment, mouth dropped, eyes wide. He takes your silence for disgust, cringing away. 

You watch him cover his eyes with his forearm, shaking his head slowly from side to side in humiliation. 

"Please just say something, Pip. Anything."

You wait for a moment, letting the last thirty seconds settle into your brain before stepping hesitantly towards him. Your feet move silently over the plush carpet until you stand directly in front of him. 

You wish he wasn't covering his eyes like that. His eyes are your favorite part of him. You raise your hand to touch his wrist, urging his arm away from his face. 

"For how long?" 

His brows knit and he lowers his arm down, down, down until it hangs at his side. "How long what?"

"How long have you liked me?"

His long dark lashes sweep his cheekbones as he tries to answer. You can see the frustration and the fear mixed together. 

"Jesus, I don't know," he says incredulously. "A while. Why does it matter how long?"

Embarrassment is starting to flood his cheeks, the tips of his ears. It makes you smile, a big fat beaming smile up at him. It makes you go fizzy inside and it makes you step so close you feel the heat of his body leech into yours. 

"Because I've liked you since I was fourteen years old, and I guess I just wanted to compare numbers." 

Frankie's shoulders loosen like the invisible strings keeping them tight around his ears have been severed. 

But he still remains wary, dark eyes squinting, body coiled. 

"Are you serious?" 

"Very."

A grin begins to form, hesitant at first, then so wide his dimple pops out. You can practically see the delight rising in him so much he can barely contain it.

He steps forward, sweeping you into his arms before his mouth crashes into yours, the collision of your bodies matching the intensity of your feelings. He likes you. You like him. 

His fingers are hooking around the straps of your dress to pull it down, baring your flesh to him again. 

"I'm taking you back to bed," Frankie informs you between kisses. "And we're not leaving it until I've fucked you so hard you forget your own name."  

You're happy to comply.

Sunday

FRANKIE: Hey. I got your # from Santi. Any chance we can talk?  FRANKIE: I'm around anytime. 

Monday

FRANKIE: I'm really sorry if I stepped over the line. I shouldn't have kissed you. I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable.

Tuesday

FRANKIE: Pip? Are you getting these? 

Thursday 

FRANKIE: I really hope we can keep a friendship going. 

Sunday

FRANKIE: Got the message. I'll stop bugging you. Take care, Pip. 

THEN

You're practically vibrating with eager anticipation for the party.  

You've borrowed one of Hillary's skirts and her watermelon lip-gloss, your hair is soft and curled. You dabbed on some of your mom's perfume. You also snuck some of Hilary's concealer to camouflage the hickey at the base of your throat. The sight of it makes you smile. 

You feel beautiful when you look yourself over in the mirror. You hope Frankie will like it. He seems to prefer you naked. 

"You look pretty dressed up for a house party," Hilary says in what sounds like mockery as you come sailing into the kitchen.  She's standing by the partly opened back door, smoking.

Mom would like kill her for smoking indoors. But she's pulling a double at the hospital so she'll never know. 

"I just wanted to look nice is all," you shrug, grabbing your purse. "Is that a crime?"

Hilary is dressed in her custodial uniform for work. She works at the hospital with your mom, but in the sanitation department. Your mom got her the job when she dropped out of college. Her hair is tied back severely from her face. Her bitten down fingernails are covered in chipped black nail polish. She looks tired.

 "You're, like, buzzing," she says as her eyes scan your legs. "Is that my skirt?"

"I dunno," you say feigning casual dismissal. "It was in my closet." 

There's a knock at the partially open door, surprising you. You glance at the clock over the sink to see it's just past eight pm. Too early. You didn't want Hilary here for this. She's never going to let you live it down. Hilary pops the cigarette between her lips, tugging the door all the way open.

"Hey Frankie," Hilary says, shooting you a smirk over her shoulder, cigarette wedged at the corner of her mouth. "How nice to see you." 

"Hey Hil."

He treads inside like a nervous dog and you think you can understand why. He's wearing a button up polo, his hair is freshly washed, even his stubble is shaved. He smells like cologne a dad would wear. He's dressed up. But most telling is that he's holding a small bouquet of wild flowers. 

"Saw these on my way over and thought you'd like them," he says, holding them out to you shyly. 

"You're early," you say with a strained smile, even as you take the blooms. They are the most beautiful things you've ever seen. 

"Sorry. Guess I was looking forward to getting to the party," Frankie says without a shred of apology on his face. 

You realize he doesn't care that Hillary knows. He doesn't care that anyone knows. 

"Have fun you two," Hilary says grabbing her car keys from the table, giving you a not very subtle waggle of her brows.

A few moments later you're still thinking of the flowers in the vase at home. Of the way Frankie is holding your hand as you walk to the party. He's saying something but you're living in that helicopter fantasy playing in your head.

"I'm not going to be seeing any other girls back in Texas," he says.

You pause, brow creased. "Oh."

"I know that you're going to college and you're going to be having all these new experiences," Frankie murmurs, stroking his thumb over your knuckles. "And I'll be busy at base until my MOSA is over in a few years. But maybe until then we could write and talk on the phone... If that's something you're up for?"

Frankie's neck is a bright pink that he rubs at absently. His fingers graze the short hair he used to card through when it was lush and curled under his ears. 

Your feet stop working and you feel unable to move your body, unable to do anything but look  to him with an awestruck expression. 

"Just until I'm done the rest of my training and can come back. I'm not really allowed more than two days off at a time and I can only stay near base. My parents were a kind of exception." 

"Right." You squeeze his hand. "So you want to send me letters?"

"And phone calls when you're free. Like, if we did long distance, I mean."

 Long distance. Which means he wants to date. "So if I write to you, you better write back this time," you tell him. "For a guy who liked me you sure weren't writing sonnets."

 Frankie ducks his head, cheeks splotchy. "I never knew what to write back to you. It's scary over here blah blah my roommate doesn't shower enough blah blah. I figured it was boring for you to read."

You feel a bit embarrassed at how long you poured over his letters, every detail fascinating to you. 

"I liked them," you eventually say. "I liked anything you sent me." 

"Yeah?" 

"Mhm." 

You want that more than anything in the world. But something holds you back. "It's a long time apart," you mutter. "You might want someone closer by." 

"I don't like any girl the way I like you."

"You just like sex," you laugh. He's grinning, but his brows are knitted. 

"I mean yeah, who doesn't? But I've liked you for a long time, Pip. It's just now I get to say it to your face." 

You don't think you'll ever get sick of hearing that. It makes you both grin goofily at each other. A long time. How long? A year? More? 

"For how long exactly?"

You watch his eyes go from amused to yearning.

"When I found out I was heading to Texas for training I was sick with the thought that I wouldn't see you for who knows how long. It's why I came over that day. The bike was an excuse. I wanted to ask you to write to me. I wanted you to keep my hat, like... So you wouldn't forget about me." 

You remain absolutely stunned at this revelation. He liked you then? That was years ago! Tears fill your eyes, smiling gently at how his cheeks go pink. 

"I've liked you since the first day I met you," you say with a delirious laugh at being able to say it out loud. Thoughts that you've had since you were a young girl. You won't tell him that it's deeper than that. That you've loved him at the different stages, during the different forms of love. 

"I thought you said fourteen?"

"Grown up like, I guess. But I always thought you were pretty wonderful."

The two of you keep walking, but Frankie still seems nervous. Its another block before he speaks again, low and thick.

"So, do you want to be my girlfriend?"

You stop to wrap your arms around his neck, tugging his face to yours. Your lips are gentle, tender and he melts into you. 

"Of course I want to be your girlfriend, you idiot." 

By the time you and Frankie reach Travis' house the party is well under way. Former classmates are scattered along the porch, more shouting and dancing inside. 

Your fingers aren't entwined anymore, Frankie has his hands stuffed firmly in the pocket so his jeans. You don't want to tip anybody off. 

It's not weird that you would appear together, You've been tagging along with Santi and his friends for most of your life. You're usually overlooked, the baby of the group. For once it plays in your favor. 

"I want Santi to know we're together if you're okay with it." 

That pulls you up short. You stop in the middle of the sidewalk in front of Travis' house, eyes wide.

"When?" 

"Tonight. I figure we can tell him together."

It feels soon but at the same time it doesn't. You two have known each other so long, have cared about each other so long that it doesn't seem fast.

But at the same time you can't imagine your cousin’s reaction.

"I don't like lying to him and I figure we can tell him tonight:" Frankie adds. "The booze and the girls will make it a smooth conversation I think." 

The thought of really starting something serious with Frankie makes your whole body warm from the inside out. 

"Yeah." You nod, trying not to look too eager. "Okay."

You exchange a small smile between you before facing the party.

"Get outta here," a blonde guy in a football jersey says as you both approach the house. "Morales is that you?"

It's Josh from Frankie's graduating year. He's bleary eyed, his fringe sweaty at the tips.

"Just visiting," Frankie says with a terse smile. He jogs down from the porch, a beer and his left hand. He claps Frankie on the shoulder like the two are old pals. 

"No way, man. They let you off base?"Josh is squinting, unable to stay still. You feel Frankie stiffen beside you. He won't want to tell this asshole he's only back because his parents are dead. 

You give Josh an overly- exaggerated look of regret, interrupting swiftly. 

"I'm really sorry but we have to go. Frankie is helping me find Santi!"Before Josh can give another alcohol-soaked response you're tugging Frankie by the sleeve in after you. 

"Thanks," he mutters, colliding with your back briefly. 

"Anytime."

He pushes the front door open for you both. Music booms from the speakers set up in the corner. Some upbeat pop song you can't stand.  You walk in, sensing that Frankie isn't following seconds in.

When you glance back at him you can see him glued to the threshold of the house looking anxiously from face to face, waving at the people who recognize him. His shoulders hunch and he tugs down his cap a little lower. 

"Maybe this party wasn't such a hot idea."

"Just tell them you're on furlough because of funding cuts or something." 

Groups of people are gathered in the kitchen around a tapped barrel. You're sure Josh will be in soon be in to do a keg stand. 

You survey the busy place for Santi, eyes drifting over the crowd. So many bodies, so much noise. You wish you were back at Frankie's in bed. 

You're still riding that high of him admitting his feelings. Knowing that the ones you've been keeping under lock and key behind your ribs have been reciprocated. It makes you want to reach out and grab his hand. To kiss him in front of everyone. 

Maybe you can after you talk to Santi. Maybe he'll understand? You can admit the thought makes you a little queasy. 

"I figure we can tell him later," Frankie says over the noise, reading your mind. "Let's get him drinking first." 

You laugh, nodding. "Good plan." 

Your name is called, your eyes going over to a far corner with several girls your age. Friends from school holding solo cups. They wave you over but you want to stay with Frankie. 

"I'm gonna go find Travis. You go hang out with your friends," he murmurs, hand stopping just before it's started skating down your back. "We have to play it cool." 

"Right." 

You don't look his way, knowing that the second you do, your gooey expression will give everything away. You feel his heavy body press against yours. 

"But come find me in an hour," Frankie murmurs, grazing his lips against your earlobe. "I'll be upstairs."

It's hard to focus when his warm mouth is on your skin, but you manage it, your voice wobbly. 

"Why?"

Frankie pulls back, a playful grin on his handsome face. 

"Travis' parents have a waterbed." 

You crack up at that, your laughter full-throated and wild, feeling both amused and turned on out of your mind. 

"Okay," you say with a crooked grin. "I'll come find you."

HIL: hey I think I'm gonna come up for a few days

Really????

HIL: yeah. 

Hil that's amazing. 

HIL: calm down weirdo. <3

HIL: pick me up from the airport at nine on Monday. 

THEN

You've never been great at making girlfriends. You suppose having your cousin as a best friend and his two guy buddies doesn't really make it easy to understand the subtle complexities of an average girl’s interior life.

Thankfully in the last few years you've managed to cultivate a small group of friends. Girls who make you laugh, who are going to University, who want to talk about more than your local town and who they want to marry. 

The group of you standing around the table full of chips and old soda cans are talking about summer plans which include local travel, drinking and partying. 

"I can't wait until school starts," Natasha says with an over exaggerated moan. "No more fucking Florida!"

"I can't wait until the moment I'm not living at home anymore," Sydney agrees, shaking her dark braids back from her face. "I'm going to drink and eat whatever I want." 

"Are you going to Celeste's bonfire?”

“Yeah, she's trying to do a whole last summer celebration for our graduating class." 

You  roll your eyes. Participating in things like this always feels incredibly cheesy to you. You don't want to remember your stupid town. You can't wait to escape it. You can't wait to fly across the world and never look back.

Except...

You will look back because Frankie lives here.

And for the first time, since this entire thing between you and he started, you have the smallest niggle of hesitation. Will Frankie want to remain here? His house is here. Memories with his deceased parents. 

You frown, those thoughts swirling in your head as you take another sip of the foamy beer in your cup. It's tepid, gross going down but leaves you with a pleasant buzz. 

"What about you? I feel like we've barely seen you all summer!" Natasha says, elbowing you in the ribs, distracting you from these thoughts. Her chin length bob is shiny when she gives a disproving cock of her head. 

"She's got a man I bet," Sydney teases. "Kevin right?"

You make a repulsed face. "Ew. No."

"But there is someone?" Natasha says, eyes narrowing on your downturned face. She must see the start of a smirk because she pushes your shoulder gently. "No way! What's his name!" 

Don't look up. Don't look up. Don't search for Frankie in the crowded room. Don't give it away. 

But you want to share a small piece of it with someone. You haven't been able to tell anyone about your relationship, and it slips out of you. 

"It's private for now," you say, unable to bite back your smile any longer. "But yeah, there's a guy." 

The girls screech, shaking you by the arms as they jump up and down. Your solo cup sloshes beer onto the already sticky floor. 

"No way! Is it serious?"

"Yeah. It's serious." 

I’m think in love,, you want to tell them. We've secretly liked each other for years. It's the most romantic thing you think you've ever experienced. 

"I knew it!' Sydney crows. "I told Tash you must be getting laid!" 

You're about to add your two cents when a silken voice falls over the group. 

"Who is getting laid?”

Christy is approaching your group with a swing in her step. Natasha looks envious while Sydney looks awestruck, taking in Christie's, gorgeous body and even more gorgeous face. She's become something of a local legend in your town. She won a local beauty contest this year and she was interviewed on the news. 

Madison Judd has gone to school somewhere overseas. Melody Kim is engaged and looking at houses with her older fiancé. So now it's only Christy that remains. 

"Our girl here is finally getting laid on the regular," Sydney says, wrapping an arm around your neck and trying to appear cool. It makes you cringe internally. 

 Christy laughs into her cup. "Cute." 

The three girls start chatting animatedly about the men at the party. Who's cute, who's grown into their awkwardness, whose going to puke. 

"Josh, definitely," Christy says with an eye roll. “He was already hammered by the time I got here."

You wish that Christy would just leave. Why is she here in the first place? From what you gather, she can barely stand Travis. But you suppose in this town with nothing else going on any party is a good party. 

The party host himself comes swinging into the room; shouting over the crowd that beer pong will be starting shortly in the other room. A chorus of drunken cheers goes around the room. He smiles at the group before his eyes land on you. 

"Pip!"

Travis jogs over your way, his face shiny with sweat. He greets the other girls out of breath from all his cheering. 

"Hey Travis," Christy says. "Cool party." 

"Thanks. Wish my parents went to Boca every weekend." He turns back to face you. "You leave for school soon right?"

"Mhm. Next week." 

"We're gonna miss you around here," Travis says in a voice that sounds almost sincere. "Can't remember a weekend I haven't seen your annoying face."

You roll your eyes, giving him a good natured shove that he chuckles at, pretending to be wounded. "Oh fuck off. Go lose at beer pong." 

He slaps a damp kiss to your cheek, surprising you. "Catch you later, Pip."

He moves back through the throngs of people. It's getting louder in here; the drunken calls pitched sloppily, voices slurred. 

"Is it just me or is Travis looking halfway decent these days?" Sydney says, squinting at him from across the room. 

You take a long look at your childhood friend, trying to assess him from a neutral perspective. His muscled body is taut in track pants and a T-shirt. It's his usual attire these days, he's become something of a gym rat. His body is almost as filled out as Frankie's, you note. 

He's also cut his hair short, looking more respectable for his new job. He could be Frankie's brother at this point and you sort of wonder if that's the point. 

Travis' jealousy of Frankie's friendship with Santi has only grown through the years. As the two grew closer, Travis felt even more excluded. He never said it out loud, but his snarky comments and eye rolls made it pretty obvious. 

You let your eyes drift briefly to Frankie at his elbow, trying to quell the rapid tempo of your heartbeat. He's in conversation with a few of his friends from school, he's holding a red solo cup in one hand, the other still firmly planted in his jeans. 

He looks so handsome. All strong jaw and masculine features offset by those perfect lips. You want to drag him back to his place right this second and nibble on them. 

"Francisco looks so good tonight," Christy says, practically purring as she stares at him across the room. "The army has been good to him. Do you see those biceps?" 

She sweeps her tongue along her plump upper lip, chasing away the foam from her beer. 

"Mhm," Natasha and Sydney agree, staring at your boyfriend lasciviously, making your insides curl with white hot anger. 

You want to tell them that Frankie is yours, that they need to stop leering at him. That you knew him first and know him best, even though it feels incredibly juvenile to call dibs on a person.  

"He's got that big house to himself now," Christy adds. "Maybe he wants some company so he isn't so lonely."

Your fingers curl around the solo cup, crushing the empty plastic in your hand. Thankfully no one notices. 

"I think I'm gonna go say hi," Christy says, throwing her shoulders back while your two friends giggle beside you.

Possessiveness snaps inside you like a feral dogs, all teeth and bloodlust. 

Don't go near him. Don't even look at him. 

You watch her approach Frankie, her long legs gliding across the room. You wish you looked half as graceful. 

He glances over when she says his name, her voice swallowed up when some dickhead turns up the volume on the stereo. 

You can't hear either of them over the music and the crowd, but you can see that Christy is saying something to him. You can also see she's leaning so close her lips practically brush his cheek. 

To your utter dismay, his face goes bright red, his eyes averting to the floor. The attention embarrasses him, but an ugly, insecure part of you wonders if he might be enjoying it as well. 

Something about the sight of it, something about knowing you're powerless to do anything about it makes your chest ache. You don't want to stand around watching it.

"I'm gonna grab another beer," you tell your friends miserably, to not waiting for them to reply before you're turning on your heel heading into the kitchen and away from Frankie and Christy.

You stumble onto the backyard porch swing, looking up into the velvet night and continuing to drink your shitty beer.

"I thought you might've left."

You glance up to see Santi approaching, at least you think it’s Santi, you're having trouble focusing. 

"I just needed some air," you reply when the figure -yes, it is Santi- pops down next to you. "Too many people inside." 

He pushes the swing lazily with his sneaker-ed feet, laughing. 

"Tell me about it. Pretty sure Christy is on the prowl. Poor Frank looks like he's caught in her crosshairs tonight." 

Fuck. This. Night. 

"I don't get it," you reply tightly. "She's not that pretty.' 

Your cousin swivels his head, thick brows pulling together.

"What the hell are you talking about? She's hot as fuck." 

Thanks, Santi. 

According to the casio on your wrist you see it's been about an hour since you got here and you're tired of waiting.  You're two beers in, your eyes blurry. 

You finish the last of your beer, wiping away the foam with the back of your arm. You wish that you were at home right now, you wish you'd never come to this stupid party. 

"You doing okay?"

You look over to see your cousin giving you a concerned look, the big brother gaze that you've gotten used to over the years. The one he puts on when he knows that you're upset and just waits for you to confide. 

But what's there to confide? 

If girls like Christy are going to continue to pursue him what chance do you have? You'll be across the country with no chance for visits aside from letters and phone calls for years. 

You thought that you knew how things stood with you and Frankie. But now you're not so sure. What if you're just a placeholder for while he's away? Someone to send him letters and maybe dirty photos. Someone for him to call when he's bored. 

The thought makes you sick. 

"I'm gonna go inside," you mumble. 

You move shakily through the house, needing to talk to Frankie right now. There are some things that you need to discuss before the two of you part and it seems imperative that conversation happened now before he talks to Santi. 

You remember Frankie's murmured request earlier. To meet him in Travis's parents room to use the waterbed. Only an hour ago you had been so delighted, so excited to do that with him. Now you trudge unhappily up the carpeted stairs. 

It's fairly empty up here, all of the bedroom doors closed. Most of the activities happening down on the main level. You're pretty sure you can still hear the beer pong going on. 

You stopped at the closed door at the end of the hall; Travis's parents’ bedroom. You take a deep breath, blinking away what you hope is most of the drunkenness. And for a moment you just let your body settle, thoughts going back to earlier of Frankie's arms around you in bed of his murmured promise that he likes you.

You're being silly. You realize it's idiotic to have ever questioned how he feels about you. Christy can flirt all she wants, you know that Frankie is loyal to you. And you want a future with him. Not in Florida, but maybe he would want to travel outside of this town. Maybe the two of you could start somewhere new, together.

All that matters is that the two of you will be together.

It's with that thought firmly in mind that you push the door opens crack, with an expectant smile on your face. Your eyes sweep across the dark room. To the large made waterbed, over to the small couch that sits facing the window. The place Travis's mom loves to do her reading.

But the two figures on that couch stun you into stillness. Neither of them has noticed that you're there, but it's clear you've caught the two of them in the middle of fucking.  

The site arrests you, Christy with her head thrown back, low moans escaping. The man under her is muscled, broad shouldered. His arms are spread wide on the back of the couch, head tilting back.

You've never seen another woman naked before, not like this. Christy bounces in his lap, hair mussed and over her shoulders. Her breasts sway heavily as her hips roll, lower half hidden by the back of the couch.  

She rides him quickly and he's making soft little groans under his breath, his head tilting back further as she rides faster. 

"It's so good," she whines, head dropping into her sternum. Her fingers are gripping the back of the couch so tightly they blanch. "It's so fucking good!" 

The man groans lowly once more, hands going to the pinch of her waist to help her bounce faster. And despite Christy 's nudity and the wet sounds their bodies create together, all you can focus on is the cap the man wears backwards, the logo facing you and seen faintly in the light. 

Standard Heating Oil. 

It takes you a moment but you hear all the blood rush to your ears when it finally lands.  

No no no no no. He wouldn't. 

But it's unmistakable. The dark blue of the rim, the perfect stitching around the logo. There's only one hat like that in the world and it belongs to Frankie Morales. 

Your knees go weak and you feel a strong pull that makes your eyes blur as you close the bedroom door. You lurch into the bathroom across the carpeted hallway. You just manage to lock the door before you're turned back and puking into the sink. 

You couldn't even make it to the toilet. 

You empty your stomach into the enamel bowl before wiping your mouth with a hand towel. You hastily turn on the faucet, rinsing away the evidence of your repulsed devastation.

You raise your head up and see your defeated expression in the mirror. The girl who had only moments before been eager to tell Frankie that she wanted a future with him. 

And this entire time he was playing you. You stand there a little longer at the sink, staring into space, trying to understand what just happened. How you could have read everything so wrong. 

You stay in that bathroom until someone starts knocking on the door. A slurred voice asks you to hurry up. 

The party still rages on downstairs, loud and overwhelming now that you're trying to leave. You move quickly with angry tears in your eyes. 

You feel a hand at your arm, holding you in place and see your cousin. 

"Where are you going?"

Santi's eyes are glassy from booze but troubled when he sees your anguish. He's standing with a beautiful girl who seems irritated that their moment has been interrupted. 

"Home."

"What? It's barely eleven."

"I need to go home," you say, fighting the tremble in your voice. 

Santi wrinkles his nose. "You okay?"

No. I'm not okay. 

"I'm fine. I'll see you later." 

The music gets louder before you can reply and some couples start to dance sloppily, starting to bump into you. 

"Before you go, Frankie is looking for you," Santi says over the music, hoping that will change your mind. "I think he went upstairs."

An ugliness takes you over when he says that. A kind of hideous hatred that you didn't even know you possessed. 

"Frankie Morales can go fuck himself."

When you see Hilary walking out through the airport doors you're surprised to find tears already in your eyes. Even moreso when you see there are tears in hers. 

She carries a battered green duffel that she throws into the back cab of your mom's truck. When you hug her she feels like she's filled out a bit, like she's actually eating instead of existing on cigarettes and coffee. 

The engagement ring she wears is too loose, spinning every time she points at something. 

"Justin's parents are nice. I mean, they're Canadian so..." She shrugs when you ask her. "They have a lot of land we barely see them since our place is pretty far on the property."

"Are you guys working?"

"Justin is. I'm still only on a visitor permit." 

The truck squeaks as it passes over a speed bump.

"You know when everything is settled, you're actually not that far from Seattle," you say airily. "I have a guest room and-"

"Let's not do this," Hilary interrupts. 

"Do what?"

"Pretend like we're actually close. Like we're not just talking because we have a dying parent in common. We texting a few times a year and stay out of each other's lives."

You go quiet, eyes scanning the road as she begins rolling down the window. Humid air snakes in as she pops a lit cigarette into her mouth.

"After this you and I both know everything will go back to how it was," Hilary adds, taking a puff.  "People never really change."

THEN

You push out of the house with a knot in your chest.

Frankie told you to come looking for him. He told you explicitly which means he wanted you to see what was happening. That's the part that hurts. To know that he wanted to have your feelings hurt. 

You prepare to run down the stairs when you pause. Why are you running? Why are you acting like you've done the wrong thing? It's Frankie who fucked up. Frankie who did this. 

You want to see him. You want to scream in his face. To let everyone know the kind of person Frankie is. But first you need something to calm you down. 

You think I would have done that with just any girl? I wanted it because it was you, Pip.

You move to the side of the house, composing yourself with the pack of cigarettes you have in your pocket. Your fingers are shaking as you exhume one and light it. The shaking ceases just before you take that first drag. 

You tilt your head back, holding and then releasing as the smoke dances between the seam of your lips. That feels good. That feels needed. 

"I didn't know you smoked."

You look up, distracted from your thoughts to see Travis walking down the steps. You look at the cigarette as if you don't know how it landed there between your second and third fingers. 

"Picked it up from Hilary." 

"Sounds about right," Travis laughs softly, watching as you take a long, inhale. 

The tobacco scorches your throat pleasantly and you manage not to cough. 

"Frankie seems to be having a good time," he says, clearly trying to find topics in which to extend the conversation. "I think I saw him the beer pong table." 

"I don't care what Frankie is doing." 

"That's a first. You're always with Frankie. Wanting to be so perfect for him." 

He gives a scoff, a roll of his eyes. His distaste of Frankie runs deep. 

Your stomach heaves, cigarette held just out of reach of your mouth. It blazes at the end, a beacon to focus on as you collect your thoughts. 

"Yeah, well, maybe I've grown up." 

You watch Travis press his shoulder against the side of the tree trunk, his light eyes tracing your face. 

"You sure have," he murmurs. 

It’s in that moment that you realize his eyes are darkening. He looks at you hungrily. 

You're still half drunk, heartbroken and after everything that happened with Frankie you find you want that reminder that you're still worth something, still alive. Because right now you feel like you started dying the second you saw Frankie and Christy. 

Maybe this can get back to Frankie. He can have the same rude awakening you did. You hope he finds out in front of everyone and has to stand there, aware that he didn't get away with anything. 

"You look good, Travis," you say smoothly. "The girls were saying that earlier." 

"Oh yeah?" He's moving a little closer. Close enough that you can smell his shitty cologne and the scent of stale beer on his tongue. "And what about you? Do you think I look good, Pip?' 

His eyes are heavy-lidded, trained on your mouth. You have a feeling you know exactly what he's imagining when he sees your lips circle the cigarette. You take another inhale, letting the smoke out slowly between your lips before speaking again. 

"And if I do? Are you gonna do something about it?"  

He doesn't hesitate. He slides a hand around your waist and moves until he's pressed you tightly against the side of the tree with his body. He stares at you ravenously before wetting his lower lip with his tongue. Then he kisses you with the same hunger his eyes suggested, hands moving to your hips. 

But you're not there; you're still in the bedroom watching Frankie and Christy. 

It could be Travis you kiss now. It could be that cute guy at the gas station you saw when you pumped gas. It could be Kevin. It could be any willing man with a mouth. You just want to forget. You don't want to be in that house anymore. You don't want to love Frankie anymore. 

Your head feels fuzzy. You're not sure if it's from the booze or the shock of what you saw earlier. Travis starts to grind against you, his mouth moving over your neck. If you close your eyes and concentrate you can almost imagine its Frankie doing it. 

"I've been dying to do this for years," Travis admits against your jugular. "But they told me they'd kill me if I tried." 

You let him start to grope you over your dress, your eyes wide and unblinking over his shoulder. 

"But I think it might be worth it. You're so fucking hot," he murmurs, tongue gently tracing yours. 

You should be embarrassed considering you're doing all of this on Travis front lawn, but you don't really care. You don't care who sees you. You hope Frankie finds out about it. You hope he's devastated. 

"My parents have a waterbed," Travis breathes against your ear. "Can I fuck you on it?" 

All at once you stiffen. Your body goes cold when his lips trail over your jaw.

"I bet you make such pretty sounds when you come," he breathes.

This is Travis. You don't even find him attractive. What are you doing? 

No. No no no no. 

You want to leave. You want to be away from this party, from this night, from this boy who wants to paw at you. You want to be sober and showered and safe in bed. You want Hershey bars and your mom's fingers tracing your cheek. 

You try to shrink back, but Travis follows, with his body unaware of your growing terror as he presses you tighter against the tree. 

"C'mon Pip," he grins. "I know you're wet."

He grins, hand coming to squeeze your ass. You drop your head towards his shoulder, hands pushing him slightly away. 

"I should go." 

"Not yet," he croons, sticking his knee between your thighs to keep them open. "Just a little longer."

"No seriously Travis, I don't-"

You're shocked when a hand comes out of nowhere, pulling Travis sharply from you.

"Get off of her."

Travis lets out a soft grunt of shock as he's tugged back, stumbling into the figure who grips him by the back of the shirt. 

"Frank- what the fuck!"

Frankie stands behind him, his broad chest heaving. He looks like he's run a marathon, his eyes burning, neck strained like he’s trying not to scream. And despite it being Travis that he grabs and throws to the ground, it’s you he's glaring at. It's the kind of heavy, furious look that makes you shrink back, pinned in place.

An utterly flummoxed Travis remains on the grass, stunned by what's just happened.

"What the fuck is going on?" 

Some of the party goers have come outside, eyes wide as they look at the tableau. You pressed against the side of the tree, Travis on the grass, Frankie standing over him breathing heavily. As if just realizing what happened Travis pushes himself up. Grass stains litter his T-shirt and his hair is askew. Frankie is just standing there with a dead look in his eyes. 

"Fuck you, man," Travis snaps, handsome face contorting into rage. "What the hell was that?"

Travis stares at Frankie as if he doesn't know him. A long, hard glare that tows the line between angry and hurt. He ends up shaking his head, looking disgusted before his eyes cast your way. 

"Come on," Travis says reaching for you. "Let's g-"

"Don't touch her," Frankie roars. 

It feels like the words rattle the windows of the home, dragged up from the very earth only to be expelled through Frankie's reddened throat. The sound stops Travis' hand from reaching yours. It hangs frozen in mid air before it's lowered to his side. 

Everyone is silent for a full moment. It's like a sonic boom has gone off and you're all trying to get your hearing back.

"You don't tell me who touches me and who doesn't," you say, barely able to conceal your hurt. "Never."

Frankie is standing still as a statue, but you can tell he's vibrating inside. A string begging to be plucked. Travis is shaking his head now, the fury so clear on his face. 

"I'm gonna kick your ass Morales."

He looks frenzied, a creature of adrenaline and anger. Spittle has landed on his chin, the sight still snatches the air from your lungs. 

"Stop," you whisper. 

You don't want this to happen. You're still in shock over Frankie and Christy. The last thing you want to see is a fist fight. 

"Stay out of it. This is between me and Frankie." 

"No. Just stop. This is stupid." 

Air hisses out of Travis, like he's a deflating balloon. "Why the fuck are you defending him?"

"I'm not," you say firmly. "I just don't want a fight happening." 

Travis is red-faced, furious that not only was he taken down, but that he wasn't able to fight back. His eyes move between you and Frankie with suspicion. His whole face changes, moving from frustration into disgust. 

"Are you sleeping with him? Is that it?"

Quiet murmurs and giggles go around the watching crowd. Humiliation sets in when you see Christy there, a concerned look on her face. She's standing behind Frankie and the sight makes you want to retch. 

You twist to face Travis, forcing a repulsed expression onto your face. 

"Fuck, no," You bubble a strained laugh as you realize. "I'd never sleep with him. Give me some credit."  

Laughter and giggles dance through the crowd like wind. You feel the air shift behind you, a chill indicating that Frankie has left. A look to your left confirms the sight of his tall frame scissoring over the grass and down the street. 

"Pip!"

Santi is there, looking at you with a horrified expression. His hair is mussed and he's got a hickey starting on his neck. You'd bet money was just entangled with some girl inside. 

"What the hell happened?"

"Nothing," you scowl. "I'm leaving." 

Travis is still standing there, looking at you. He weaves slightly, the drunkenness obvious 

"Want me to drive you home?" 

Between the cigarette and mint gum you can smell the liquor. You shake your head. You got what you needed. 

"I want to walk."

dividers by @saradika-graphics

taglist

@ashleyfilm

@beezusvreeland

@joeldjarin

@maried01

@peppermintfury

@severelysentientnova

@speaktothehandpeasants

@vickie5446

@yellowbrickyeti

[onlythehobi]

a part of me wants to believe this is all a misunderstanding PLEASED DKAKXKCBA I CAN'T everything in this chapter hurts 💔 MAKE IT STOP

[auteurdelabre]

Holding Pattern part 6

Frankie Morales x F!Reader

a03 link here

Summary:

You move back to your childhood home in Florida to care for your ailing mother, only to find the past waiting for you in every room. Your always kind older cousin Santiago refuses to let you disappear into the sadness, pulling you into his world without hesitation. But Santi's world involves Frankie Morales; your cousin's best friend and the boy who broke your heart decades earlier. Thrust into each other’s orbit again old memories make their way to the surface, blurring the line between hatred and desire.Because the boy you learned to despise is the man you can't seem to forget.rated 18+ for later chapters

THIS STORY IS ON A03

tags: Friends to Enemies, First Love, Childhood Friends, Brother's Best Friend trope kinda, Angst, Smut, Flashbacks, First person POV, Protective Frankie, First kiss, parent with terminal illness, HEA.

notes: Happy Frankie ... Wednesday! It's funny, when I started this story I had no idea how much it would come to mean to me. I think the formatting, the storyline, the characters, it all just fell together. Like this is a story waiting to be told in the universe and I happened to be the one putting it into words. A vessel if you will. It is quickly climbing the ranks as being my most beloved story to write. I might take a little break after this - my fingers are tired writing two intense stories at once!

This is my favorite chapter so far and for reasons I think you'll see. Don't forget to comment!

Your mother doesn't get out of bed the next day. She's exhausted, likely from last night's ordeal that she does not remember, even as she flexes her bandaged hand. 

She's always a bit more lucid in the mornings, so you take the opportunity to ask her what she needs, making sure she's comfortable enough.  

"I'm fine, honey," she says patting your hand, trying to hide a wince. She's in a lot of pain today. You know you'll have to prepare the morphine tablet soon. You give her a sponge bath and brush her hair.  

"Is Hilary coming to visit?" She asks as you wipe under her arms. "I feel like she hasn't been here lately." 

"Maybe soon." 

No point telling her it's been about two months since your sister took off for a new life in Canada. 

After the sponge bath you give her a cup of tepid tea when she refuses breakfast. 

"I wish there was vodka in it," she jokes when you pass it her way. 

You can't really smile back when she says that. Jokes of her alcoholism aren't funny to you. Not when they dominated most of your childhood.  

You feel the first twist of the knife in your gut. 

"I was just remembering when you got sick as a little girl. You were always so sweet," your mom says, holding the cup. 

Her teeth are yellowed at the top when she smiles your way. The same hue as the former whiteness of her eyes. 

"I used to love when I was sick and you took care of me," you admit quietly. 

The simpering look she shoots you only serves to increase your ire. That she could lay there and pretend your childhood wasn't a blur of screaming at Hilary and drinking until she passed out. 

"My friends would talk about how horrible their kids were when they were ill," your mom says with a fond look your way. "But not you. You never kicked up a fuss. Just thanked me over and over for taking care of you." 

You shouldn't rise to the anger that storms within you. Shouldn't let that sweet comment from her be twisted. 

Let it go. Let it go. 

But you can't. 

"That's because it's when you felt like a real mom." 

It goes quiet for a second, the room stuffy. You study the marked walls; you note the edge of the curtain looks dingy, that you should change her pillowcase. Anything that distracts you from what you've said, but more importantly, what your mother hasn't. 

"I was always a real mom," she finally says. Her voice is ragged, and her narrow chest wheezes with the effort.  "I was always a real person too. It’s my first time on earth too, honey. I made mistakes just trying to figure it out. Same as you." 

"You made a helluva lot more mistakes than I did," you snap back, unable to stop yourself. 

And she flinches, hurt. But no satisfaction comes from that. No closure, no acceptance. It's just a cold cruelty you've thrown at a woman too weak to fight back.  

It makes you feel sick to your stomach. 

"I hope one day you forgive me," she says, eyes on the window. 

"I do forgive you," you say with a sigh. 

Her face turns your way, creased and so old. You don't remember her ever looking this old. She's not angry. Just quiet and sad.  It makes you hate yourself for not controlling your temper. 

"I don't know that you ever will. But you need to know that no matter what, I always loved you and your sister. I will until the day I die."

THEN

Frankie is twenty one when he returns from the army to attend his parent's funeral. He stands at the front of the church in one of his father's old suits, looking everywhere but people's faces. 

Frankie's parents were in a plane crash coming back from Argentina. Their first international trip alone together since they got married. Santi relayed all of this information to you the second he got back into town. 

You stare at Frankie from the pews, both taken aback at his physical change and devastated to see your friend so broken. 

His hair is shorter now, his curls shorn into a slightly grown out buzz cut. It makes his face look so angular, so mature. It's taken away that sweet, soft appearance you always equated him with. 

Gone is the lanky boy with long legs. Now he's muscled, solid. His shoulders have always been broad but now they fill out properly with bulging arms. Like he's a puppy who finally grew into his oversized paws. 

He turns now as his aunt approaches. She's a wreck, sobbing into his shoulder, her mascara smudging on his white shirt collar. It looks like a mournful spider nearing his throat. 

"¡Oh, mi dulce Francisco, el mundo es tan injusto!

She is loud and draws the attention of many attendees. Frankie doesn't seem to notice, his eyes look far away. 

Of course you, Santi and and Travis are in attendance along with Hilary. Your mom is at work, unable to pass up the shift. Santi's dad is out of town. You wear a black sweater over a long black skirt you found in your mom's closet. It's too warm for a day like this, but it was the only thing that seemed appropriate. 

Despite being eighteen and starting college in the fall, you feel even younger watching this display of grief. You can't help wondering how Frankie is going to manage this all himself. 

You sit several pews back with your family, watching the boy - now a man - give the eulogy for his parents. You've never seen Frankie cry and even now as he stands speaking of his parents virtues, his eyes remain dry. 

"My parents taught me the value of loyalty, of being brave. They showed me that love conquers all."

It's a surprisingly sweet sentiment considering the complicated relationship he had with his father. 

The elder Morales often used fists instead of words while his wife sat by, ignoring it all. Frankie never spoke about it much. Not to you anyway. He always was more of a private person. 

He only talked about wanting to be like his dad and joining the army. That his mom made him his favorite cake every birthday from scratch. That his dad played football with him in their backyard.

He stuck with idyllic memories and judging by the eulogy, clearly lives in them now. You can understand that. 

Afterwards the reception is held at the Morales home, now solely Frankie's, you realize as you walk up the driveway with a casserole your mother made the night previous. 

It's not too busy, just as the funeral wasn't. A few of his mother's friends from bridge are scattered around refilling sandwich plates and replacing beer cans. 

Some of his dad's army buddies are there too, but they're really just there to drink free booze and reminisce about basic and dumb army shit. 

His aunt welcomes people in, taking their food with thanks and adding it to the long table they brought in. 

She kisses your cheek and says something in Spanish that you don't catch. Her floral perfume is cloying, fighting for dominance over the bouquets that line the space. 

Santi is talking with Travis by the food table, their faces drawn. You move slowly through the line, grazing on sandwiches and pickles. They're sour on your tongue, the crunch satisfying.  

You move to an empty spot on the wall, spine pressing against the cool stucco. You don't want to be drawn into conversation with strangers. You've always been more comfortable people watching.  

You glance up, and can see where Frankie's mom stenciled some green flowers around the arch of the kitchen. Something about that personal touch makes your heart hurt. 

"The mortgage is paid off, but I worry how he'll get on," an elderly woman says to another. "How will Francisco afford the taxes?" 

She's got crumbs on one downy cheek, speaking softly as to not be overheard. She doesn't notice you clinging to the wall holding a cup of lemonade, your ear tilted to hear better. 

"I mean, he just finished his flight training," she says. "He's still got years of service ahead of him." 

The other woman is a tall slender thing with eyes like Frankie's. She must be a relative. And she looks concerned. 

"Do you think he'll actually go back?"

"Of course he will." 

"I'm not so sure." Her voice gets even softer. "I mean, with his father gone he doesn't have to worry about impressing him anymore." 

You want to listen to more but Hilary arrives at your side, the scent of cigarettes clinging to her clothes. She has a rumpled look about her, like she slept in her clothes. For all you know she did - she's barely at home anymore. 

She comes to stand beside you, both your backs pressed against the wall. She surveys the space along with you, sighing. 

"Damn, this is bleak." 

"It's a funeral, Hil." 

"Still," she mutters, shaking her head before she looks your way. "You ready to go?" 

Your eyes move around the room, landing on Frankie. He's sitting on his lumpy couch, nodding shallowly at some relatives. He looks broken. 

You turn to your sister. "I'll meet you at home." 

She doesn't seem surprised. She just gives a nod, murmuring that she's going to grab dinner on the way home. You wave in her direction but your focus is on the defeated looking man across the room. His eyes lift briefly, catching yours before moving back to the floor. Your heart cracks at the sadness in his expression.

You stay long after everyone else files out, helping to clean empty bowls, wiping down tables with Santi. 

Eventually only you, Santi and Frankie remain at the Morales home tidying the place and moving furniture back into place. His aunt wanted to stay as well but Frankie was firm in needing space. 

"You guys don't have to do this," Frankie says, voice tired. He's not wearing that suit jacket anymore, the tie loosened at his neck.

"It's fine," Santi insists, handing you a plate to be placed into the dishwasher. "We're almost done here. You go take a load off." 

You focus on the task at hand, listening to Frankie's receding footsteps. When he's safely out of the room Santi speaks under his breath, his eyes bloodshot. 

"I have to go to a meeting downtown, but do you mind sticking around for a bit longer? I'm worried about him."

His gaze is over your shoulder and your eyes follow. From where you stand in the kitchen you can see into the living room. Something about Frankie's downturned face, the way he sits on the couch backlit by the dying sun is heartbreaking to watch. 

"I can stay," you murmur to Santi as he grabs his car keys. 

"You sure?" 

You nod, giving him a tight hug. 

"Try to get him to eat," he murmurs. "He didn't touch anything today." 

You wave him off before preparing a small plate of leftovers. You grab a beer from the fridge and carry both over. 

"You're still here? I thought I heard the door close." 

"Santi had to go." You place the plate on the coffee table along with the beer. “But I still have time to hang out.”

He takes only the drink, taking a long sip before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He makes no attempt to touch the food on the plate. He just sits there staring at it with a distant look on his face, rubbing his fingers on his black dress pants

"You need to eat, Frankie." 

"Not hungry." 

You slide next to him on the couch, fixing him with what you hope is a leveling look. 

"I'm not leaving until you eat something. So either choke down a sandwich or set up the futon." 

A twitch of his lips, a resigned huff. He shifts forward, taking a sandwich half and bringing it to his mouth. You watch his jaw flex, bare of facial hair, shaved for the army. Your eyes travel the expanse of him now that you're actually sitting next to him. He's gotten so much bigger since his time away. 

"I miss your hair," you murmur. Your fingers twitch, eager to run themselves through the shorn curls even though you know better. 

"Me too," he says ruefully running his palm along the top of his head. "I feel naked." 

"It's because you don't have your hat either."

He smirks. "I miss being able to wear my own shit." 

He manages the other half of the sandwich and some pasta salad before he gives up, telling you that he's not taking another bite. You play with your keychain, feeling the hemp braid rasp under your fingertips while he finishes. His eyes cast to it briefly. 

"Still got that." 

"Mhm." 

You don't have a car of course. Those cost money, money you don't have since everything you've earned while at part time jobs is going towards school. 

He tilts back the beer bottle and you watch his plump lips rest against the rim as he takes a long lingering sip. 

"So you're officially flying huh? Is it everything you wanted it to be?" 

"Better," he replies, lowering the bottle to the table. "When I'm up there it's like everything makes sense."

"I wish I could ride in one," you offer, leaning back into the couch as you imagine it. "It must be amazing." 

"There's flight places around here that offer rides." 

"Expensive," you remind him. "And besides I only want to ride if..." 

You stop yourself before it slips out. The admission that makes your heart throb in your chest. 

You only want to ride if Frankie's the one flying. 

You've had fantasies of exactly that, of seeing Frankie in his element. You have imagined him taking you over mountains, soaring through the sky. 

And sometimes you even fantasize that he'll take you somewhere quiet, landing in gorgeous empty fields with flowers and soft grass. You picture him declaring his long hidden love for you, of taking you right there in the open, his muscled body over yours as he groans your names between sweet promises of forever. 

"I'll take you up one day," he says and not because he's in love with you. He says it because you're his friend and that will have to be enough. 

You hum thoughtfully in response. 

The years without him have been hard. His sporadic visits, his poor communication. Despite your heated assurance that you'd never write to him you tracked his address down from Santi a week after Frankie boarded that flight to Texas. 

You sent him letters for a full three months, well wishes, catching him up on developments back home, sincere hopes that he was flying happily. You asked him question upon question about his time in basic. 

His replies were inconsistent, full of smudged ink and short replies. You don't know why you were that surprised, it's not as if he'd been a loquacious person before. So you stopped. He never mentioned it. Never sent another letter your way. 

"You must be eager to get back to base," you say tightly. 

"Not really." 

Your face betrays your surprise, a lift to the corner of your mouth in delight. He doesn't want to go back. Maybe his aunts were right.

"So you won't be heading back for more training?" You ask, hands folded over your belly. 

"Of course I will. It's just I've got a few weeks of furlough on account of, well," he makes a vague motion to the house. "You know."

You try to hide your disappointment behind a weak smile. A large part of you had been hoping that he was returning for good. That was his father out of the picture he wouldn't feel the need to remain over there. 

But he's always wanted to fly, always wanted to escape this town, this house. And now he's been dragged back in the worst possible way. 

"Your first year of college is coming up in a few weeks, right?" Frankie asks, looking a little more upbeat as he intentionally changes the topic. 

You give a genuine smile in your response. "Yep. I can't wait."

Mom. Hilary. Drinking, fighting, screaming. Thoughts of living on campus a few hours away brings you peace of mind knowing you'll be escaping it all. 

He goes quiet, nodding his head. His fingers tap tap tap against his thigh, he's deep in thought. 

You like this quiet moment with him, you enjoy the familiar peace his presence brings. Your anxiety immediately goes to the question of when it will end. When will he be tugged away from you again?

"Santi told me your mom had some rule about not letting you date until you were eighteen." Frankie laugh is low and rumbling like distant thunder. "Is that actually true?"  

He gives you a tired smile, clearly thankful to talk about something light, something not about dead parents and mortgages and what he's going to do with the rest of his life.

"Uh huh."

"So are you gonna go out and find a boyfriend then? Or are you gonna wait to find yourself a college boy in September?"  

"I've dated before Frankie," you say with a roll of your eyes. "I'm not a total loser." 

"Since when?"

"Since last year when my mom started drinking in the morning." You scowl. "She's too wasted to remember her own name most days, let alone get mad at me for dating." 

His brows rise. "How am I just learning about this now?" 

"You haven't been here for years," you remind him. "Been off flying helicopters, remember?"

It's said breezily, but there is a weight to the edges. The words you think but never say out loud. That you miss him, that no boy kissing you even comes close to how you feel with Frankie just sitting on a couch. 

"Guess I'll have to knock off my v-card before September, though" you joke, feeling your face heat up. "Don't want to start school the only virgin." 

He blinks slowly, a beat passing. "I thought you just said you dated."

"I have." 

"And you've never slept with anyone?" Frankie asks in a husky whisper, gaze skipping to your mouth and back to your eyes. 

"No." 

You think of Hilary only last week laughing herself silly over the fact that you're still a virgin. She herself lost her v-card the day after her fifteenth birthday. She thinks it’s hilarious that you're still a virgin at the ancient age of eighteen. 

"Really? No one?"

"Jesus, why is that such a big deal?" You say, rolling your eyes. "I'm sure you've slept with a ton of girls but-"

"No." 

You pause at the interruption, brows knitting together. "Huh?"

"I haven't slept with a bunch of girls. Who told you I slept with a bunch of girls?" 

"I...I guess I just assumed. I mean, Santi isn't exactly at church every night." 

You stare at him, mapping his dark eyes glassy from the beer, his full lips he keeps swiping his tongue over. 

"How many girls have you slept with?" 

You watch as Frankie's chest and cheeks begin to flush. 

"Like, one. One time." 

This pulls you up short. You know for a fact that Santi has slept with at least four girls already. He doesn't go into details, but you've heard rumblings of it when he talks to Travis. 

"But... You're twenty one." 

"I'm aware." 

Frankie is not an ugly man by any stretch of the imagination. He's also kind and patient and... How has he only slept with one girl? And only once?

"So many girls at school had crushes on you." 

Frankie groans, sliding a hand down his face. "No they didn't." 

"They did. And I know plenty that still do."

"Well even if they do I can't exactly do anything about it," Frankie mumbles. 

"Why not? You have your own place now."

You cringe as you realize what you've said. But Frankie doesn't seem to notice because if he was pink before he's absolutely tomato red now. 

"It's not that. It's... "

"It's what?"

"It's just; I can barely talk to girls." 

"You talk to me."

"You know what I mean," he grumbles. 

Yeah, you know what he means. You're not romantic interests to one another. You're just one of the boys.  

"But, that one girl," you offer gently. "You must've talked to her." 

Frankie gives a dark huff of amusement through his nose, voice taking on a bitter quality. 

"She only came to talk to me because she saw my uniform. I could've been anyone, she just wanted to fuck someone in service." 

He begins flinching as if it's happening that very moment. 

"I couldn't even enjoy it. I was so paranoid I was doing it wrong and that she'd tell all her friends." 

"You really think a person would do that?" 

"Of course they would. But I just wanted to get it over with. I didn't want to be the only virgin at basic anymore."

You feel yourself starting to falter. You never considered that possibility. Frankie is smart, he's good at everything he tries from electronics to driving. You bet he's good at sex too. 

"I'm sure you didn't have anything to worry about. I'm sure you were great," you tell him, because you believe this to be true. 

"Yeah but what would you know, virgin?"

He grins wider when you laugh in surprise. The two of you lapse into quiet, eyes on the near darkening room. The sun has started to set, the space growing dim. 

"So are you gonna sell this place?"

He shakes his head, his own eyes moving slowly around the room, landing on pieces of furniture, photos on the wall. 

"No. It doesn't feel right to do that. This is the only home I've lived at for more than six months." 

You nod and remain silent even though you want to pepper him with questions. How will he afford it? Will he actually want to live in the house by himself? Doesn’t it feel like living with ghosts?

You want to just be present and comfort your friend, but something he said earlier won't leave your mind. Something that needles your insides until you can't help but turn to face him. 

"Do you think a guy would do that too?"

"Do what?" 

"Like, do you think he'd tell his friends if the girl was bad at sex? Or a bad kisser?" 

Frankie looks at you skeptically. "I dunno. I wouldn't but..." He shrugs, "you never know I guess."

A fear you'd never even considered starts to play in the back of your head.  An ugly thought that makes your stomach drop. 

Was I a good kisser? 

You return to your mother's room that afternoon to open her windows so she can enjoy the sunny day and feel the balmy breeze that teases the trees. 

You position a TV tray over her lap, putting a few crackers with peanut butter on a plate in hopes it will whet her appetite, but to no avail. You bring her another tea and a glass of water which she thanks you for. You hope that the bitterness of this morning has faded. 

You sit by her bed, watching her sip the tea and listen to the birds that chatter outside. As you do this your eyes blur, mind on last night. 

Frankie's patience with your mother, the way he tidied the kitchen for you. And before that, the way he apologized. Frankie has never apologized like that to you. 

It makes something in your stomach shift. This acknowledgement of his kindness. It's been so long since you've seen that from him. It unnerves you. 

"I've thought about my funeral and I don't want one." 

You drift back into alert focus, brows knitted.  "Huh?"

"I don't want one," she repeats firmly.  "Just scatter my ashes and be done with it." 

Something about her firmness makes you feel queasy. The thought that one could think about their own mortality with such a detachment boggles your mind.

But she is your mother, she has told you what she wants. And it would be arrogant of you to assume you know better. So you sit up straight, voice soft. 

"Where do you want them scattered?" 

"Anywhere," she says, about to shrug when she suddenly stops herself. 

"Wait, actually, I know where." 

Her eyes go bright, something within them reminding you of youth. She's traveling through time; you can see it in the way her face softens, as if the lines are disappearing before your eyes. 

"I used to go camping at this really beautiful spot in the keys," she says with the kind of breathless excitement you can imagine she had as a girl. "My mother took me every year." 

"Grandma camped?"

You can barely recall her from your youth, who passed when you were barely 6 years old. The memories that you do have of her are of severe woman who didn't like to get dirty. 

"Yes. My father was away working so often and we didn't have much money. Camping was free and we'd go with other families in the neighborhood."

She swallows, throat dry. You pass her a cup of water which she drinks greedily. You wipe the small trickles that escape at the corner of her mouth with a bundled bit of tissue. 

"Most of my summers were spent swimming and eating hot dogs, telling scary stories around a campfire." 

She gets a shy look on her face, eyes dropping to her teacup. 

"It's where I had my first kiss."

You sit there trying to imagine the aged woman in the bed as a young girl with pigtails and a blush across her cheeks as she kissed the boy she fancied. It makes a soft smile overtake your expression, heart swelling.

"It sounds amazing," you finally say, fascinated by the change in your mother's voice. "Why didn't you ever take us?"

"They did some renovations to it. Made it more privatized so I couldn't afford it." 

She winces again, hand drifting to her belly. She doesn't have to say anything, you give her the morphine tablet, watching her chase it with a cup of water. 

"What was the name of it?" you ask, curious.

She purses her wrinkled lips in thought, eyes bleary.

"It was called ... Oh goodness...What was it?"

You wait patiently, noting when she finally recalls and her eyes twinkle.

"Blue... Blue Bird....Heron! Blue Heron campground. Yes. That's right." She looks your way with a serious expression, her mind clearly settled. 

"That's where I want my ashes to be scattered. Blue Heron campground." 

"Okay, Mom," you say, trying to swallow the sudden lump in your throat. "I can do that."

 Hey. How's Canada? 

HIL: cold. 

HIL: also Justin is a fucking asshole. Being married sucks, I don't recommend it. 

Noted. 

HIL: how's Mom? 

Still dying. 

HIL: that tracks. 

She told me she wants to be buried in some old campground she went to as a in kid. 

HIL: Blue Heron? 

How the fuck do you know that??

HIL: she mentioned it a couple years ago. We were talking about camping and she told me about it. 

She never mentioned it to me. 

HIL: you weren't around. 

Do you think you might come back to see Mom?

HIL: not sure. . kind of feel like I did my daughterly duty keeping her alive until you got there.

Right...

Look what I did. [nose.jpeg]

HIL: Fuck off is that a nose ring?? 😲😲😲😲

HIL: it looks infected. 

It might be. I took it out this morning. It wasn't really me. 

HIL: couldn't agree more. I'm the rebel remember? 😈 You were always the good one. 👼

Look how that turned out. I just had a fight with a woman about to die. 

HIL: about time!!! you always had to play good daughter when we were kids. 

I didn't really have a choice. You had the bad daughter title firmly in your grasp. haha Sorry that came out wrong. 

HIL: it's fine. 

HIL: someone had to be the family fuck up. 🤷

You were never a fuck up, Hil. 

HIL: Sure I was. 

No. You were the one who had to grow up too fast. You were the one who took care of me even though you had your own shit going on. I don’t think I ever said thank you for that.

HIL: ew stfu don’t thank me. HIL: it’s just what sisters do.  

THEN 

"Frankie, was I a good kisser?"

It bursts out of you; the thought playing on loop the last five minutes is unable to be silenced any longer. 

Frankie tilts his head to the left, frowning at you. The eleven lines between his brows deepen. 

"Huh?"

"You remember that party you had at your place years back? You kissed me, remember? In the kitchen. Was I a good kisser?"

For a moment he appears deep in thought, like he can't remember what you're talking about. And then suddenly recognition flashes in his eyes and he starts to chuckle softly. 

"Pip, that barely counted as a kiss." 

"Still."

"You didn't even kiss me back," Frankie says gently. "You just stood there." 

"I didn't have time," you mumble, embarrassed. 

"I didn't want you to kiss me back," Frankie corrects. "You were thirteen."

You feel like you're thrown through time, transported back into your awkward 13-year-old body. You remember the way Frankie had looked at you then, a mixture of piteous disdain. 

But tonight he's not looking at you that same way. His look is inscrutable, impossible to read and so you just shrug.

"I'm eighteen now."

He takes a slow measured breath. 

"I know." 

The way Frankie's eyes rake up and down your body let's you know the barely three years that always seemed to separate the two of you has faded. 

He lowers his half full beer bottle to the coffee, fingertips grazing it to ensure it stays upright. 

It's like a thick tension has settled over top the two of you, your breathing synchronizing before Frankie stands abruptly. 

He carries his mostly empty plate to the kitchen and you're thankful for the reprieve. Blood is roaring so loudly in your ears that you're having trouble hearing anything aside from the running water of the sink. 

When he returns your face is so warm it makes your eyes water. Frankie settles in next to you on the couch, closer than before you notice. 

His shoulder rests against yours, his body warm next to you. His hands rest on his legs, the dress pants stretched taut over his muscular thighs. 

You shift on the lumpy couch that you've spent countless days on watching movies or playing games with the guys when Frankie's parents were out of the house. You're convinced that you could point out every bumpy spot from memory alone. 

"You ever do other stuff with guys?"

Your head snaps up to see Frankie staring at you with an open look. 

Something in the husky way he says it makes your insides quiver. "Other stuff?"

"Yeah. Third base?" 

Your cheeks flames as you hide your face against your shoulder, wishing you had another topic of which to divert him.  But another part of you, a hungry part deep in your belly wants more. More of Frankie's eyes burning black, more of his shoulder pressing against yours.

"Yeah," you mutter, unable to look at him when you answer. 

He looks surprised, eyes narrowed on you. 

"Who?" 

"Some guy I met at a party Hilary threw with Poppy. Kevin." You clear your throat. "And you? You do any of that stuff with other girls?"

Even if Frankie has only had sex with one girl, that didn't mean that he hadn't fooled around with plenty. That thought makes your nose flare, vision blurry. 

"Of course." 

"A lot of girls?" 

His full lips purse, brows knitted. He looks like he's really taking your question to heart. 

"About six?" He looks into the distance. "Yeah. Six. At least I know I do that stuff right." 

White hot jealousy surges through your body at the comment. Images of Frankie with faceless women, his mouth between their legs, his wide fingers knuckles deep as they keen his name invade your thoughts. 

Your hands curl in your lap, nails digging into the fleshy part of your palm. They leave little angry crescents in your flesh. 

"Did you like doing stuff with Kevin?"

You keep your eyes on your hand, watching the crescents go from blanched white to a rosy pink. 

"Yeah, it was fine." 

"He make you come?" 

The two of you don't have conversations like this. You talk about flying and play cards and go swimming. You don't talk about sex. That's stuff he saves for Santi and Travis. 

You suck in a sharp breath, tripping over your words.

"Um. No, I don't- no... No he didn't." 

Kevin was perfectly nice, but he was lazy. He didn't pay attention to the signals your body was giving. His fingers just jabbed as he asked you if you were close. 

When he spread you out in his bed his mouth was sloppy, too wet and his tongue was as sharp and clumsy as his fingers. 

You'd wanted to get the experience, tired of hearing Hilary talk about her dalliances, giving you a piteous look when you didn't understand and couldn't relate.  

But now sitting next to Frankie you can feel arousal pooling between your thighs, the hot flames that go up your neck, that deliciously deep pull below your navel. 

And he hasn't even done anything but talk. 

He's quiet for a long time. You still can't look at him for too long; especially since you’re not sure you could avoid staring at his mouth. 

"I bet I could make you come." 

He says this with a casual nonchalance, as if he's mentioning the two of you should get ice cream tomorrow afternoon. Instinctively your thighs clench. Thoughts of Frankie's mouth between your legs has you jumping out of your skin. 

Your voice comes out breathy and wobbling. "What?" 

"I bet I could make you come" he repeats, not embarrassed at all. "Can I?" 

You're on fire both from intense embarrassment and even more intense arousal. There's fear there as well, of the unknown. 

"I don't think I can..." You pause, feeling mortified. "I can only do it myself. Uh, alone." 

Frankie shoots you a smug look now, brow arching.  "I could do it." 

You take in how his eyes travel down the length of your body, moving between your legs and settling. 

You feel your panties dampening further, humiliated that you're so eager. He just lost his parents and you're sitting here getting turned on. 

"I guess I want the distraction," he explains when you don't respond

Guilt suffuses you. You're supposed to be here to help your friend, to distract him from the ugliness of today. 

"You don't have to do that Frankie. We can distract you in other-"

"I like doing it," he interrupts. "A lot."

Fuck. Your breath leaves you when he shifts closer to you, big hand coming to rest on your kneecap. 

"I miss doing it."  

You can't quite breathe evenly; it's coming out in short little huffs. He removes his hand, moving back. 

"Only if you want to," he adds, his eyes looking worriedly to your face. "You don't have to say y-." 

"Yes." 

It comes out quickly, expelled from your lungs like a scream even though it's barely a squeak. 

"I want it," you say clearly to avoid any misunderstanding. 

I've wanted it for years. I've dreamed about it. Touched myself to the thought of it. I want nothing more than for you to make me come. 

He grins a soft, shy thing that makes him look boyish and gentle. The Frankie you've always known. 

And then it begins.

Still seated beside you, Frankie's leans forward and his wide fingers go to the hem of the long black skirt you wore for the funeral. The fabric bunches up slowly and you watch the ascent, face slack as it ends in wrinkled layers across your hips. 

He suddenly pauses, brows knitting. 

"You can't tell Santi," he says, dark eyes wide. "You can't tell anyone." 

"Duh." 

No one can know what's about to happen. Not just for Frankie's sake but for yours. Travis' mockery would be relentless. Santi would feel betrayed by both of you. 

No, tonight is for you and Frankie alone. 

"You tell me if you need me to stop." 

You're shivering when his palm slips under the fabric, warm skin on your legs, squeezing gently before tracing slow lines along your inner thighs. 

"Don't stop." 

He bites back a smile. The dimple in his cheek pops out, making you swoon. 

Warm fingers tickle along the outside of your panties gusset, surely feeling the heat and the damp there. You bite down harshly on your lower lip to hold in the whimper building in your throat. 

He doesn't look away from your face when he does it, if anything he looks closer. It makes you feel studied and you flush as you duck your head, embarrassed. Those same searching fingers curve around, slowly inching themselves inside the cotton, finding the slick seam of your          sex. 

You gasp, eyes going huge as dinner plates as you gaze up at him. You're taken aback to see the open desire on his face. 

"Just relax," he murmurs voice soft. 

You go to nod, mouth dropping open when you feel that first swipe of his fingers dance along the seam, grazing your clit. Your hips jump and Frankie grins. 

"Easy there, Pip."

You give a breathless laugh, giddy and terrified. You've wanted this for so long and you don't know how to act now that it's finally happening. Your hands are at your sides, loosely placed on the cushion. Your thighs are spread and Frankie's hand is hidden under the thick fabric of your skirt. 

When his fingers finally breach you, you feel your eyes blow wide, stuck on Frankie's face as your jaw drops. It feels intense, so much more intense than it was with Kevin. 

Frankie's fingers are long and thick and they move within you slowly. They don't force themselves, they take their time as they stretch your honeyed walls. You savor the steady work of the two fingers that sink into you, curling as his thumb circles your clit.

You're barely able to focus on anything outside of Frankie's hitched breathing and the way he's tucked you up close to him. He's warm; his shirt damp from sweat and it makes your head spin. 

You can't help but make soft little noises, and when Frankie leans closer, head tilted you realize it's because he wants to hear them. This realization makes the throb between your legs intensify. 

When he curls his fingers into a come hither motion, your back bows, stomach clenching before everything in you turns liquid. 

"Oh fuck," you groan, grabbing him by the collar as he works at you. "Fuck fuck." 

He's smiling, you can hear it when he breathes your name, your real name, not Pip. But you're too focused to open your eyes, hips rutting, chasing after the pleasure that suddenly bursts behind your eyes in white sparks. 

"F-Frankie," you gasp, eyes flying open as you come on his fingers, your core spasming as he continues his steady thrusts, the tempo never changing. 

"C'mon, c'mon," he chants under his breath over and over like a mantra watching as you shatter for him. 

It feels like it goes on forever. Your hand is still fisted in his shirt, holding tight as your voice cracks and you finally flop back, spent. 

His hand shifts back from under your skirt, glossy fingers leaving a shiny trail down your inner thigh. Your eyes track them, mouth going dry when Frankie pops his glossy digits between his lips. 

You can only stare as he closes his eyes, savoring the flavor of you on his tongue. Your body burns for him in that moment, shocked and needy, speechless when he removes them from his mouth and his eyes are pitched black. 

You surprise yourself by leaning forward and slanting your mouth against his - curious to see if you can taste yourself, eager to feel his warm lips properly. A proper kiss. 

He doesn't pull back, doesn't even flinch. He just remains in place, mouth parting, tongue brushing yours. You taste only him. 

The kiss is deep, slow and tender. He doesn't rush it, he just moves to hold

your face and lets you discover him. Shivers run the length of your body. 

This was the kiss you wanted all those years ago. The searching kind, the gentle type. The kind where a man holds you gently and kisses you like you mean something to him. 

You do this for a while, until your lips are swollen and the sun has started to set. Only then do you pull apart, shocked to find that somewhere in the process you ended up half in his lap. 

His eyes flutter open, pupils still dominating his lusty gaze. 

"Did you like that?" He murmurs, face dangerously close to yours. 

"Yes," you breathe quietly. Your heart flutters. 

He grins, teeth gleaming like sunshine and then it's him who moves forward to capture your mouth. He begins making soft little groaning noises when you crook your arms around his neck. 

Suddenly he's pushing you backwards on the couch before following after. The kissing moves to groping you over your clothes, hilariously chaste considering he had his fingers buried within you only minutes before. 

Your thighs are around his hips, whimpering as you feel him swollen between the layers of fabric. 

"Frankie," you moan between kisses, "I want you to fuck me." 

He gives a dry laugh, assuming you're joking. But when you're face remains fixed his breathing elevates. 

"You don't want to do that with me," he says, chiding. "I barely have any experience."

"I know."

"You might hate it." 

"I know." 

"You might not come." 

"Frankie!" You snap, getting angry. "I just want to lose my virginity okay? Stop making it such a big deal." 

It is a big deal. It's a very big deal, but you have a feeling if Frankie knows how big a deal it is he won't even consider it. 

But this is something you've wanted for a long time. The only boy in the world that you'd feel comfortable doing this with. 

He takes his time to survey you, likely going over an internal tally of why this is a good idea and why it's a terrible one. He must settle on the former though. 

"We should do it in my bed," he says huskily. "What do you think?" 

You stand eagerly, nodding. 

"Yes. Let's go."

"You’re really sure?"

“Yes.”

You've always been sure of Frankie. 

Rosalita arrives for her overnight shift, giving you a small hug as she sees you. She's smells like coconut, her hair tied back from her face. 

She hangs up her jacket, looking over her shoulder to see you placing a tea for her on the table along with some recently purchased cookies.  

"How lovely," she says with a genuine smile.

She moves to you slowly, her movements soundless. Despite her age she moves like a young woman, silent and delicate. She settles herself across from you, taking a cookie and breaking it in half then gives you a conspiratorial wink. 

"Shouldn't have too much sugar." 

You warm your hands with your own tea, watching the steam move lazily above the water. She chews quietly, taking stock of the cleared table the two of you sit at. 

"You cleaned." 

You glance around the tidied area, thoughts of Frankie in your head. His actions last night haven't left your mind. 

"How are you?" You ask, looking at her with a strained expression. She returns it with a serene look, one shoulder rising. 

"Completely fine."

"I kind of thought you might not want to come back." 

 She gives you a chirpy laugh; shaking her head and placing a hand overtop your own. 

"My dear, this is my job. I have seen much worse. I have been through much worse." 

"Like what?" 

She looks thoughtful up at the ceiling, lips pursed. 

"One woman pushed me down the stairs. Another sprained my wrist. I had a gentleman that threw his feces once. But that was an extreme case."

You can't understand it. How a woman can be treated so terribly day after day and still rise with the sun, still smile as if the world isn't a cesspool of miscreants.

"How do you stay so... Kind? So positive?"

"I think of myself as very fortunate to take care of the elderly." She takes another sip of tea from her mug. "Your mother has lived a long life and she deserves to end it with dignity." 

You're suddenly aware that your cheeks are getting warm. The kinder she is the worse it gets. 

"How do you not get angry? I feel so... Angry." 

You haven't admitted that out loud to anyone. The very sentence makes you feel drenched with guilt. 

"Because I know they react out of fear or frustration. It's never cruelty for the sake of it." 

For not the first time, you think Rosalita might actually be an angel. An honest to goodness cherub sent to earth because who else could approach it that way? 

You think of last night. Of Rosalita's stressed expression, of the blood on her cheek. 

"I just..." You feel your brows saddle. "I'm just so humiliated that it happened. Which is so dumb because I know she didn't do it on purpose. I know she was just genuinely afraid but... I'm just so embarrassed she did it." 

"Please don't be," Rosalita says. "I care for your mother. I hold nothing against her. It's the disease, not her." 

You've heard this before. During a group therapy session that Greg suggested when you were together. A chance to talk with other children of alcoholics. 

"Alcoholism is a disease," a thin woman leading the meeting said. "Just like diabetes or heart disease." 

Your fingers curled in your lap, teeth gnashing. 

How can it be a disease when she chose to pick up the bottle time and time again? 

You'd left at the smoke break, not even bothering to finish the meeting. When Greg asked you that evening how it went, you'd shrugged and said you didn't get much out of it. 

Rosalita finishes her tea, pushing it slightly back. 

"How is your mother today?"

"Really good," you say and now you find it possible to smile. "Like, she was so lucid this morning."

"Wonderful." 

"We talked about her life as a kid and... It's like she's getting better. I mean, I know that's insane. Like, dementia doesn't go away, but-"

Rosalita lightly shakes her head, the look in her eyes heavy. You feel a flutter start in your chest. A bad one. 

"My dear we are nearing the end and you must prepare yourself." 

You know. You know that. But maybe, just maybe, a silly part of you wondered if the doctors got it wrong. If she wasn't as sick as they thought.

"She was just so with it today," you say, chin quivering. "Talking about her childhood and...I only had to give her one morphine tablet." 

You trail off when you're voice starts to shake. Rosalita looks like she hates herself for having to reply. 

"Have you ever heard the term terminal lucidity?" 

"No."

Your mom makes a moaning noise from the next room and Rosalita's attention is immediately diverted. She stands giving you a soft smile and then she moves into the hallway to check on your mother.

Terminal lucidity. 

You bring up your phone, typing the words into Google and reading at an intense speed. 

"Terminal lucidity is the sudden, unexpected return of mental clarity, memory, and cognitive alertness in patients suffering from severe dementia, brain damage, or other terminal illnesses shortly before death. Known as "the last goodbye," this rare phenomenon allows nonverbal or unresponsive individuals to communicate clearly, often lasting from minutes to hours."

You don't know why this but this has your fingers shaking so hard that you drop your phone onto the table. It clatters loudly, the sound setting you on edge.   You push yourself up from the table, suddenly needing fresh air. Needing to breathe. 

You need to leave. 

THEN

You've never really been in Frankie's room before. Frankie's parents never really liked him having friends over and definitely not in his bedroom. His hand is sweaty holding yours, so warm it feels like he's on fire. You stare at his profile, noting the way his throat bobs nervously. 

As he leads you inside you can't help but survey the clean and neatly stacked shelves, the model planes made with such attention to detail. 

He releases your hand as he moves over to bed made up so tightly you could bounce a quarter on it. He pulls back the sheets, plumping his pillow before walking back over to you. 

His eyes trail along your collar, down over your breasts, lingering at your skirt. He's drinking you in like water.

"Can I undress you?" 

You feel shy at that, hesitating. You don't know about Frankie seeing your body with all its imperfections. You thought you might do it with all your clothes on. 

"I'll go first?" He offers, fingers fumbling at his belt. "Maybe that would help?"

You give a half shrug, still not sure. 

You watch in quiet fascination as Frankie strips down, stepping out of his pants, socks and unbuttoning his white shirt. He tosses it all in the corner of the room. 

His cheeks are pink, his chest flushing as well. You see the extent of it when he removes his undershirt and tosses it into the same corner. 

He's breathing a little more heavily now, and you can see his arousal bulging in his blue boxer briefs. It's intimidating as much as it is exciting. 

"Now you," he says, indicating you should do the same. You figure he's abandoned the idea of undressing you, sensing it's too overwhelming. 

You glance around at the room, feeling like the light is vivid despite the setting sun outside his window. 

"Can we close the curtains?" 

"Sure." 

He moves across the room, tugging the pale grey fabric across his bedroom window. Its better, the light dimmed but everything is still visible. 

"That okay?"

"Yeah." 

"Do you want me to turn around?" He offers gently. "You can get into the bed and under the covers?"

Relief nearly makes you dizzy. 

"Yeah. Don't turn around until I say." 

He turns and you tear the clothes from your body, curling them into a ball. You don't want him to see your panties or bra. Something about the thought too intimate despite the fact that he's going to see you naked in mere moments. 

You place them on the chair beside his desk, looking over your shoulder to make sure he's still not looking. 

He isn't. His body faces away from you, his hands flexing at his sides. You scurry back over to the bed sliding under the covers and plumping up the pillow behind your head. 

"Okay." 

He turns around, eyes trailing over you in bed. You have the blankets held up under your chin, your eyes wide. You hope you look sort of appealing and not like a scared mouse. 

He moves over to his desk, pulling a small wood box from the shelf overtop it. You watch as he produces a small foil packet from inside. A condom. 

He stares at it for a long time, not looking your way. 

"You can say no any time," he reminds you. 

"I know." 

He gives a relieved exhale, coming towards you. He's still wearing his boxers and your curiosity is overwhelming. Kevin's dick had been nothing to write home about, fairly normal, no weird marks. 

But you want to see what lies between Frankie's thighs. You've thought about it more times than you care to mention. 

He's still standing beside the bed, about to climb in next to you when you hold up a hand. Interpreting it as you needing to slow down or stop Frankie immediately jumps back. 

"Sorry, too fast or?"

"It's not that," you whisper, voice hoarse. "It's just, can I see you first?" 

Frankie isn't as shy as you are. He nods, tugging down his boxers and kicking them behind him. Then he stands there, chest puffed and lets you take him in. 

You stare at his stiff member, utterly fascinated. His is so... Pretty. Bigger than Kevin’s. So perfectly proportioned, the color golden with a pinkish tip. It makes you bend forward on the mattress, tongue extended. 

His cock twitches aggressively at the sight and Frankie nearly jumps out of his skin, stepping back with a shaky laugh. 

"You can't do that."

You cock your head, puzzled at his reaction.  

Kevin loved blow jobs. He couldn't be more enthusiastic enough about them. And you've read enough magazines to know that no guy turns down head.  

"Do you not like blow jobs?" 

Frankie flushes, shaking his head.

"I like em too much." 

You shrug. Whatever. 

You re-position the pillow behind your head and lean back, watching Frankie slide the condom over his erection. He's panting through parted lips, eyes fixated on his fingers. When it's secured he glances over at you. 

He's going to see all of you now, the thought making your body tingle. He was brave enough to show you his naked body, so you lay your hands palm down on the mattress. 

He peels back the sheets slowly, as if he's savoring the sight. You watch his eyes rake down your naked form, lingering over the curves and valleys of your body and you tense up when he just blinks. 

"Holy shit," he finally whispers.

You remain watching his reaction, only fully relaxing when you see the hungry look in his eyes intensify.  

"Get into bed," you say plainly. You don't want to wait anymore. 

Frankie is flushed, his ears a bright pink when he crawls in next to you. His body is warm, the hair on his legs rasping against your calves. 

"Ready?"

You grin widely. "Yeah." 

He pushes himself to his knees, clumsily positioning himself between your legs. He looks like he's going to explode out of the condom. 

You take in a deep breath, letting your thighs fall open, indicating to him that you're ready when he is. His eyes immediately move to your glistening sex fully bared to him and his brows saddle. 

"Jesus, Pip," he groans, covering his eyes. 

You snap your thighs together, mortified. What did you do wrong? 

He looks in pain. Kevin never looked at you like that. Are you ugly down there? It's always looked normal to you. But maybe to Frankie it's repulsive. He's seen a lot of vaginas. At least six.  

This was a huge mistake. 

You go to roll away, off the bed and he peels his fingers from his face, holding you by the shoulder. 

"Wait, what are you doing?"

"Just forget it okay?" You snap, one arm covering your bare chest. "Clearly I fucked up and you don't want to do this anymore."

He frowns. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"You covered your eyes," you say, tears turning him into a watercolor blur. You wipe them away, jerking your head to the side. 

"I told you I didn't know what I was doing," you sniffle. "You didn't have to be an asshole about it."

You pause when his big hands come to cup your face, forcing your eyes to his. He looks surprisingly amused. The sight infuriates you enough to attempt and jerk your head away. But he holds you in place, waiting for you to settle. 

"Pip. It wasn't a bad thing," he breathes. "You just looked so damn good I was worried I wasn't gonna be able to last." 

Oh. 

"You don't need to know what you're doing," he continues, voice soft. "I'll take care of you." 

Then he moves forward and presses a kiss to your mouth. Sweet, tender and innocent. A kiss that conveys that he's got you, you're safe. You kiss him back, sighing softly. 

"Let me see again," he whispers against your mouth, voice husky. "Please?" 

He leans back, eyes on your lower belly in anticipation. 

You swallow, thighs falling open once again. He sucks in a breath, eyes fixated between your spread legs. You know the pose must be lurid, but now you like how it makes Frankie go all pink. 

"Can I go down on you first?" he asks raggedly. "Please?" 

You can only nod, too eager to feel embarrassed when he shimmies down the mattress, laying on his belly and, urging your thighs to part for him. 

They relax, unhinging to spread widely for him. Your face burns but you don't let yourself look away from his reaction. He gives a low groan when he peers between your legs, face going slack as he sees the mess you both created there earlier on the couch. 

You watch, fascinated as he moves forward, inhaling deeply before groaning again. 

His eyes move lazily up your body, meeting your steady gaze with his own. Before you do or say anything more, his mouth descends. 

What happens feels quick despite Frankie tasting you at his leisure; licking and making obscene noises that make your body break into goose bumps. 

When you come in an absurdly quick fashion he raises his head as you go limp on the mattress, breathing raggedly. He looks absolutely ruined and you wonder if you appear the same. 

"That was so fucking hot," Frankie pants, his mouth glossy as he crawls back up next to you on the bed.

You pull him towards you and he kisses you feverishly, excitement palpable as he nestles between your thighs, notching himself at your entrance. 

"Ready?" 

You nod, holding your breath. 

"Tell me if you need to stop," 

Now he holds his breath, watching your face as he feeds himself into you slowly. You feel the first sting of it when he's halfway in, sucking in a lungful of air. He immediately stills, eyes searching your face. 

"It's okay," you assure him. "Keep going." 

You smell the old spice of his deodorant, the soapy laundry scent of his skin. For the rest of your life those scents combined will take you back to this moment. 

It will take you back to Frankie working his way inside you with a delicate balance of arousal and tentativeness. It will take you back to that first moment his body settles within you to the hilt. To the blown out black of his pupils. 

It will take you back to the gentle, rhythmic rocking of his body over yours, to the gentle creak of the mattress, to the building pressure that began to morph into pleasure when Frankie begins to kiss your neck. 

It will make you smile at the sweetness of your combined youth, at the clumsy way your teeth clack when he starts to kiss you during it. Or the way your leg cramps partway. 

"Fuck," Frankie grunts, his face buried in your neck. His hands fist in the blankets, his shoulders rolling. "Fuck, baby, you feel too good." 

You smile to yourself, perversely proud of something you didn't even know you were doing. 

But then you parse his words, eyes blowing wide. 

Baby.

He called you baby.

He's never done that before. In the decade you've known him Frankie has never called you anything but your name or Pip. Something about this makes your skin burn in the best way. Like you want to run around the block with the sudden glory you feel.

Sex is nothing like you read about in cosmopolitan, nothing like the porn you've giggled over while watching on the school computers with your friends during free period. 

This is sweet and slow, punctuated with soft grunts and moans as the mattress creaks. Frankie doesn't look away from you for a moment. He checks in with you periodically if you've been too quiet for too long or if he thinks he's hurting you. 

He never is. 

His left hand goes to find yours on the bed, fingers lacing. He presses it down into the mattress, mouth on yours as he slowly thrusts. 

And when you finally climax it isn't some big, loud screaming thing. It's your body arching, voice a cracked moan of his name. 

"I've got you," Frankie's rumbling voice tells you. "Go ahead. Let go. I've got you." 

The words, his touch, and the way his mouth finds yours. It's all so good, your hips rolling against his until you’re sweaty and spent, trying not to give a disbelieving laugh.  

Now it's Frankie's turn and you watch in fascination as his brows saddle when you grab his middle. 

"Harder," you insist, wanting to feel just how powerful he can be. "Deeper."

"I don't want to hurt you."

"You won't." 

Frankie could never hurt you. 

You feel the weight of him pressing down on your pelvis, reveling in the way he moans your name. And then you watch his eyes squeeze shut, his thrusts pounding into you as you feel him release. 

Your magazines prepared you for pain, for blood on the sheets and some out of body pleasure. None of that occurs. There is no blood, no intense pain. The pleasure you felt was good, but not the kind you read about. You don't even know if that kind of pleasure is realistic. 

No, it's nothing like you read about or prepared yourself for and you couldn't be more thankful. It was real and it was Frankie and that makes it perfect. 

He licks his lips, eyes bouncing between yours before he extends his neck and kissing your mouth. Its so feather soft, so perfectly sweet. 

He pulls himself from you slowly, gauging when you wince. It feels a bit sore between your legs but nothing overwhelming. Frankie rolls off of you to land onto the mattress beside you. You both breathe heavily, shoulders touching. 

"Was that okay?"

You give a satisfied hum, nodding.  “Yeah.”

You’re not a virgin anymore.

"Be right back." 

You don't glance after him as he throws the blanket off of him, for modesty's sake. You hear running water, the sound of rustling. 

You remain laying there so uncertain of yourself. Frankie gave you what you wanted, so should you leave? You tense up, uncertain as you glance around for your clothes. 

Your panties are beside the bed and you tug them on quickly. You're still glancing around for your t-shirt but throw yourself back when you hear the bathroom door in the hallway creak open. 

Frankie pads back into the bedroom pulling on fresh pyjama pants. You remain laying there, totally thrown. Why isn't he saying anything? You watch him pull a T-shirt from the dresser before he's crawling back into the bed next to you.

"Here."

He hands you the soft shirt with some obscure band on the front. You stare at it for a moment, figuring perhaps he thinks you'll need it for the walk home. You sit up, curling forward as you hurriedly tug it down over you. Now that you both have finished, the thought of him seeing your bare chest makes you shy. 

The shirt is oversized on you of course, and it smells like his laundry detergent. You notice he's watching you, one arm behind his head, the other between the two of you. 

You wait for him to ask you to leave now that you've had sex. When he doesn't you worry he's extending this to be kind, maybe he thinks you need this emotional aftercare. 

“Thanks for that.”

You prepare to take the blankets off from over your legs but you stop when you see the concerned look in Frankie's eyes. 

"You don't have to leave," he whispers. "You can stay over if you want."

His vulnerability touches something in you. That big strong Frankie who has always been the one to save you now needs saving.  The affection you've always held for him seems to multiply, making the answer you give him instinctive. 

"I'll stay."

You slowly lower yourself back down beside him, watching him settle into the bed with a soft exhale. It sounds like relief. 

Your shoulders touch his and you think that this is how you'll sleep, side by side, breathing slow. But his hand is sliding over your belly to tug you towards him. He urges you onto your side, pulling your spine against his front. 

You feel as he curls around you, long legs and arms holding you like a sentry before tucking you under his chin. You've never been held like this. Not with one's entire body, with this warm calm that floods your body. When he kisses the top of your head you believe you might actually melt. 

"Night, Pip." 

"Night, Frankie."

The night air is a welcome balm to the burning despair in your chest. You propel yourself along the cracked sidewalks with tears in your eyes. 

You forgot your phone back at home and you don't want to go back for it. You just want to be free, away from all of this, away from the pain. 

Santi is too far away and you can't call him. Payphones don't exist anymore. So much of your youth has been decimated, revamped, killed off. Gentrification of the nearby homes, the local bodegas gone, all to make way for a city you don’t recognize anymore.

You turn the corner and realize the only home nearby is the one you've unconsciously been walking to this entire time. The house you can never forget. Its still in the quiet of night, the distant sound of buzzing insects the only sound.

You're not actually expecting him to be home. It's not even seven - he's probably out with the guys or – 

"Pip? What're you doing here?”

The door opens abruptly and his eyes widen when he takes in that it's you. He's wearing jeans and a t-shirt. When you see the Standard Oil hat perched on his head your lower lip starts to wobble. 

“Is your mom okay?"  Frankie's voice isn't hard and neither is his gaze. He's genuinely curious. 

"It's... It's...I needed to be away..."

He doesn't wait for you to finish trying to find the words. He just gives you an inscrutable look and then steps backwards motioning behind him. 

"Do you want to come in?" 

You hesitate. The thought of going inside Frankie's house right now seems too overwhelming. You want to remain here on his step, still able to breathe the fresh air. 

“I don’t know.”

He nods, not rushing you, not upset. He folds his arms over his chest but not in a defensive mode, more like he's holding himself, like he's bracing himself for something you're going to say. 

"My mom..." You manage to whisper.  "It's... She doesn't have..." 

You can't say the words. Can't commit then to the air. If you don't say them out loud then maybe they won't come true. She can't leave. Not when things looked like they could be changed. Not when forgiveness feels possible. 

And suddenly the words are getting trapped in your chest, making it hard to breathe, making it hard to think, making it hard to do anything other than gasp for lungfuls of air. You struggle, eyes frenzied, brows shooting to your hairline when it doesn’t come. You’re stuttering, unable to stop.

“Breathe, Pip.”

Frankie's hands are there at your shoulder, broad and gentle. They ground you as he squeezes his fingers into your skin lightly. He crouches slightly, trying to catch your eyes with his. 

"Take a breath.”

He models this, slow and deep, making you copy him. 

In.... And out.... In.... And out. 

His hands are gently removed from your shoulders only when you're breathing grows even. 

"Okay. Try again. What’s going on?" 

Your face crumples, and you're not sure how you can say the words. But his steady voice and the way he stands there, waiting with such openness, makes it possible to answer. 

"My mom doesn't have much time. I thought she was doing better but that's just something that can happen right before the end." 

And for once you want that familiar comforting feeling Frankie used to bring you. Whether it was pulling you from trees or holding you in bed. You want him to chase away all the ugly fears that you can’t.

And like some kind of miracle he nods like he knows this, somehow he senses it and he holds out his arms to you. It's a simple gesture, soft and welcoming. His arms, strong and golden remain there, waiting.

You go willingly, the action natural, easy, familiar. And the second you hit his chest and inhale that familiar old spice and laundry scent you feel a ragged cry cleave from your throat. 

"She can't leave me." 

One of Frankie's big hands cups the back of your head, the other holding you against him. He murmurs your name, that he's got you. You sob quietly into his chest, tears soaking the soft fabric of his t-shirt. He rocks you slowly, soothingly. 

"I'm here, I've got you," he rasps when your sobs quiet. "I've got you, baby." 

dividers by @saradika-graphics

taglist

@ashleyfilm

@beezusvreeland

@joeldjarin

@maried01

@peppermintfury

@severelysentientnova

@speaktothehandpeasants

@vickie5446

@yellowbrickyeti

[onlythehobi]

im fucking crydidjxnsnkdkdkd

HE CALLED HER- hE CALLED HER BABY

AND HE DID IT AGAIN!?!?*#>'uc

OHMYHODOSKDJXKDKKDMD

i feel so bad for pip like my poor girl :( i can't imagine the pain she's feeling💔💔💔

now omg that smut, as a virgin, felt as soft and shy and beautiful as heaven itself

[auteurdelabre]

Holding Pattern part 5

Frankie Morales x F!Reader

a03 link here

Summary:

You move back to your childhood home in Florida to care for your ailing mother, only to find the past waiting for you in every room. Your always kind older cousin Santiago refuses to let you disappear into the sadness, pulling you into his world without hesitation. But Santi's world involves Frankie Morales; your cousin's best friend and the boy who broke your heart decades earlier. Thrust into each other’s orbit again old memories make their way to the surface, blurring the line between hatred and desire.Because the boy you learned to despise is the man you can't seem to forget.rated 18+ for later chapters

THIS STORY IS ON A03

tags: Friends to Enemies, First Love, Childhood Friends, Brother's Best Friend trope kinda, Angst, Smut, Flashbacks, First person POV, Protective Frankie, First kiss, parent with terminal illness, HEA.

notes: Happy (late) Frankie Friday! Thank you for loving this story even if its themes are a bit heavy. I find myself really loving this version of Frankie. Its different than the stuff I normally write, but I am having a great time pushing myself as an author. In the meantime, the frost may be starting to thaw for Pip and Frankie...

chapter trigger warning: BLOOD. KNIVES.

"I never wanted daughters you know." 

The comment is said raspily, almost like the sound of air being sucked through a straw. 

Your mother has taken to moments of sadness like this, looking at you with regret in her large, watery eyes. 

The bathtub she sits in is full of tepid water that smells of lavender. A calming scent, Rosalita told you. But your mom isn't exactly calm. She's woebegone. She sits cowered in the center of the old tub; her knees are brought to her bony chest. 

You sit alongside it, your knees digging into the linoleum as you soap up her jutting shoulder blade. Water has soaked up to where your sleeves sit rolled to your elbows. 

"I was convinced I'd have sons," she says, her chapped lips splitting her face in a smile. "So was your dad." She gives a faint sort of chuckle. "You know before Hilary was born he bought a little baseball mitt."

You don't say anything as you scrub her back, looking at the sharp notches of her spine. She's lost more weight in the last few weeks. You've found napkins of food hidden around the house. 

"I think that's why he left you know," she says. "After you I didn't want more kids but your dad really wanted a boy." 

You don't really care what your father wanted. To you he's like an urban legend, something you've heard about from different sources at different points in your life, but you don't really believe in. Rumors of his infidelity are the most common, ones you believe because even Santi is aware of it. 

"Being a woman is hard," she offers. "I didn't want girls because I know how hard it can be." 

Your mother shifts in the tub, the water lapping at her ribs. She looks skeletal from this perspective and the sight physically hurts you. 

"I'm sorry I wasn't a better mother."

She says this all of a sudden, clarity edging into her large eyes. She stares up at you like a child, desperate for affirmation from a withholding parent. 

A thousand replies die on your tongue. How can you look at her and confirm that she was indeed a terrible mother most of the time. That her drunkenness casts a pall on most all of your childhood memories. 

That rolling her drunken frame onto her side to ensure she didn't choke on her own vomit shouldn't have been a common childhood pastime. 

But like a coward you avert your eyes, twisting to grab the large green towel from the closed toilet seat lid. 

Your mom stands as you wrap her in the warm towel. So unabashed in her nakedness that she reminds you of a small child. This feeling is compounded as you lead her to her bedroom and help her into her pajamas. 

"Why didn't you marry Greg?" She asks as you fasten the top button of the silk pyjamas you bought her recently. 

"We haven't been together in, like, five years mom."

"I know that," she snaps as if you're simple. "I want to know why you didn't before."

"Because he cheated on me," you say simply, as if the memory doesn't cause you pain. "With some girl at his work."

You've never told your mom this before. You always made it seem like it was just a time-management thing, that Greg and you had competing work schedules and couldn’t make things work. Admitting his infidelity felt humiliating. But she looks fragile now and knowing so little time remains you can't help but share your truth.

She raises a shaky hand, a trembling finger fluttering against your cheek like a butterfly wing. 

"I didn't know." 

You flinch away from her touch and her piteous gaze. You don't let yourself get engulfed in the pain you see there amongst the pity. 

"It was a long time ago," you tell her as you help her into bed, knowing the dangerous nature of existing in past memories. 

Greg was everything you wanted in a partner. Tall, handsome, quick-witted and kind. 

He had a good, if boring, job as an investment analyst for a local form. But he wasn't the nerd your friend prepared you for when she set you up on the blind date with him two years prior. 

You were amazed by him that first night, not just that he knew the right kind of wine to buy or had gone to the right schools. It's that his life had been so different from yours. Healthy family life, a sister he adored. He had real money- the kind that bought him a fancy apartment you were afraid to dirty with your cheap shoes. 

You both had busy lives but you enjoyed the time you had together. Greg loved to cook and you love to eat, you loved going outside in nature and the inexperienced Greg loved being dragged along on your adventures. 

Sex was good. Not amazing, but then again is sex in your thirties supposed to be amazing? That's for your twenties when you're trying to figure out what you like. Greg communicated, he made sure you came first and he always, always snuggled after. 

In later years you'll look back and realize the snuggling with him was your favorite part. 

Greg was attentive and vocal about how much he loved you. He was the first to build you up when you felt low, the first to text a good morning when your schedules didn't align. 

Everyone who met him loved him. Every person you talked to spoke of what a good guy he was. You called him Triple G for Good Guy Greg. He always laughed when you did, rolling his eyes. 

After two years you had a feeling and engagement was coming soon. The way he anticipated your needs, the way he made love extra sweetly. You'd settled into a domestic partnership that really worked for both of you. 

So it came as a surprise when he appeared wan over breakfast one morning. 

He was dressed for work, but his short blonde hair was mussed, purple hollows under his eyes.  When you sat down at the table with him you laid your cereal bowl down first before handing him the orange juice. You always hand it to him in the morning. 

For some reason it was that small simple act that pushed your boyfriend over the edge. He stared at that orange juice glass with sudden tears in his eyes. 

"There's someone else." 

The cereal had gone tacky in your mouth, sticking to your upper palette like particularly stubborn peanut butter. You just stared at him, your hand still raised with the bread sitting inches from your lips.

He was crying, slow streams of tears sliding down his face. It made him look ugly.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry."

You must have been in shock because you don't remember doing anything other than sitting there and staring at him. Your eyes were so wide they ached. 

When he cried snot ran down from his left nostril, revolting you so much you had to look away. 

"I didn't mean to do it," he insisted, blubbering on, his hands rubbing at his swollen eyes. "It just happened. I never meant to hurt you."

You were numb at that point.  

He tried telling you details, about how he felt lonely, about how he felt like the trust was gone from your relationship. But you weren't listening. You were already emotionally detaching from him. 

You calmly told him to leave your apartment, watching him pack his things into his large duffel. You'd never really let him move in completely, and now you were thankful for it. 

When he asked if the two of you could talk about this sometime, you simply shook your head. It was over. 

When he left that night, you sat in front of your television with a glass of wine, aimlessly scrolling through the channels, concerned that you weren't crying . 

You suppose it was because a part of you was convinced that this was inevitable. Your dad cheated on your mom according to family. Now Greg cheated on you. 

Full circle.

THEN

'Mom, please! It's not fair!"

"No," your mom replies, voice slurring. "My daughter is not getting a goddamn nose piercing."

"Poppy has one!"

"I don't care what your sister's friends do! Besides Hilary is four years older than you." 

Your mother bends over the kitchen table, eyes shut as she drinks her coffee. Coffee spiked with vodka of course. Just to take the edge off, she explained when you asked. 

"But Mom-"

"I am not having my sixteen year old daughter walking around like a tramp, end of discussion. You keep pushing it and you're grounded for the rest of the day." 

Your eyes burn with the injustice of it. You saved your babysitting money for weeks. You were so excited to get this nose piercing not just for yourself but to prove to everyone - Hilary included - that you're not some loser who only loves computers. You wanted to appear older, more mature. You wanted to fit in better with Santi and Travis and… Frankie.

And now when asked for a note to give to the piercer, your mom denies you the one thing you want. 

You had no birthday cake. No gift. No well wishes. Just your mother complaining about having to pull a double shift and your sister rolling her eyes when she passed you in the hallway this morning. 

You hear the knock at your front door and rush towards it, flinging the door open and gazing at the boy standing there with a breath of relief. 

"Hey, birthday girl," Santi says, grinning widely. 

At almost nineteen he's heading for greatness, going to school in Boston, about to be the first one in your family line to go to college. He wraps an arm around your neck, tugging you to follow out the door. 

You storm out of the house after him, chin quivering as you hold back a sob. You hate it in this fucking house. You long to escape. 

 "Ready to celebrate?"

"Not really," you mutter, kicking a rock as you follow him towards the sidewalk. "Mom says I can't get a nose ring." 

"No shit. Really?" Santi looks as devastated as you feel. 

The two of you had been planning this for a while. A nose ring for you, an earring for him. A sort of special connection between the two of you before he leaves for university. 

"Is okay," Santi says, shrugging. "I probably would've looked like shit with one anyway." 

The two of you have come upon the car belonging to Frankie's grandmother. A brown station wagon he drives with the max speed a turtle would scoff at. He waves at you from the front seat. 

"Birthday girl in the back," Santi announces. 

"Shouldn't birthday girl get the front seat?"

"Not if birthday girl wants to open her present."

"You got me a present?" 

You practically dive into the back seat, grin wide. Frankie twists in the driver's seat, a small smirk on his face. 

"Happy birthday," he says quietly. 

"You get me a present too?'

"Designated driver," he scoffs. "As close to a gift as you'll get from me." 

There's that same liquor store the two of them get booze from. The one that has a clerk that never checks ID's and leers at pretty girls. 

"Here," Santi says, passing you back a small package clumsily wrapped with newspaper. 

It's a keychain inside, handmade with a small shell from the beach. A hole is drilled in, securing it to the braided hemp. 

It's beautiful. Your only gift. 

"For when you finally get a car," he teases. "Made it myself. Well, Frank helped me to drill the hole in the shell. It was his idea." 

You force yourself not to cry. 

Going through the items in your home becomes an activity between work and taking care of your mother. It helps you to think of it as a task, something to be completed. When your mother passes it will be left to you and Hilary to go through her assets and sell off the home. And considering Hilary's penchant for self absorption, this will fall onto you. 

Today your mother sleeps soundly, the morphine doing its job. She's started to complain now about the pain in her belly, forgetting that it's the stomach cancer that eats her alive from the inside out. 

You both love and hate the morphine for doing its job. 

And selfishly because when you're mom is in that sleepy state and stays in bed quietly for hours, you don't have to listen to the increasingly cruel things she says. Or worry that she'll scream in confusion of where she is. She's gotten more violent too; pushing, scratching you and Rosalita. 

Rosalita continues to be a saint, whispering to your mother soothing words. Some in English, some in Tagalog, some both. 

Nandito ako. ligtas ka.

I'm sorry kung nasasaktan ka.

Ganon?

Bahala na!

Sayang!

You find her words to be comforting in their rhythmic cadence. You like the way her face gets animated when she speaks. She feels like a lighthouse in a storm, a bright beam guiding you through murky waves and blistering wind. 

You work on your childhood bedroom today, even though your stomach drops every time you walk through the door. You force yourself not to think about the years you spent in this room curled up on your bed, praying for time to go faster. Waiting until the day you could leave forever. 

You start with the old clothes of your youth, barely giving them a second glance as you toss them into garbage bags that soon bulge with shirts and pants and sweaters. You'll take them to the thrift store today. 

Then you take a photo of the empty dresser. This will be put on Craigslist to sell. 

You're trying to get a better angle of it when your phone slips from your hand, skittering under the bed. 

“Shit.”

You drop to your knees to retrieve it, reaching under the bed when your hands brush against something else. Something square and very dusty. 

You bring it out slowly, partly in memory as the shape begins to make sense. It's an old shoebox with the word memories scrawled over the top in pen. You look fondly at your uneven teenage lettering before lifting the lid. 

A collection of childhood mementos stare back at you. Concert ticket stubs, photographs, notes from friends, drawings you did to pass the time, post cards from Santi when he was overseas. 

Near the bottom wrapped in a piece of fabric is the braided hemp keychain still with that tiny shell affixed to it. Next to it, a small box containing one aquamarine stud. You bring it to the light, looking at it up close. 

It's like you can inhale the scent of a bonfire, the feeling of the breeze on your cheek, the sight of stars above. 

You stare at it in your hand, feeling your eyes fill with unexpected tears as you recall that night

THEN 

The night is balmy and the sound of the burning bonfire tickles your ears in the best way.   

The three of you circle round it with Frankie stoking it. You and Santi pass back a bottle of Malibu because you told him you always wanted to try it.   

You sit on a large piece of driftwood watching the flames, feeling pleasantly warm between the fire and the drink. You find your attention occasionally drifting to Frankie, even when it's Santi dominating the conversation. 

Frankie's face has lost the baby fat of his youth, his jaw sharper, and his maturity lending him an air of intrigue. His dark hair has grown shaggy and curled at the ends and his beard grows in sparse patches. 

"You know with your beard all patchy like that you kinda look like a Catfish," you observe during a lapse in the conversation, pointing at Frankie with a girlish giggle.

His hand comes to gently stroke his cheek, looking indignant. "It's not patchy."

"It really is," Santi grins, shouldering him playfully. "Sorry, Catfish.

"Don't call me that." 

"Sorry, Fish. It fits too well." 

He mutters about getting more firewood as you and Santi laugh to one another. You watch as the tall boy goes stalking off across the sand. He doesn't wobble of course; he's sober as a judge.

Santi has a little smile on his face, vision glazed as he stares at the fire. The large expanse of his dark eyes make the perfect canvas for the flames to paint upon. 

"So you're officially sixteen," Santi says with a slight slur when Frankie is out of earshot. "You got a boyfriend yet?" 

The booze has loosened your inhibitions, because the question only makes you giggle instead of being mortified. 

"No. Never even been on a date." 

"Really? Not even one?" Santi says with wide eyes. 

"It's not a big deal," you defend as you shift on the sand. "Mom won't let me date until I'm eighteen." 

"Didn't stop Hillary," Santi says, chuckling in a way he's never done when sober. 

Hillary had been sneaking out to be with boys since she was twelve. Your mom never knew of course, until your sister came home with a hickey you could see from space.

That was the same day your mom announced the "no dating until you're eighteen" rule that Hillary continued to break behind her back. 

"Yeah, but that's... Hillary," you shrug. "She never cares if she gets in trouble." 

"True." 

You take a long glug from the white frosted bottle and when Frankie comes back you are feeling loose-limbed and pleasantly sluggish. He looks at your drunken form with thinned lips and an expression that feels like disapproval. You squint up at him.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Travis arrives later, dressed nicer than his usual shorts and t-shirt with holes. His hair is brushed and he smells of a cheap eye -watering cologne.  

"Here," he says, pushing a fancy looking box into your hands. "Happy birthday." 

You're surprised by his actions, but touched. Travis has never given you a gift before. 

"Thank you," you say with sincerity. "I can't believe you got me a present."

"Was at the mall and thought you'd like it."

Travis beams and the group watches as you open the lid, eyes widening when you see what's inside. 

You think you feel Frankie's eyes on you across the bonfire when you give a soft coo of surprise. 

Inside the box is a solitary stud, a light blue gem that sparkles in the firelight. Your expression drops and you hold back tears the longer you look at it. You know that Travis doesn't have a ton of money. 

"You said you were getting a nose ring," Travis explains, looking concerned at your muted reaction. "Don't you like it?" 

Your mouth is twitching as you look to him. 

"My mom won't let me." 

Travis deflates his disappointment palpable. 

"Oh shit. I'm sorry." 

You surprise yourself when you stand on wobbly legs and give Travis a tight and drunken squeeze. 

"Thank you for the gift," you murmur. "The second I get a nose ring, I'm wearing it every day. I'll never take it out." 

Travis returns your embrace enthusiastically, pressing a dry kiss to your temple. 

"Happy birthday, Pip." 

You never did get that nose ring. 

And in the distraction of growing up, Travis' gift was eventually put aside. But now seeing the warped box and the memento of your youth makes you smile. 

You haven't thought about Travis in years. Unlike Santi and Frankie he drifted apart from the group. The last time you checked he was engaged and had become a real estate agent somewhere in San Antonio. 

You don't know what possesses you but you take the two items from your box of memories. The key-chain is slipped into your back pocket; the nose ring still in its box goes into your purse. 

You drive yourself to the mall when Rosalita begins her shift. You walk in a daze, distracted by the bright colors and high energy. Such a difference from the oppressive monotony of your childhood home. 

You walk into the first Claire's you see. 

It's fairly empty; the kids are still in school. You feel sort of silly walking in with the childish accessories, many covered in glitter. 

There's a girl restocking headbands near the back and when you ask her if they do nose piercings she turns. She looks so young, eyes rimmed with blue. 

"It's $29.99 and includes the stud." 

You bring out the box with the aquamarine stud. "Can you do it with this one?”

She takes it in her hand, scrutinizing it. "I have to sanitize it first but yeah. It's still $29.99 though."

"That's fine." 

The girl's name is Melissa and she eagerly guides you to a chair. 

"Okay hon," she says in a sing-song voice, as if you're not at least a decade older than her. "Ready?"

When Santi asks you to come for beers with the guys the following week you surprise yourself for agreeing without even asking who will also be in attendance. 

If Frankie is there, you decide, it doesn't matter. You're not excited at the prospect of seeing him, but the thought of his mere presence doesn't make your stomach churn like it used to.  He drove you home last week, didn't he? He asked about your mom. That was civilized behavior. You can show the same to him. 

Rosalita looks especially tired when she comes to relieve you that evening, her smile a little more forced. She yawns, hanging up her purse on the hook by the door. 

"Are you okay?" You ask, bracing yourself for the fact that she might be too exhausted to stay. You'd understand, you wouldn't hold it against her. 

Your mother has been especially high spirited today, but not in a good way. Throwing things, attempting to bite you. When you tell Rosalita this she just shrugs, as if this this is everyday behavior. 

"Just tired," she explains, tying her long straight hair back into a low bun. "My family is visiting and I only have a one bedroom apartment." 

She says it with a lilt of joy in her words, as if she's excited to be crowded in a house full of family. 

You couldn't relate to her less in that moment. 

"Are you going on a date?" She asks, her wizened eyes taking in your outfit. 

You suppose you did put a little more effort in tonight, jeans that flatter, hair that makes you feel sexy. You even spread a bit of color your lips as well, a forgotten piece of nostalgia you found at the bottom of the memory box.

"No. Just seeing my cousin and his friends for beers." 

She gives you a small little smile, before she nods and tells you to have fun. But you've stopped with your hand on the doorknob. 

She must notice your hesitation, the way your eyes go to the hallway because she twists her neck, noticing where your mother stands looking at you both balefully. 

"Hey mom," you murmur. 

She must have just woken up, the left side of her hair flat from where she slept on it. She looks you over with disappointment.  Before you can say anything else Rosalita is urging you out the door by your shoulder, patting you gently. 

"Everything will be fine here, my dear. Go and enjoy a night to yourself." 

The bar is crowded and the music is loud. You'd been expecting a more low key evening but you suppose the pulsing beat takes your mind off of things at home. 

The guys are already sitting around a table when you arrive, bodies relaxed, grins on their faces. You're relieved not to see Tom in attendance. You don't know that you could have suffered for another one of his mind-numbing comments. 

They turn and wave to you when you approach, and there's a certain lightness in your step as you move towards them through the crowd. 

"No fucking way," Santi says with a crow as you slide into the booth next to him. "Did you get a nose ring?"

"Maybe."

He grins widely, peering at it up close. "Only took you a few decades."

"Shut up," you laugh, grabbing the pint of beer that's slid your way by a grinning Benny. "Guess that means you need to get yourself an earring George Michael style." 

"What about George Michael?" Asks Will from the other side of Santi, speaking loudly over the music. 

"Just convincing Santi to get the earring like we planned to as kids."

"Do it,” Will enthuses with a thumbs up. “You totally won’t regret it.”

You cast a shy glance across the table to see Frankie smiling lightly at you. He looks much more relaxed this evening, less strained since you've been back. 

"Hey," he says in a voice that holds no disdain. Like he's genuinely okay with your company. 

The smile you give him back is sincere. 

"Hey." 

Benny is seated next to him, his light eyes traveling your way. "Glad you could make it." 

"Me too," you say with a quiet exhale. "I needed a break." 

Frankie's attention is fixed on the side of your face; you feel it, noting it when you look at him covertly from the side of your vision. 

He looks different tonight. Something you can't quite place. It's not his clothes because he’s dressed the same since he was a teenager. Jeans, t-shirts. Maybe a button-down thrown over top if he's cold. 

Benny grabs your attention with a story about an upcoming boxing match. How you have to join them for it. You agree, secretly curious at how it would feel to watch him shirtless and glistening, punching another man. 

You find his pretty blue eyes flitting to you for the next hour while Santi is regaling the group with stories about Columbia, but you're distracted. 

Your attention keeps going to Frankie, surprised to often find him looking your way. When your eyes connect you both look away quickly, Frankie flushing at the back of his neck.  You don't know why it keeps happening, why you feel compelled to look his way. You can barely stand each other. 

But you suppose you miss that friendship, the Frankie of yesteryear that held your heart and your confidences. Perhaps in your trip down memory lane with the memory box, it unearthed that desire for his friendship again. 

The thought makes your stomach twist, but you're not sure it's in a good way. 

"This beer sucks," you say making a face. "I'm gonna get a real drink." 

You push out of the booth, thankful for the reprieve. You start digging in your purse for your wallet as you move through the throngs of bodies. 

You hate all the noises around you, the leering men as you bypass them, the way the floor is sticky with old booze. But you finally make it up to the bar in the back circle of shouting patrons, hands raised with cash as they bark out their drink orders to a flustered looking server who nods. 

You find a gap near the end of the bar, jostled by a few college kids who laugh obnoxiously and are wearing far too much cologne. 

You scan the drink list, wanting something sweeter tonight. You assume they'll have a shitty wine collection judging by the younger clientele. 

"So what made you get the nose ring?" 

A husky voice is at your elbow, Frankie's warm eyes on you when you turn. He must be getting another water judging by the empty glass he holds in his left hand. 

Sober, you remember. In recovery.

He leans against the bar top next to you, his muscled arm strained in his grey t-shirt. You're shocked at yourself for observing it.

He's very close, your bodies scant inches from each other in the busy spot. He smells like he always did, fresh sweat and laundry and something underneath that you’ve never inhaled on another person. Maybe it’s just the combination of pure Frankie.  

It takes you a moment to remember he's asked you a question. When you do you suddenly feel silly wearing it, like you're fifteen again trying to be cool. Trying on a face that doesn't feel like you anymore. 

"Midlife crisis?" You offer. 

"Aren't you supposed to get a car for one of those?" He teases. 

"That's a guy thing. Better start saving, Morales." 

He chuckles softly and you hold in a soft inhale when he smiles. The first true smile you've seen on him since you got back. Maybe since you were teenagers.It transforms his face from haunted to utterly glowing. A sight that makes your breath catch in your chest. 

"I found it when I was cleaning out my old bedroom," you say trying to recover yourself. "From my bonfire birthday." 

The smile dims slightly as Frankie recalls the night. You see him scan the air around you, reaching through time. 

"It's the one from Travis?" 

You nod, before shooting him a crooked grin as you reach into your pocket. You produce that familiar hemp key-chain, the one with the shell. 

His brown eyes widen, fingers coming to gingerly grasp the shell between his thumb and forefinger. It looks ridiculously diminutive between his large fingers. 

"No shit. You kept it." 

You duck your head shyly before pocketing it. Frankie watches this with a small smile tugging at his mouth, creating a sexy sort of slope you force yourself not to acknowledge. 

The bartender finally comes towards you and you raise your brows, about to order when a tall man enters your line of vision, cutting in between you and Frankie to order his drink.  It's not that uncommon you suppose, it's a busy night. Guys are like this and you find yourself not all that irritated for the interruption, because it extends this moment between you and Frankie. 

"Vodka and a drink for this beautiful lady," the man says indicating your way with a wink. "Whatever she wants." 

You blink up at him, taken aback. The man's back is to Frankie who looks furious standing there watching everything. You try to catch his eye, but he's glaring at the back of the man's bald head. 

"No thanks," you mumble with a frown. The woman behind the bar nods, moving down the bar, to prepare his drink.  

"Oh come on," the man says. Up this close you can see his eyes are glassy. "One lil' drink."  

You feel wrong-footed, like you're betraying Frankie if you take it even though you have no intention of doing so. 

"She said no, asshole." 

Now the man notices Frankie, turning to see him glaring a few steps away. He gives an ugly sneer Frankie's way, pointing at you.

"She your girl?"

Pink crawls up Frankie's neck, into his beard.

"No."

"Then stay out of it." 

You see the tic in Frankie's jaw, the way his fists clench at his sides. He doesn't even glance in your direction. He has the look of a predator, a dark, dangerous glare that he shoots at the man. A look you’ve never seen before.

You quickly circle around the obnoxious man and come to stand in front of Frankie. 

"Let's go," you mumble, indicating with your head at the guys now waiting by the pool tables. "I'm not thirsty."

Frankie stares at the man over your shoulder a few seconds more before his eyes move to you, focusing sharply. 

He nods slowly, jaw flexing. To your surprise he slides a wide hand down your spine, notching it there at your lower back, sweeping you towards the table where the guys wait. 

It's a brief graze, over in a few seconds but your skin tingles from where he touched it. 

THEN

"It's okay honey," your mom says in a soft coo. "Just relax. I put some Hershey bars on the table next to the bed." 

You mumble a thanks, even though it's sort of embarrassing to be sixteen and still being babied like this. But a small, secret part of you is delighted with the comfort. 

Your mom has work soon, so she's sober. She's softer when she hasn't been drinking. You wish you didn't have brutal period cramps and a headache so that you could enjoy it more fully. 

She kisses your temple and tells you she'll bring home Midol after work. You close your eyes, but you can still feel her staring down at you. 

You don't shift when she moves her fingers to your hair, gently brushing it out of your forehead. 

"Sleep tight, wake up bright." 

Then she's gone the sound of her clattering keys the last that you hear before you fall into a light slumber. 

---

The sound of urgent knocking wakes you from your nap, head fuzzy and belly sore. You slip on a robe and go padding towards the front door, your hair wild. You expect it’s a neighbor asking to borrow eggs or something equally banal.

You open the door to see Frankie there, instantly humiliated at him seeing you  in such a state. He rarely comes to your house, you can count on your hand the number of times he has. And that's always accompanied by Santi. 

You stand there for a moment in total shock that he's standing there alone with his big hands in his pockets. 

"Hey Pip. Is Santi here?"

If he notices that you look like absolute garbage, it doesn't show on his face. You shake your head, wincing as your stomach gives a lurch. Frankie stares at you, eyes narrowed. 

"You okay?"

"Just a little headache," you explain, too embarrassed to tell him it's your period. Something about the idea brings you shame, as if existing as a woman is something to hide. 

"Oh. Sorry if I woke you up." 

"It's okay."

He looks uncharacteristically uneasy as he shifts from sneaker to sneaker. 

"Is he going to be here later? I went to his place and his dad doesn't know where he is or when he'll be back." 

"He's not at work?" 

"Nope. No shift today." 

There's no way to get in touch with your cousin if he's not at home or at work. Other kids your age can afford cell phones, but not you and Santi. Travis has one, a hand-me-down with a chipped screen but it's still a marvel to you. 

"Huh." You frown a little, noting the sun beating down on Frankie's shoulders. You step back. "Wanna come in and wait? Maybe he'll show up." 

Frankie glances over his shoulder, as if expecting Santi to come strolling out behind him. Then he turns back nodding and making his way inside. 

It's too hot for a chocolate bar you decide. Even with all the fans going, your skin still feels tacky. 

"Do you want a freezie?" You ask, feet padding to the kitchen. "I'm gonna get one." 

"Nah I'm okay."

You cut the plastic tip of your favorite blue flavor and when you return he's sitting on the couch, big hands folded. You take a seat away from him on the couch, the cheap springs digging into your bottom. 

"Why do you need to see Santi so bad?"

"I wanted to see if he wanted my bike." He leans back, looking anxiously around the room. 

Frankie's bike has long been coveted within your group. A sleek black carbon fiber with padded seats and fancy breaks. With Frankie being the son of a military man the item is meticulously taking care of, shiny with its gears in perfect condition. 

You stare out the window at the beautiful bike sitting there and jealousy curls within you. 

"Why are you giving it to him?" 

And why not me? You want to ask. I'm the one with the worst bike in the whole group.

He removes his cap, running his fingers through his mahogany curls before replacing it back atop his head.

"I got the call today and I need to be at Joint Base tomorrow. I'm leaving tonight."  

You take a bite of the frozen blue treat, crunching the ice between your teeth. It chills your insides... Or maybe it's Frankie's words that do that. 

You knew that this day would come. The inevitability of Frankie following in his father's footsteps and leaving for basic training. 

He does this despite how smart he is, despite the fact that he could get a scholarship for school, that he doesn't need to impress his father. A father who withholds affection and finds his son's hair curled at the ends to be "embarrassingly effeminate." 

You don't go over to the Morales house often. You don't like how his dad stares at you and Santi like you're trash. That he smirks when you say you want to travel for your job when you grow up.

"I thought you were going somewhere called Fort Moore." 

"San Antonio-Lackland is direct funnel for the air force. My dad put a good word in for me." 

You frown, the freezie making your hand go numb the longer you sit there holding it. 

"Where's that?"

"Texas." 

Your stomach drops out of your body. 

"I...I thought you were gonna be stationed in Georgia," you say, trying not to sound anxious. 

You'd looked it up when Frankie first mentioned it. Fort Moore is in Georgia. A Six hour drive away from where you all live. 

A long but not impossible drive. The kind of distance where he could come back for events, the odd weekend. 

But Texas? That's almost a day's drive. That's too far for short visits. You'll never see him. 

"Do you know anyone there?" You ask, trying to sound unaffected. 

"No. I wish I did." 

He gets a strained look on his face though. Like he's not saying something. 

The freezie is melted in your hand and in a form of distraction, you tilt your head back draining it of its juice before crumpling the empty plastic. 

You watch as he removes your father's cap from his head, and you think he'll do his customary hair comb through and cap replacement. But he just holds it in his hands by the rim, thumb tracing the stitched logo.  

"Can you keep this for me until I get back?" 

He extends the hat your way, his eyes still on the logo and not you. 

You're confused, looking between he and the hat. Is this some sort of strange farewell, is he trying to cut you out of his life forever? 

"I'm not allowed to bring any personal items with me," Frankie explains when you don't respond. "They said anything I bring will be stored until graduation so there's no point bringing it. It might get lost." 

You look at the hat in his hand. It looks so beaten, so worn. Almost matching your battered heart which thumps dejectedly behind your ribs.  

"Just keep it at your place," you say softly. "It's yours." 

"I'm worried my dad will chuck it when I'm gone," Frankie admits softly, his arm still outstretched your way. "He's not a fan of me wearing hats." 

He’s not a fan of Frankie wearing your hat. From your house.

You take it, watching as if outside your own body when he hands it to you with a sad smile. 

"Do you really want to do this?" You ask him curiously, your voice flimsy. "Like, go in the military?" 

"Sure."

"You don't sound very convinced." 

"Of course I want to," Frankie is quick to amend. "My dad told me how great it was so..."

He trails off looking thoughtful. 

"So your dad said it was great," you say flatly. 

"You know how much I want to fly," Frankie insists, looking a little put upon. "I have since I was a kid." 

"There's other ways to fly, Frankie."

"Not ones that are free." 

"I don't think being in the army qualifies as being free, Frankie," you scoff. "Four years of active duty right? Not counting MSO. So eight years sacrificed for this? Doesn't exactly sound free to me." 

Frankie has been growing increasingly pink as you speak, his jaw clenching tightly, feathering when you scoff again. He explodes out of nowhere with his teeth bared, eyes burning. 

"What the fuck would you know? You don't even know what you want to do with your life." 

Frankie rarely ever snaps at people, and you've never actually seen him angry with you before. 

That's saved for people the boys at school who decide Frankie is too tall, too broad, too quiet not to pick on. They learn all too soon that he's not a person to mess with. 

So when he bites at you now, you're a bit taken aback. Your eyes must register this shock because he immediately softens, voice dipping down to its low familiar timber 

"I want to fly, Pip. And I want to be a part of something." He swallows. "My dad said he made some of his closest friends during deployment. He says it's like a brotherhood." 

And for the first time since you've known him, you hate Frankie Morales. Hate that he's just going to do whatever his dad says. Hate that he talks about acquiring new friends so casually, as if he's not abandoning you and Santi.

You don't say anything. 

"I guess I'll just leave my bike on the lawn," Frankie says pointing to the front yard out the window. "Can you give it to Santi when you see him?"

"Sure." 

He doesn't make any move to leave; he just stares at you with the strange look on his face. Normally you would relish this alone time with him, such a rare occurrence. But your stomach aches, and you just want to end this horrible conversation. 

"My headache is getting pretty bad," you lie. "I'm gonna go back to bed." 

Frankie stands slowly, his brows knitted. He knows he said something wrong but he can't figure out how to fix it. 

"Unless you want the bike," Frankie says, as if the concept just occurred to him. He looks you over as you stand, eyes lingering on your legs. "I think if I lowered it, you'd be able to fit it." 

You don't say anything, the anger's still palpable in your belly, combining with the cramps that make you cringe. 

He waits a beat, and when it's clear that you won't be responding he just exhales softly, heading for the door. 

You follow him at a distance, your arms over your chest, your eyes threatening to fill with angry tears until you rapidly blink them back. 

He opens the door, stepping onto the porch before stilling mid-step. You watch his broad back expand before he turns around to face you. 

"Pip, would you write to me while I'm there?" He asks gently, eyes on the ground. "Like, if I sent you the address?"

Normally the question would delight you. The concept that your crush Frankie wants to receive your letters is exciting.  You could imagine him keeping them in his barracks for the days that feel too long. Rereading the passages that make him smile, drinking in passages that might make him miss you. 

But you're too furious. Too hurt to know that he's leaving without regrets. That he's looking forward to being away. That he can't wait to make new friends. 

"I probably won’t have time,:” you snip. “I’m joining the school paper.”

You don't miss the hurt in his eyes when you say that. 

"Oh right. Makes sense." 

The sight of his sad nod makes you open your mouth, about to take back the ugliness of your previous words. You regret it so much; your heart feeling like it's clawing out of your chest. But he's already turning away from you, waving over his shoulder.

"Take care of yourself, Pip." 

Then he's gone, long legs carrying him down your walkway until he's nothing but a mirage. 

---

When Hilary arrives back from the mall later that afternoon she finds you curled up on the couch with tears streaming down your face. 

She takes one look at you before sitting beside you, urging your head to rest on her lap. It's a strangely maternal act, one that you've never witnessed from your sister before. She watches as fat tears roll down your cheeks before she finally whispers.

"Frankie?" 

You hiccup a sob, unable to answer. 

"I'm sorry," she says and you don't miss the hitch in her voice. "I'm really sorry." 

You've always been terrible at pool, but tonight you're downright awful. You don't know how to properly hold a cue; you've never actually played aside from the odd game in college. 

You can feel eyes on you from around the crowded room, people waiting their turn at the table. Your face burns with every shot you miss. 

Frankie is a decent player, Benny good as well. But it's Santi and will who run the table, clapping each other on the back when they get a particularly good shot. 

You stand back and watch this in amusement,  listening to the quiet clink of balls colliding. 

"Your shot, Pip." 

Fuck. Can you just fake a headache or something? Anything to get out of this scrutiny? 

Your eyes drift over the table, catching on Frankie's. An encouraging nod, slow and steady, a shift of his head and back. It's then that you realize what's different about him, when your eyes snag on the logo of his dark blue hat. 

Standard Heating Oil. 

He's wearing your dad's hat again. Something about that makes your insides quiver. Is it delight? Surprise? Confusion? Maybe it's all three. Is this a sign of goodwill? A silent truce?  Whatever it is, it emboldens you to lean over the table and line up your shot while trying to ignore the nerves creeping in as you feel everyone staring. 

You draw the cue back, trying to recreate what you just saw Will doing. But thoughts of Frankie and his hat are in the forefront of your mind, distracting you. The cue taps forward and you watch as the ball veers off, missing the pocket completely. An easy shot missed. 

"Fuck," you whisper under your breath. 

There's a soft chuckle behind you.

“Here,” Benny murmurs behind you, his voice low and warm. "Lemme show you." 

Immediately your pulse skyrockets, arousal pooling in your lower belly as you feel his firm body press up against your back. 

“Positioning is everything,” he says.

"What the fuck would you know?" Will says with a chuckle behind his beer bottle. "You're one of the worst people I've ever played with." 

"Shut the fuck up," Benny says over your head, his voice rumbling through his chest and dancing along your spine. 

One hand gently adjusts your grip on the cue, his fingers brushing yours long enough to have you breathing heavily through your nose. 

“Loosen your wrist,” he says, softer now. You notice Santi and Will exchanging an amused look. 

Frankie however has a thunderous expression on his face. He's holding his cue stick so tightly you think he might break it. He's tired of waiting for you. Frustrated that you're dragging down the game, you're sure of it. It makes you want to succeed, turning all your attention to Benny. 

Benny's hand hovers near your shoulder, then settles lightly guiding your posture forward. 

“Like this,” he adds, his voice near your ear, big hands encircling yours as he pulls the cue back. 

You feel him lean in slightly, and you're sure that the pose is beyond sexual to anyone watching.  The thought makes your ears burn. 

“Now,” he says, pulling back just enough. “Take the shot.”

When it goes in with a satisfying clack you give a high pitched shriek of delight before throwing yourself into Benny's waiting arms. 

"I did it!" 

"Are we still playing or what?" Frankie asks coolly. "Otherwise we should give up the table." 

"We're still playing," Benny says with a roll of his eyes. "It's my turn anyway you grumpy bastard." 

Frankie gives a tight look his way before his hands lace overtop of the cue tip. He's not looking your way anymore. You watch Benny hit a successful shot before feeling the first pangs of thirst. You never did get that drink you wanted. 

"I'll be right back," you announce. "Heading to the bar." 

You slip away through the groups of people surrounding the pool tables, your eyes peeled in front of you. 

"Hey pretty lady. You change your mind?" 

The familiar reedy voice is at your side. It's the bald man from before. You can smell the cigarette smoke under his thick cologne and it repulses you. You don't turn to give any indication that you heard him, but he's persistent. 

"Are you sure I can't get you that drink?" The man asks; shark smile wide as he follows you towards the bar. 

"Like I said earlier, no thanks," you say tightly. 

The guy's smile doesn't dim. "Cmon. Anything you want."

You stop halfway to the bar, a hand on your hip and a serious expression on your face. 

"Dude, enough," you say exasperatedly. "I'm not interested. Fuck off." 

A group of nearby guys who overhear you start guffawing, pointing at the man who has turned a bright red. The humor flees from the man's round face. He takes a menacing step forward and with a touch of fear you notice his hand curl into a fist. 

"You listen here, you ugly bitch-"

An arm flys out from behind you and a punch cracks against the man's jaw before either of you have time to anticipate it. He goes flying back, hip hitting a nearby stool and tumbling to the ground. 

You look over your shoulder to see Frankie standing just behind you, his chest heaving. He looks at you briefly. 

"You okay?" 

You don't have time to respond as the rest of the guys come to see what happened, shoving their way through the circling crowd. 

"He was harassing Pip," Frankie tells them when they approach.  

"He was?" Santi scowls before you can answer, going over to the man that has just managed to raise his head. He's got a split lip drooling blood. 

Benny is on the other side of him, the two men circling the woozy looking man. 

"You guys, stop!" You say, trying to step forward. But Will is there, raising an arm between you and them, silently urging you to stay in place. 

Patrons have started whispering, pointing. A woman looks near tears. 

"You harassing my cousin, asshole?" Santi shouts. 

"No, man!" The guy says, a bruise starting on his jaw. "I was just trying to buy her a drink!"

"That's not what he says," Santi says jerking a thumb Frankie's way.

Frankie is still standing there coolly appraising the man. Something about the sight of him looking so cold and domineering, his arms fairly bulging under his T-shirt makes you feel frightened, like you’re looking at a stranger. 

"Break it up!"

A man with ropey arms and a buzzed blonde head comes striding over, interrupting the interrogation.  Everyone looks his way, and you know that the bald man on the floor looks especially relieved. 

"All of you get the fuck out of my bar," the manager says jerking a thumb behind him.  "Don't come back." 

"Sir, we're really sorry-" Santi starts, ever the charmer. But it's not working on the older man who just shakes his head, hands stemmed on his hips. 

"Take your bullshit and leave. You're banned." 

The guys grumble, grabbing their jackets as the man on the ground is helped to a stand. You trail miserably after the exiting group, your face flaming as other patrons stare and whisper when you pass. 

"I'm going to the bathroom," you mutter at Santi's back at the last second. You slip away from them, pushing the creaky door of the ladies room open. 

You're so disappointed with how this evening turned out. You'd been looking forward to relaxation, an escape from chaos. 

You splash water onto your burning face, eyes staring at yourself in the mirror. Sometimes you don't recognize the woman who stares back at you. She looks scared and lonely and hollow.

When you exit into the parking lot minutes later, you're frustrated to find it empty of your friends, save for a woeful looking Frankie with his hands in his pockets. 

"Where is everyone?"

"They left."

"Without you?"

"I told them to leave. I wanted to talk with you." 

"I don't feel like talking, Frankie." 

You turn, digging in your purse when you feel Frankie's warm palm cover your shoulder. 

It's brief, over in a second as if he's just realized a silent no touching rule now exists between the two of you.  

"Wait, just-“

"He wasn't harassing me," you explode, spinning around with a snarl. "He was just being annoying! I can handle myself, I didn't need you white knight-ing." 

Frankie looks downright miserable, folding his arms in front of his chests and staring at the ground. 

"I wasn't trying to do that." 

Yes you were, you want to tell him. Because that's how you've been since we were kids. You always wanted to come to my rescue because I always wanted you to save me. 

You don't say anything though; you simply turn on your heel and head in the other direction. You walk slowly but with purpose. You don't let yourself look behind you. You don't want to see if Frankie looks angry or sad. 

"I'm sorry, Pip." 

At first you think it might just be a random sound carried on the breeze, because there's no way that Frankie Morales is apologizing to you right now. He never apologizes.

But you stop walking, head turning to see him standing where you left him, chin tilted up staring after you. 

"What did you just say?" 

"I said I'm sorry," he says, pink high on his cheekbones. "I know you can take care of yourself." 

You remain standing there, not taking a step in either direction. You feel your brows drawing down, mouth thinning. 

He looks upset, and maybe that's what eventually urges your feet to move back his way, approaching him warily. He's keeping your attention, not shifting his eyes from you, looking relieved when you come to stand in front of him. 

"Do you want a ride home?" 

He blinks, clearly thrown by the change of conversation. But he seems to gauge that your anger is ebbing and he gives a brief nod. 

"If you don't mind, sure." 

You exhale slowly after a moment, leading the way to your mom's truck. You climb in, feeling the truck jostle when he does the same. He takes up so much room in the narrow truck, long legs spread, tall body almost grazing the roof. 

The drive isn't especially long but the time drags on the longer the two of you sit in silence. From this distance when you sneak a glance his way you can see that he's got a tan on his arms, probably from the beach. You wonder if he's been back there since your time together. 

You think of the woman with the caramel hair who gave him her number all those weeks ago. A distant part if you wonders if he's called her, if they've fucked. 

He says something to you while you're deep in those thoughts, pausing and you look his way for a moment. 

"What?"

"I said I wasn't trying to White-Knight before," he tells you quietly, eyes fixed out the windshield. "I just heard him call you a bitch and I guess I lost it."

You turn down your street; the one you need to go down to get to Frankie's quicker. In habit your eyes move to your own home as you speak. 

"You never used to be like that," you tell him. "You used to be gentle. You never hurt people." 

"Things change. People change," Frankie insists in what sounds like a sulking tone. "I just grew up." 

He's pissing you off. Acting like this change in character is a sign of maturity when it's anything but. 

"Oh give me a fuc-"

The words die on your tongue as your house comes into view. Rosalita is on the front lawn with her cell phone in her hand, shakily trying to type. She has smears of blood over her cheekbone, her hair having come unless of its customary bun, tendrils waving around her face like frenzied snakes. 

Your mom is there behind at the door, robe open and completely nude underneath. She's screaming at the top of her lungs. 

Blood drains from your face. "What the fuck?" 

You swerve into the curb along the front of the house, ripping your seatbelt from around you.

You push open the creaking door of the truck, you're not even sure if you closed it behind you because all you can focus on is the scene playing out in front of you. 

When Rosalita sees you a look of extreme relief crosses her features and her phone is forgotten.

"I was about to call you."

"What the fuck happened?" 

Rosalita's reply is lost, because your mother has just spotted you and she begins screaming your name over and over. 

"Jesus Christ," you gasp when you see her right hand is smeared with blood. You don’t listen to whatever Rosalita was about to say, you're already streaking towards the house. 

But the blood, the screams, everything has you on edge and you trip over a crack in the split cement. 

You feel wide hands at your shoulder, keeping you from collapsing into a pile on the ground. Old Spice and fresh sweat washing over you.  

Frankie is there, his eyes narrowed in focus. For a moment you wonder if this is what he was like in service, this sudden change. The way his body squares and his face goes hard. The way his dark eyes focus like you've never seen before. 

His hands leave you when he realizes you've regained your balance. You take off to the house again, watching the world bounce as you move. 

"She has a butter knife," Rosalita whimpers when she sees you approach her, as if it isn't plain as t day. 

Your mother is wielding it like a dagger through the air, screaming. 

"She stole my watch!" 

Your mother doesn't even own a watch. Hasn't needed one since she retired and told you and your sister that she was 'on retirement time now.' 

"I'll take you to emergency," Frankie insists to Rosalita from behind you. You didn't even realize he was still there. 

"Why?" She looks puzzled, touching her cheek when Frankie lifts a hand to touch his own. She gazes at her fingers coming away with blood and she blinks rapidly. "This isn't mine." 

"She's been stealing from me!" Your mother screams again. 

And now you notice the small slice along her hand, the one oozing blood. Your heart thumps wildly in response. And in that moment you can't do anything. 

The blood, the screaming, the knife. Being back here. Christy. Feeling so alone. Greg. Missing Hilary. So alone. Frankie. 

You feel like you did at that party so many years ago when Madison mocked you. When you wanted the world to swallow you up. When you felt frozen in place. 

"Hey there ma'am. You mind if I come in and use your washroom?"

Frankie. 

Frankie is still there at your back, looking down at your mother. He's wearing a soft expression, his voice patient. You tense up, waiting for your mom to scream at him. But instead she just stares up at him with wide eyes. 

"I know you."

Her voice is soft, tinged with a bit of confusion. But she doesn't look at him harshly, more as if she's remembering the young boy he was. 

"You mind if I come in?" Frankie croons. 

Your mom is blinking rapidly, eyes moving from you to Frankie. Frankie gives her a charming smile as he moves around your frozen form. 

"I can't remember where I put the broom," she says wobbly at him. Frankie nods, acting as if she's making sense.

"No problem. Lemme just get this," he mutters, closing your mother's robe and cinching it around the waist. "And let's grab some tea." 

He takes her tiny arm in his, maneuvering her slowly back into the house. He's so tall, so big that your mother with her height and weight loss looks so diminutive next to him. Like a father arm-in-arm with a beloved child. 

You watch this in awe, eyes following them inside. Rosalita looks relieved a hand to her sternum as she approaches. 

"It's my fault," Rosalita says shaking her head. "I was making toast and-"

"It's not your fault," you insist. You don't know the whole story but you know it's most definitely not on Rosalita. 

"I'm going to head home," she says, stepping over the threshold to grab her purse. 

"You're okay to drive?"

"Believe me, in my job I've seen so much worse." 

You can't imagine seeing worse than this.

"Thank you, Rosalita." 

You hear your mom's voice drift from the kitchen and you go rushing in that direction. 

She's got her hands on her hips, a thoughtful look on her face as she stands by the sink. She still clutches the butter knife in her left hand, knuckles blanching from the grip. 

Frankie is across from her, looking at her with the very patient smile on his face. 

"You must be hungry." 

"I want a sandwich," your mom pouts.

"Sure. Here," he says holding out his large hand. "Pass me the knife so I can make you one."  

It's said so airily, so casually, that your mother doesn't suspect anything. She hands it over and takes a seat at the table, ignoring you standing at the side of the room.  

"Peanut butter," she orders. 

Frankie nods. "Jelly?"

"No." 

"Coming right up."

You watch as Frankie takes the knife and washes it under the tap before tossing it in the dishwasher. With a fresh one he scoops peanut butter onto fresh bread and cuts it diagonally. Like your mom used to do for you when you were a child. 

You take your mother's distraction as an opportunity to step closer to her, your fingers snaking down her crepe arm to hold her wrist. You turn her hand to face upwards.

"Mom, Jesus," you gasp looking at the wound on her hand. It no longer oozes thick blood, but there is a metallic tang in the air. 

She flinches, tugging her hand back abruptly. She scowls at you, thrusting her hand behind her back.  "Don't." 

Frankie's body warms you before you even register that he's come up behind you. You only realize when his voice croons out from behind you calm and steady. 

"Sandwich is ready. Let's take a seat."

You stand there, watching as the two of them move to the kitchen table, hidden in the corner like some voyeuristic spider. 

You're embarrassed that it's covered in pill bottles, packages of adult diapers, letters from doctors. You and your mother don't really eat at the table anymore, it's become a catch-all for necessities. 

Frankie doesn't flinch, just moves some of the boxes to the floor so he and your mom have a place to perch. She's like a bird in many ways you observe, frail, twitchy. 

You remain by the sink, hunched with your arms held crossed in front of you, unable to decide where to stand or what to do. You're worried that any movement, any sound might send your mother into another meltdown. 

You notice belatedly that Frankie’s made two plates up. One for your mother, one for himself, like this is a regular occurrence for the two of them to catch up over a meal. 

He slides her sandwich to her first, his eyes tracking the way her eyes dart down to it with anticipation. To be fair, it's the best peanut butter sandwich you've ever seen, but maybe that's just because you're hungry. 

He waits for her to take her first bite, warm eyes regarding her with soft scrutiny. You notice that he doesn't make any attempt to actually eat the sandwich on his plate; it's merely a tool in which to suggest connection and conviviality. 

"Can you pass me a few towels? One wet? And a band-aid?" 

It takes you a moment to understand that he's talking to you; you're so focused on watching your mom eat. When he whispers your name, your eyes snap up to his, relieved that he's not looking at you harshly or with irritation. 

You're taking up so much time of his night right now, especially strained after the fight the two of you had earlier. It makes you feel self-conscious, fingers clumsy as you rush into the bathroom to grab for a fresh rag, trailing it under a warm trickle of water from the sink.

You pull out the band-aid box, then another hand towel. You bring the bounty his way, passing the items into his waiting hand. 

"You hungry?" He asks, head tilting to the untouched sandwich on his plate. He smiles, one side twitching when you go to shake your head but your stomach rumbles. 

"Sure. Thanks." 

Your face warms as you lower yourself onto the chair beside your mother. She yawns sleepily. 

"Tell me about your day," Frankie says softly holding out his own. "And lemme see your hand so I can clean it." 

Something about his gentle approach makes your mother more amenable and she lets him take her soiled hand and begin to clean it. 

She can't think of what to tell him about her day. From her expression you can tell she doesn't remember. Instead with her one free hand hand holding her sandwich she takes a bite. 

"Are you flying today?"

"No ma'am." 

"What do you fly again?" She asks through a mouthful of peanut butter. The cut isn’t as bad as you thought it was now that the blood’s been washed away. A simple slice, not even that deep.

"Helicopters." 

He doesn't look upset when he tells her. Just a patient waiting as she swallows, nodding. 

"Oh, right, that's right." 

With tender focus Frankie scrubs under her nails and talks to her about his old job. You can only watch dumbfounded. 

"Francisco," she says, snapping the fingers of her free hand. The one dusted with crumbs. "That's your name." 

"Yes, ma'am." 

Your mother smiles, pleased with herself. She watches him scrub underneath her nails a moment longer before she reaches out and taps the brim of his hat. 

"My husband had a hat like that."

You watch Frankie's eyes lift, drifting your way before he looks back to her and nods with a soft smile pulling at his lips. 

"Your daughter gave it to me when we were kids." 

Your mom glances over at you for confirmation, cheek bulging with a bite of sandwich. You nod, feeling somehow vulnerable when you admit that. She gives you a soft smile before turning back to face Frankie. 

"You're such a handsome boy," your mother says, looking more relaxed. 

"Thank you ma'am." 

Your mom looks your way again, smiling gently. "Isn't Francisco handsome?" 

Th Frankie continues gently cleaning your mom's hand. His eyes are fixed on her but you know he's listening, waiting for your response. Your pulse flutters to your neck and you stumble to a standing position, a weak smile on your face.

"Mom, lemme grab you some milk." 

You move quickly to the fridge, pouring a glass of milk to help with the peanut butter. You’re relieved when she smiles and thanks you instead of repeating her question when you return. 

Frankie is just bandaging up her hand, telling her to be careful with it. She waves him off, thanking him for the sandwich before pushing back her chair. Her milk glass sits untouched on the table next to her empty plate.

"I'm tired," she announces.

She stands up, shuffling over to give a surprise Frankie a kiss on the cheek and wishing him pleasant dreams. He ducks his head shyly, wishing her the same in a quiet, rumbling voice. It reminds you of thunder when he speaks softly like that.

You follow her to the bedroom, making sure that she gets into the bed all right, relieved that she's not kicking up a fuss anymore. 

"My stomach hurts," she says, brows curling up in pain as you pull up the bed sheets to her shoulders. "Can I have some Midol?" 

She looks like a lost child when she says things like that. You know she doesn't remember the cancer that's slowly eating away at her stomach. 

"Sure Mom," you say forcing your voice to sound jovial. "One sec." 

You remove the morphine tablet from its blister pack, bringing it back and placing it on her tongue. You hand her one of the nearby water bottles and she drinks it down quickly. 

She falls asleep fairly quickly, wrinkled lids flickering as she slips into slumber. With a tenderness you didn't think yourself capable of, you brush her hair back from her forehead. 

"Sleep tight, wake up bright."

When you return to the kitchen, you're surprised to see that the dishes have been cleared and placed in the washing machine. The items that had been haphazardly laid upon your table are now organized by function. 

Frankie stands at the sink, looking as if he's preparing for something, his body full of nervous energy. But when you enter the kitchen he stills, waiting. His fingers touch tips to one another, like he’s adding in his head.

"She's asleep," you tell him, voice low to keep from disrupting her.

"Good."

"She uh, it's part of..." You try to find the words, but you're so tired. "She thinks that people steal from her from time to time." 

"Yeah, I figured." 

You look over at the table organized; now noticing the kitchen has been swept. What a small action that does so much for your over stimulated life. The sight of a clean space, an organized table, a peanut butter sandwich… It all serves to bring a lump to your throat.  

"Thank you for everything tonight,” you say, forcing the words out. It sounds choked, dragged from the soles of your feet.

He doesn’t move from where he stands at the sink, but his hat tips.

"Of course." 

The moment stretches, neither of you moving. The previous anger you'd been holding on to in the truck seems to have floated away forgotten. The issue of him changing, of the world making him unkind. Now you raise your eyes to meet his, seeing the flush at his neck, the nervous way he blinks.

"I think you were half wrong," you tell him. 

Frankie's left brow raises, a slow curious motion. His pebbled neck bobs as he clears his throat. "About what?" 

"Maybe you grew up, but you didn't change." You motion to his chest briefly, too far to touch him. "Seems like you still have the same gentle heart." 

You watch his eyes widening ever so slightly at the vulnerability of your comment. The realization makes you snap back, feeling a rush of embarrassment as you lower your eyes to the floor, giving him a hasty wave. 

"Anyway, thanks again for everything." 

He moves backwards, readjusting his hat nervously. He gives you an equally hasty wave before heading out the front door. 

"No problem, Pip." 

The door closes quietly behind him and from the window you watch him move down the street, his movements rapid. You realize too late that you were supposed to drive him home. You don’t even have his cell number to text him your apology. Asking Santi for it feels like opening a can of worms, so you’ll just have to wait until your paths cross again.

You take a moment for yourself on the couch, eyes closed, body still. It feels like you can breathe a little easier now. Like the house isn’t the cold, daunting space it normally is. Like Frankie warmed it a bit, a little bonfire in your kitchen. The thought makes your lips twitch into an amused smirk.

You rise eventually, thinking that you’ll try sleeping in the bed tonight. Your back has had enough of the couch. You pass your mother’s room on your way, ducking your head in to make sure she’s still asleep. Then you continue on your way, hearing her words from earlier echoing in your head. 

Isn't Francisco so handsome? 

"Yes Mom," you mumble to yourself as you walk on. "He's very handsome." 

dividers by @saradika-graphics

taglist

@ashleyfilm

@beezusvreeland

@joeldjarin

@maried01

@peppermintfury

@severelysentientnova

@speaktothehandpeasants

@vickie5446

@yellowbrickyeti

[onlythehobi]

oh my fucking GOD

that last interaction was so painful, but the way frankie maneuvered through the situation shows, just like pip said, proves he still has a gentle heart

oh i know jealous frankie when i see it 🙂‍↕️

love that, can't wait to see where this goes!

and yes, frankie is handsome but DON'T TELL HIM

[auteurdelabre]

Holding Pattern part 4

Frankie Morales x F!Reader

a03 link here

Summary:

You move back to your childhood home in Florida to care for your ailing mother, only to find the past waiting for you in every room. Your always kind older cousin Santiago refuses to let you disappear into the sadness, pulling you into his world without hesitation. But Santi's world involves Frankie Morales; your cousin's best friend and the boy who broke your heart decades earlier. Thrust into each other’s orbit again old memories make their way to the surface, blurring the line between hatred and desire.Because the boy you learned to despise is the man you can't seem to forget.rated 18+ for later chapters

THIS STORY IS ON A03

tags: Friends to Enemies, First Love, Childhood Friends, Brother's Best Friend trope kinda, Angst, Smut, Flashbacks, First person POV, Protective Frankie, First kiss, parent with terminal illness, HEA.

notes: Happy Frankie Friday! This story is a very personal one to me as I have lost a parent. (Thankfully I do not have a love-hate relationship with a former childhood friend though!). I hope you're enjoying it, even if the themes can be a little heavy. I really enjoy the comments you leave me. And I do promise a HEA with this though, as I do with all my stories.

You should know that this contains a parent being terminally ill so if that is triggering for you, please be aware.

You sleep on the couch most nights. It allows you to fall asleep to the lullaby of shitty TV and enjoy the AC that works better out here. You tell yourself that this is the main reason. Often. 

But in truth it means you don't have to sleep in your bedroom in that narrow bed and the dingy walls that remind you of a youth you walked away from. 

Tonight you're tossing and turning, mind stuck on seeing the guys at the beach last week. Ignoring how Frankie came back looking smug when the guys started playfully teasing him about the girl in the bikini. 

You were able to squish into the back of the truck with Santi and Benny on the ride home, forcing Will and Tom to take the front. There was no way in hell you were going to be pressed up against Frankie the whole ride home.

You haven't heard from Santi since then and you think you messed up too much. You were really unkind to his best friend.

If he only knew what his precious best friend put me through. 

You let your mind drift to more pleasant thoughts instead. Not on Frankie and his wide shoulders as he slid through the water. Or how his dark curls were slicked back when he came sauntering back to the picnic table. 

Instead you think of Benny and the way he offered to put your sunscreen on. On the lingering way his thigh pressed against yours on the ride home. He's cute. He's nice. Maybe he can be a distraction for you during your time home. He seems like the type that may be up for a casual hook up every now and again. 

You roll onto your back, eyes shut as your thighs part. Benny's handsome face starts playing in your head as your fingers prepare to dip below the waistband of your sleep shorts. 

"Where am I?"

You hear your mother's scream from her bedroom and jerk up, running to her. When you reach her room she's wandering in front of the mirror, clawing at her reflection. You go to her, gentle hands landing on her shoulders.

"Hey mom, let's get back into bed."

"I want to go home," she says in a whiny voice when she sees you. 

It's a hard thing for a child to become the parent, to look at a mother and see such open vulnerability. You feel unmoored, a ship swept out to sea. 

"You're safe," you say, parroting the language that Rosalita and the doctors have instructed. All the don'ts. 

Don't distress her. 

Don't make your sentences too long. 

Don't invalidate her feelings. 

You guide her back into bed and stroke her hair like she did for you as a child. On the nights she wasn't too bleary-eyed, reeking of gin. 

You miss how she used to take care of you when you were sick. Even if she was hungover she always had crackers and soup with lemon tea at the ready. Her nursing training kicked in at those moments. 

She did the same with Hillary who didn't care for being fussed over. But you? You relished being cared for by her. She was so distant in life, but when you were sick it was like she was an actual mom. 

And now you sit there on the edge of her bed, an imitation of her. When her narrow chest finally begins to rhythmically rise and fall and her breathing deepens you creep back to the couch. 

Rain patters against the windows when you wake up again. It's still early morning, but you've managed a few hours sleep.

Your phone shows a missed text and you pull it up, one eye closed, the other cracked slightly open enough to read the words from your cousin. 

Hey Pip. Can you help me out? I need to move a recliner from Frank's place to mine tonight. 

You frown as you look at your phone, thoughts of going to Frankie's making you grimace. 

Can't you just use his truck to move it? 

You start when you hear noise from the next room. You drag yourself from the couch and into the kitchen for where your mother sits with a bowl of cereal. She's dressed and bright-eyed. She smiles when she sees you. 

"Hello, honey."

The sharp personality change from a few hours ago almost gives you whiplash. But this is good, her mood is good which means you have a shot at a pleasant couple of hours.

Your phone buzzes.

It's in the shop. Doesn't get it back until next week.

You type back quickly. 

The Millers? 

Out of town for Benny's fight. 

Tom?

Only has that tiny SUV. And he's a bitch about getting it dirty. 

You know that Santi is only here for the summer, so it makes sense that he has no car and little furniture. It's annoying but of course you'll help him. 

"Mom, do you mind if I borrow the truck tonight? Santi needs help moving a couch."

"Of course," she enthuses, taking a sip of her juice. "Give him a kiss from me." 

Sure. I can use my mom's. This is from her: 😘

Great. Eight work? 

Yep. 

Thanks Pip. This is for auntie: 😘

You turn your phone over, looking across the table. 

Your mother hums to herself as she eats; looking serene and beautiful bathed in the morning sunlight. She catches you watching and squints, giving you a little smile. 

"I thought we might go to the mall," she says as she scoops up the last of her Cheerios. "I want to look at some new blackout curtains for the bedroom."

She seems like your mom now. Confident and organized when she needed to be. It brings relieved tears to your eyes. 

"Of course Mom. Let me just freshen up." 

"I don't think I should be long," you explain to Rosalita as you go to your knees that evening. "I mean how long does it take to move a couch?" 

You speak as you look under the cushion for the truck keys. It's your mom's current favorite spot to misplace things like car keys, forks and occasionally, hair brushes. Tonight however?

Nothing. 

"Not a problem," Rosalita assures you. "Your mom was tired from our walk earlier. I think she'll sleep pretty heavy."

"Good."

"Have you checked the fridge?" Rosalita asks. "She put her wallet in there last week." 

As it turns out not only are your keys there, but your own wallet as well which is convenient. You remind Rosalita that she only needs to call and you'll be home. 

"Go on," she tells you with a wave of her hand. "Stay out for a bit if you can. You need a break." 

You give her hand a squeeze before you're on your way. The drive over is quiet, relaxing even. You momentarily forget that you're going to be running into Frankie. 

You exhale slowly as you turn the corner on the corner of St Petersburg, a lightly suburban street close to Lake Sheffield. 

You glance at the address that Santi texted you earlier, pulling in front of the familiar grey-blue rancher. You stare at it through the rain for a moment, pulse thrumming. Santi didn't need to send the address; you'd remember how to get here walking blindfolded.  

Frankie Morales has always lived here. 

THEN

With Frankie's parents gone for the weekend, it was only natural he would host a get together in his basement. It has a built in bar and a pool table that's currently being used. 

His parents have driven to some church retreat his mother had insisted upon dragging the family to. Frankie was only given a reprieve because he had a shift at his part-time job in the garage in town.

The casual get-together quickly morphed into a small party with dozens of teens eager to smoke pot and drink illegally while Third Eye Blind played in the background. 

Hilary is avoiding you tonight of course, sitting on a blonde boys lap and giggling between sips of beer. You arrived separately; you'll depart the same way. You don't know anyone else here aside from Santi, Travis and Frankie, but they're over by the music player with Travis going through CD's. 

You're thirteen; awkward and terrified of being perceived. This party is full of older kids, none of what you know aside from your small core group. The only reason you were granted passage to this. 

Despite this you gaze through your hair with longing at a couple across the room. They sit next to each other on the couch, fingers entwined, smiles matching as they giggle together. It makes your cheeks heat.

"You having fun?" Travis asks, eyes scanning the room as he comes up to you. He's trying to be nice to you tonight, but you can't figure out why. 

"Yeah. It's fine." 

Frankie and Santiago move across the room and your eyes track the tall Frankie. He's growing in a light beard, patchy in spots. His hair is curling under his ears now, smoothed by the cap he wears. 

"You gonna stare at Morales all night or what?"

Your cheeks burn with humiliation as you turn on Travis. "What are you talking about?"

"You think I'm blind?" Travis scoffs, plunking himself down next to you on the couch. His kneecap taps yours. "You're always talking about Frankie this and Frankie that. You even gave him that stupid fucking hat he never takes off."'

You go quiet, wishing you could punch Travis in his stupid face.. You watch Frankie jog up the stairs when the doorbell rings. You feel Travis’ smirk on the side of your face.

“You know he sees you like a little sister right?” Travis mocks.

You curl into yourself, eyes burning with unshed tears. You hear your name being called and you glance up to see your sister approaching. She shoots Travis a sneer and makes a shooing motion. 

"Get lost; I need to talk with my sister." 

Travis wants to say something back, but Hillary is very popular in school. He knows she could make his life a living hell if she felt like it. So he stands up and like a dog with his tail tucked between his legs he wanders off to join Santi and Frankie. 

When he's gone, your sister plops herself down next to you, brushing invisible lint off of her jeans. 

"Stay stay from Travis," she murmurs. "He's trouble." 

"I know."  You notice the beer bottle in her hand, watching as she tips the amber bottle back.  "Can I have some?" 

Hilary turns a kohl-smudged eyes on you, frowning. "Hell no." 

"Why not?" You pout.

"You're only thirteen."

"So? You drank when you were my age."

"That was different," she says with a half shrug as she stares at the fire. 

"How come?" You try not to sound plaintive when you ask that, but you know that your voice is verging on whiny. 

You wait for your sister to roll her eyes and push you or something equally taciturn. But instead she turns on you wearing an open kind of vulnerability on her face. 

"Because you don't need it to get through life."

As if just realizing she shared a very hidden part of herself you watch the guarded shadow cross her features. She stands, her crooked finger holding the bottle by the inside mouth. 

"I'm staying at Josh's tonight," she mutters as she looks down at you. "Cover for me if mom asks." 

Then she's gone, fishnet-covered legs carrying her across the room and back to the blonde boy. You watch as she whispers something to him and he nods, the two of them leaving hand in hand up the carpeted stairs. 

Travis returns like an annoying boomerang just as Frankie and Santi arrive back with several more teens. You watch as Frankie tips his beer bottle against his plump lower lip, taking a deep sip as some guy from school starts talking to him. 

"Bet you're glad you're boyfriend's back, huh?"

Travis' hot, beer-soaked breath wafts over your cheek. 

"Fuck. Off." 

Pleased to have riled you up he stands slowly, an oily smirk crossing his face as he nears Frankie and Santi a few steps away. You watch his progress with a scowl on your face. He glances back to make sure you’re watching as he approaches Frankie.  

“Good party, Morales. Your parents should go away more often.”

Frankie gives a polite nod. “Thanks.”

According to Santi, Frankie’s relationship with his parents is strained, especially with his father. You don’t know much about it. You’ve only come over when Frankie’s mom is around and she’s always nice to you. She calls you amorcita and makes sure you never leave hungry.

You’ve seen photos of Frankie’s dad in his house, a square-jawed, serious looking man with a buzz cut. He has dark eyes like Frankie but they look cold instead of warm.

"You know, I really love this hat," Travis says smirking your way. "What do you think, Pip? Maybe you should get me one of these too." 

You pretend that you can’t hear him.  Frankie mutters something but a group of teenage girls wearing hoodies and carrying bottles of gin have just come down the carpeted stairs . You swallow a frown when you recognize them.  

Christy Jordan. Madison Judd. Melody Kim. All three are in the same grade as Santiago and Frankie. Santiago cannot stand any of them. Neither can Hilary so it's a good thing she's already left.

You don't know how Frankie feels about them, the two of you don't really talk about that sort of stuff. 

"Hey Santiago," Christy croons as she approaches with her friends. 

"Hey Chrissy," He says distractedly, his attention on a young woman with freckles across her nose and an elfish smile.

You watch as she frowns deeply at the brush off. It's no secret that she likes Santi and he shows her no interest. Madison smirks while Melody goes to say hello to who you assume is her boyfriend. Christy turns her body to face Frankie who stands nearby nursing his beer. 

"Hey Francisco," she says, sidling up to him. 

"Hey."

He doesn't look away from his beer, but you can see his cheeks are turning a splotchy pink at her attention. You watch in horror as she runs her fingernails down his forearm, leaning close to talk to him

"You look good tonight," she murmurs, mouth brushing his earlobe. 

Frankie's mouth parts slightly, his throat bobbing. Seeing it makes your stomach drop. 

"We need more booze. I got my fake ID. Who's coming with?"

For the first time in the evening you're so thankful for Travis and his annoying ass breaking into the moment.

"I'll come," Santi announces before casting a look Frankie's way. "Frank?"

Frankie steps away from Christy, nodding. "Yeah, of course." 

You know from past experience that you won't be allowed to join in on beer runs. You're too young, you'll arouse suspicion. The boys know a few sketchy liquor places that accept Travis fake ID with barely an eyebrow raise.  

Santi gives you a warning look as he leaves, ruffling your hair like an annoying big brother. 

"Be good." 

The trio exits, Frankie in the center, his dark curls loose under his hat. 

Left alone you don't know what to do with yourself. You're much younger than everyone else here. And you don't really know anyone else. 

You watch as Melody and her boyfriend begins to make out, feeling your body break into goose bumps. It looks so intimidating; how do you know where to put your tongue? How much pressure is okay to use?

To your great shame you still haven't kissed a boy before. There's never been a real opportunity.  You never really hang out with other boys. They all seem less mature. 

But a lot of the girls talk about their kissing experience, how strange and wonderful it is. And you have to nod along, pretending you know what that's like. But you don't. And Hillary is not forthcoming whatsoever in sharing her own carnal activities. 

You think of the books you found under Hilary's bed one weekend she was gone. The ones with shirtless men holding fainting women on the covers. The kind you furtively touch yourself to under the blankets when the house is empty and your body is heated everywhere.

There's one book that you found that you can't get out of your head. It's the one you've read the most times. It's of a strong and silent knight who starts off as a guard for the princess, but soon the two are thrown together, traveling and fighting to keep their hands off each other. 

It's your favorite because of the way the author describes the knight. He's described as having dark curls and large hands. Eyes that look innocent. He's quiet and solemn but when he smiles the princess is overwhelmed. 

I sounds just like Frankie. And you? You play the part of his princess. 

You're deep in this daydream when you hear Christy above you. 

"Is Santiago babysitting you or something?" 

Your body tightens as you shoot a dark look up at her. "No. He's my cousin." 

She just nods, standing nearby and she soon fades from your attention as you go back to watching Melody and her boyfriend. Perhaps you watch them a bit too intently, cataloging the moves, making internal notes because when the girl catches you staring she makes a jeering sound that startles you into looking away.  

"Ew, why are you watching us, creeper?" 

So many sets of teenage eyes are suddenly turned on you. Laughter hidden behind hands or solo cups, disgusted curls of lips shot your way. 

You force your eyes to the carpet pretending that you didn't hear her. But a bored Madison has realized she's got an easy target in you.  Christy moves a few steps back, watching in quiet amusement. 

"Are you a lezzie or something?"Madison asks, hands on her narrow hips.

"No," you whisper hoarsely, staring at the tattoo on her inner wrist. The one of a seahorse. 

"Then why were you spying?" Madison says, loud enough for others nearby to here. You see the smirks and curious looks thrown your way. 

"I wasn't," you say, feeling cold all over. 

More than anything you wish that your cousin and his friends were back. You feel alone and unprotected. 

"Awww maybe she's taking notes," Madison says with false symphony, looking over at her friend. "What do you think, Christy?" 

Christy gives a shy, half shrug. "Dunno. Maybe." 

"Have you ever even kissed a boy?" Madison asks, tittering with her girlfriends. "Or is that not allowed in the Mickey Mouse Club?"

They laugh more and your face burns with humiliation. You wish Hilary was here, Even though the two of you are constantly at odds, you have a feeling she would put Madison in her place. 

Madison bends at the knees in front of you as is you're a child, voice patronizing. 

"It's rude to watch people like a little pervert, got it?" 

You don't say anything, choosing instead to bring your knees to your chest and hug them tightly as you nod. 

When she sees that you won't be crying, she loses interests and walks away to start talking with other teenagers in the group. 

You stand and slink away from them, laughter bouncing off your back. You try to act casual as you go to stand by the table holding chips and pizza. You refuse to cry. 

You hear deeper voices and you turn around to see Frankie, Santi and Travis have returned with six packs under their arms. You surprise yourself by not wanting them to find you. For some reason you feel even more embarrassed at the thought of Frankie knowing what was said. 

You don't know how long you stand there but eventually all you can hear the laughter from behind you, the drunken slurring of teenage amusement over a top forty selection. 

You sneak a glance to see Travis and Christy kissing feverishly against one wall, their mouths wet and open. Santi has his arm around the pretty girl with freckles who giggles at everything he says.  

"You okay?" 

Frankie shuffles over from the opposite side of you. The darkness of the basement makes it hard to read his expression. 

"I'm fine." 

"Really?" He asks, casting his eyes to Santi and Travis. "Why are you hanging out here by yourself then?"

"Some of the girls..." You start, thinking of what you want to say. 

But nothing of that story will make you seem like anything other than a 13-year-old child. For some reason it's very important to you that Frankie not see you like that. 

"It's nothing. I just don’t know that many people." 

He drops his voice and his head, eyes on you. "You wanna help me get some more chips?"

You nod, heart fluttering in your chest. You don't care that he's just doing it to be nice. You'll take the offering with relish. You follow the lanky boy up the stairs into his kitchen 

Frankie gets to work quietly gathering several chip bags from the cupboard above the stove. For some reason Travis' words from earlier float into your conscious mind.

"Frankie, do you think of me like a little sister?"

Frankie scans you briefly, shaking his head. "No. Not really."

He turns back, tearing open a pretzel bag. You feel relieved by his reply.

"How come you're not talking to those girls?" You ask, genuinely curious as to what could be keeping him from doing so.

"Don't know them very well." 

You think of the boys downstairs likely making out now that your sexually neutralizing presence has been removed. 

"That hasn't stopped Santi or Travis," you scoff.  

"Yeah, well, I'm not Santi or Travis." 

No. He most certainly is not. 

He pours the first bag of BBQ chips into the oversized green bowl. 

"Christy seems to like you," you mutter bitterly. "She was all over you before." 

Frankie shakes his head. "She was only doing that to make Santi jealous. Its why she's making out with Travis now."

Relief sits behind your sternum. "Oh."

"Those kinds of girls don't like me anyway," he mutters. 

You can't see his face but you have a feeling he's blushing. You want to fix this in some small way, show him the kindness he has always shown you. 

"It's because you're nice," you supply. "Stupid girls don't like nice boys." 

He throws a laugh over his shoulder. "What would you know?"

You shrug, feeling silly and out of your depth. 

You think of the man in the book, the knight that reminds you of Frankie. Quiet, strong and commanding.

That's who you want your first kiss with. Someone safe and strong. Someone who won't mock you like the girls at the party.  You can't lose anything by asking him, just your pride, but that doesn't seem to matter right now. 

"Frankie?

“Yeah?”

“Will you kiss me?" You request, eyes limpid. 

His shoulders rise to his ears briefly before lowering. His lean neck tilts so he can look over at you. 

"What did you just say?"

You step forward, shoes shifting over the linoleum. Your clothes feel like they're stuck to your body. But you feel like Frankie will fix this, as he has always fixed things for you. 

"I want you to kiss me," you say breathlessly. 

Frankie gets a disgusted look on his face."You're a kid."

"I'm barely three years younger than you," you snap back, humiliated. You hate your age being brought up into every conversation. Like it's some failing to have been born a few years later. 

"Why don't you kiss a boy your own age?"

"I don't know many boys. And the ones I do are gross." 

Boys your age are grimy and awkward. Frankie? His dad is an army man who has brushed off on his son, making him solemn and intense in a way that feels mature. 

His eyes are owlish in his face. "Why do you want me to kiss you?"

"Because my friends have all kissed boys and I don't want to go to middle school as the only one who hasn't."

And because none of the other boys you knew felt safe like Frankie did. None of them smelled as good or laughed at your jokes. None of them were soft and patient. 

And none of them made your thirteen-year-old heart pitter patter like Frankie Morales did. 

"Please Frankie," you repeat, forcing yourself not to whine. "Just once and I'll never ask again." 

"Why do you want me to do it?"

"I just told you."

"No, why do you want me to do it? Why not Travis?"

Because I don't like Travis. I don't imagine him when I'm alone in bed. I don't memorize the way he holds his mouth or notice when he's blushing. 

"Because you're nice," you finally offer after a moment’s thought. "You feel... Safe."

Frankie takes a moment to glance over his shoulder, like he expects Santiago to come charging up the stairs to catch you both. Then he looks back at and sighs, his expression not one of arousal in the least. 

"You can't tell anyone." 

"I promise." 

He looks uncertain, fingers twitching at his sides. 

"Close your eyes." 

You obey, feeling your entire body thrumming with excitement when you feel his fingers lightly pinch your chin. 

"Hold still." 

You nod, eyes still shut. 

The anticipation is overwhelming. You promise yourself you won't peek through your lashes. But you can hear Frankie breathing and the change in the air when he nears you. 

It’s that same feeling when you're underwater, when you can only hear the thick throb of your heartbeat and everything else is dull. 

You feel his warm breath fan over your face and in response you anxiously hold your own.  

Then finally, blessedly, his warm and slightly chapped lips press against yours. It's not forceful at all, so chaste and so brief that it could barely be considered a kiss. 

But to you it's the most earth-shattering kiss of your young life. One that has you swooning and leaves you smiling dopily up at Frankie as he turns from you. 

"C'mon. Grab the chips and let's head back." 

The echoes of the past catch up to you the longer you stare at that old rancher.

The site of your first kiss. 

The site of many firsts.

Your eyes travel around the perimeter of it, confused to see a large SUV and a rusty looking green truck out front. How does Frankie have all these vehicles? And why the hell didn't Santi ask to borrow one instead of hitting you up? 

You park the truck in the driveway and bring out your phone, shooting off a text to your cousin. 

I'm here. 

You wait for a reply, looking back at the house. It's like it's frozen in memory though, no change than it was a decade and a half ago. The white screen door is still rusted, the lawn dead in many spots. This is a house, a place to lay one's head, but it's clear that this is not a home. 

Five minutes pass and you look down at your phone. No reply. He hasn't even read your message. 

You feel irritation bubbling up under your skin as you exit the truck. You pull up the hood of your jacket to avoid the sprinkle of rain that has started up again and sprint up the front door, knocking hurriedly. 

Of course it's Frankie who answers the door. Why wouldn't he? This is his house after all. You can't help but grimace. 

"I'm here for Santi," you say curtly. 

Frankie stares at you for a moment before stepping back so you can enter. 

"He's in the can." 

You think about waiting outside, but the rain is annoying and you don't feel like getting drenched.  

You brush past Frankie, feeling uncomfortable as you step into his home. The walls are that same ugly light green, the floors that too-orange wood stain. The furniture is sparse. It smells like laundry scented febreeze and pizza at present which isn't a great mix. 

Frankie continues standing there staring at you. Maybe he's trying to gauge your reaction. You feel like you have to fill the silence. 

"Santi wanted me to-"

"Didn't ask," Frankie mutters, moving into the next room. You feel your teeth clench together in irritation as you follow him through the empty-looking home, down a hallway into an open dining space.

You're surprised to see the guys are all there, circled around the table setting up for what looks like a poker match. Bottles of beer and bowls of chips and pretzels sit on the counter. They all give enthusiastic hellos to you when you come in looking puzzled. 

"I didn't know you were joining us," Benny says with a wide grin. Your heart flutters when he pulls you into a brief side hug. 

Your cheeks burn, head ducking as he pulls back. "I'm not. I'm just here to help Santi."

"Help him lose his money?" Will asks, popping poker chips onto the table as Benny grabs a beer. "Don't think he needs your help with that one." 

The guys all chuckle save for Frankie who looks like he wants to put his fist through the wall. Tom looks up at you, a beer at his mouth. 

"How's your mom doing? Pope told us she's sick?" 

Your polite smile dims and you shuffle in place. The other guys aren't really listening, they're chatting about the poker game.

"She's fine. I mean, like, as fine as she can be."

"Dementia right?"

You feel Frankie's eyes on you, piercing.

"Uh. Yeah." 

And cancer, you almost add. 

"That sucks," Tom tsks, shaking his head. "Mal's grandma had that too. Fucking terrible disease." 

Your chin is starting to wobble, throat closing up. "Mhmm." 

"It's heartbreaking watching them go through that," Tom continues, oblivious to the way your brows saddle. "Would almost be better if-"

"Tom would you just shut up and deal?" 

Your head jerks to the right, seeing Frankie glaring at his cards. The guys are ready to play. 

"Jesus, Fish, Pope isn't even back yet," Tom defends, bringing the deck into his hands. 

On cue the sound of footsteps come up behind you. You glance over to see Santi shaking his hands free of water, a confused smile crossing over his face when he sees you. 

"What're you doing here a-" his smile flees from his face as he realizes. "Oh shit." 

"What?" Tom asks. 

"Oh shit," Santi repeats, grimacing. "I'm so sorry, Pip. Will got back early and helped me take it to my place a couple hours ago. Then Benny showed up with beer and we started playing cards and... Fuck, I can't believe I forgot to call." 

"Nice one, Pope," Will says shaking his head. The other guys - save for Frankie - jeer him from the table. He looks beside himself. 

"Its fine," you say softly, even though it's not fine. "If you don't need a ride, I should get back. I had to pay Rosalita overtime to stay with Mom."

"That's because of me. I'm so sorry." He grabs his wallet from his back pocket,  pulling out several bills and urging them into your resisting hand. "Does this cover it?"

It's several hundred dollars that feels less like aid and more like charity. You try to push it back into his hand.  "Santi -"

"Please, Pip," he all but begs. "I feel fucking terrible about this. Please just take it." 

You look at the money in your hand, sighing gently. You never could deny Santi anything. 

"But then what cash will you have to lose at poker tonight?" 

Laughter goes around the table, everyone enthusiastic at the tension being removed from the room. Frankie of course remains stone-faced, watching his cards. Benny gets up to grab a beer. 

"Come play cards with us," a relieved Santi says excitedly taking your elbow. "Take some time for yourself."

You're envious and irritated at the way he says this, as if you have this choice. You shake your head, about to gracefully exit. 

"We're just starting a new game," Will enthuses. 

"C'mon," Benny cajoles, coming back from the fridge. You feel your pulse pulse sluggishly when his hand lands on your lower back. "We never get to see you." 

Frankie scowls from his chair.  "If she wants to go, let her go."

His words are quiet but they feel loud. 

"Ironhead's lady is coming too so you won't be the only girl," Santi grins, ignoring Frankie. 

"Okay. Sure. For a few hands." 

Cheers go up from the table as you go to take a seat next to Will, only for him to inform you that his girlfriend will be sitting there. Of course the only seat empty is the one between Santi and Frankie.

Fuck. 

You hesitate for a moment, staring at the seat when Frankie jerks to a stand. Everyone watches as he throws his cards face down onto the table. 

"I'm grabbing a smoke."

He walks away from the table, wide shoulders tight. His hat is pulled lower onto his head as he turns the corner and then out the front door. You sink into your seat as the room gets quiet. 

"What is with him?" Benny asks, light brows drawn. "He's been a fucking asshole all month."'

Santi's eyes dart to you and then back to his cards. He shrugs, forcing what appears to be ambivalence. 

"Work stuff I guess." 

"Still?"

"It's a big deal," Will defends, lips leaving his beer bottle. The chair creaks under his muscled weight. "Flying is everything to Fish." 

You frown over at your cousin, confused. Why isn't Frankie flying anymore? As long as you've known him, flying is the only thing Frankie has ever wanted to do. So why isn't he now? 

Before you can ask, Frankie reappears with a woman in tow and a can of Pepsi in his left hand. 

"Another guest," he rasps. 

A woman enters wearing a light jacket that clings to her. This is Will's girlfriend Anita as you come to learn. She hugs you when the two of you meet. 

"Will was telling me all about you," she says with a smile shot at the blonde across the table. "Benny was too." 

You look just in time to see Benny studiously observing his cards, a pink flush starting on his slightly freckled cheeks. 

Frankie's eyes move from you and Benny before landing back to his cards. 

"We playing or what?"

Within an hour the table is covered in colorful chips, empty beer bottles and the low hum of conversation.  Tom has already had to buy back in twice, claiming that the energy was off in the room. 

"I think you're just shitty at playing," Will chirps as he brings Anita into his arms when Tom complains again. 

Everyone begins laughing loudly. Everyone but Frankie who sits at the head of the table scowling every time someone takes too long to deal or call. He looks like he’s been on edge the entire evening.

Santi brushes your shoulder with his. "Pip’s on a roll. Look at all her chips."

You have been doing shockingly well. Piles of chips sit in front of you and this round is no different.

“And she’s gonna keep being on a roll,” Will says, tossing his cards in. “I fold.”

Anita giggles from where she’s perched on Will’s knee

For this round one by one everyone around the table folds their cards leaving Frankie and you alone in the hand. You haven't acknowledged each other for the entire game, but now your eyes raise and meet. There's a flash of a moment where the air crackles and then you dart my eyes back to the cards. 

Chips click softly as Frankie speaks his voice that same quiet rasp you've always known. 

"I raise twenty." 

You don't hesitate; you push your chips to the center with confidence. The room has gone quiet, 

Benny deals the final card, showing a Jack of hearts. Your eyes connect with Frankie's again and you see the twitch at the corner of his mouth. It's small, probably overlooked by everyone else at the table, but you know it well 

He's pissed off. That means his hand is crap. 

The room gets small, everyone watching as you push a large pile of chips to the center. 

"I raise a hundred." 

Soft whistles go off around the group but you don't break eye contact with the man across from you.  

Moments of absolute silence pass before you watch Frankie lower his hand, pushing the cards into the center. 

"I fold." 

Cheers go up around the table as you claim your victory. You stand, arms outstretched, pulling the chips towards your chest as Santi claps you on the shoulder. 

"Let's see what you had." 

You don't have to show them of course. But you're feeling proud at your betting, so after a moment of hesitation you flip your cards over for everyone to see. 

A pair of threes. A losing hand if everyone else didn't fold. You're bluffing was just as perfect as it needed to be. 

"Damn, she got you good, Fish," Tom announces with a slap on the table, upsetting the bowl of pretzels between Benny and Will. 

Frankie leans back in his chair, silently, crossing his muscled arms over his chest. He stares balefully at you from under his baseball cap. 

"Winning that with a pair of threes," Benny whistles. He looks your way and gives a wink. "Nice bluffing." 

You're grinning widely, not just because you beat Frankie, but for the first time in months you feel lighter. You can almost pretend that your mother isn't sick at home, that your latest relationship didn't crash and burn, and that your life has hope. 

"Yeah, well, she always was good at lying." 

Everyone hears the muttered comment from Frankie and their eyes go to you. But you ignore it all, starting to deal the next round with steady hands. 

"Okay Santi, you're big blind, Benny you're small."

Fuck Frankie if he thinks he's going to ruin every fucking night you're in his miserable presence. You're here to have fun and forget your hellish existence for one night. If he's going to be a prick to you, you're just not going to rise to the occasion. 

"Raise five."

"Are there any more buy -ins?"

"I need another beer."

Another hour of playing has gone by and you're having a hard time focusing on the game because you've drunk far more than you should have. You're chasing away the tension of being so close to a miserable Frankie while beckoning the peaceful oblivion of not having to think about your dying mother. 

Everyone else seems to be doing the same. Throwing back drinks, getting progressively sillier and louder as the night wears on. 

But Frankie doesn’t, he’s been nursing a Pepsi all night, scowling every time your eyes meet his. 

"Has your mom tried the M.I.N.D. diet?" 

You're in a drunken stupor but that comment cuts through it. Tom is looking your way with tiny, drunken eyes. You know that he's probably trying to be kind but your shoulders jump to your ears and you try to pretend you didn't hear him. 

"I read up on it and it's supposed to be great," Tom continues as if you've acknowledged him. 

The cards are starting to get blurry in your hands. You're blinking back tears again, face warm with anger and despair at the situation.  And suddenly you're overwhelmed with guilt that you could be out here playing cards with your cousin and his friends while your mom sits at home with a paid caretaker, slowly dying. 

You drop your cards on the table, standing abruptly. You wobble slightly, the booze catching up with your body. 

"I have to go," you slur. "S’late." 

"Stay for one more hand," Benny entreats. And if you weren't under such emotional stress your heart would patter at his attention. 

"No. I really gotta go." 

You stand, groping for your purse hung over the back of your chair.

“Bye guys,” you say with a sloppy wave.

You stumble slightly into the next room as your hand digs around for your keys that rattle at the bottom of your purse. 

Just as you pull them out, a suddenly arriving Santi swipes them mid-air, large hand swinging out, pulling them against his chest.  He’s glassy eyed and the glare he gives you right now makes you shrink.

"Tell me you're fucking kidding. You're not driving right now." 

Your face burns hotter, giving a sheepish look his way. You're so rarely drunk you didn't even think about it. 

"Can you drive me? I'll pick the truck up from your place tomorrow." 

"I drank even more than you," Santi replies, his bleary eyes shuttering. 

"I'll drive you."

A raspy voice sails through the air like wind over dead leaves. You turn to see a very alert Frankie standing there, holding an empty pretzel bowl. You don’t know how long he’s been standing there.  

"I thought your truck was in the shop,” you say lightly.

"I'll drive you in yours."

"Thanks Fish," Santi says with genuine gratitude. "I owe you one."

"I took enough of your money tonight, Pope. We're square." 

"There," Santi says as if the case is closed. "All good." 

Santi doesn't wait for you to decline the offer. He's already moving it to the next room, handing off the keys to Frankie as he passes. The laughter increases as you overhear the sound of chips being counted and cards being dealt

Frankie is staring at you from the counter. His spine rests against the edge, hands braced on either side of him like he's preparing for a fight. 

Frankie moves to his front door, to the hook where jackets and hats rest. You see the Standard Oil hat perched there. A part of you wants to snap it right off of the hook, taking it back, taking everything back that you ever gave him. 

"I can take a cab," you slur, digging in your purse and holding up the bills Santi gave you. 

"You need that to pay your mom's nurse," Frankie reminds you, pulling on his jacket. "And no cab will take you when you're this hammered."

You wave your hand at him as if shooing away the idea, your movements clumsy. You see the keys hanging loosely from one finger and you grab them, tugging them away. You hold t he cold metal in your palm, trying to focus on Frankie’s blurry frame.

"I'm jush fine. I'll take the bus," you say with an attempted narrowing of your eyes.

"It's not running this late." 

The clock above the stove ticks loudly. Or perhaps you only think it's loud considering how deadly silent it is in the kitchen between the two of you. 

You go to come up with a new alternative when Frankie gives a dramatic exhale through his nose. 

"Oh for chrissake let me just drive you, Pip."  

Frankie holds out his large hand for your keys. You pause before slamming them into his palm. 

The windshield wipers on your mom's truck move like a drunken sailor, slow and labored. The heavy rainfall from before has been replaced with light sprinkling. 

The radio plays an old song from the 80's, too upbeat for the tension in the vehicle. 

Frankie's cheeks are shining with rain. His hat could only do so much on the walk from his front door to the truck. This dark grey hat looks like some cheap thing with the name of a beer company splashed over it. 

His dark eyes scan the road ahead, fingers tensing around the wheel. He must catch you staring because he glances over briefly. 

"What?" 

Your head snaps back, embarrassed at being caught. But you're alcohol soaked brain is too addled to remain that way for long. Curiosity wins out over your shame. 

"How come you're not drunk?"

Frankie ducks his head slightly, clearly uncomfortable. 

"I don't drink anymore," he finally answers. 

"Since when?" 

 He speaks through what sounds like gritted teeth. 

"I've been in recovery for about eight months now. No booze, no drugs."

"You did drugs?"

He nods, eyes trained forward. You see the muscle in his cheek feather.

"Cocaine." 

Frankie was always the good kid. The one who played by the rules most of the time. He didn't even smoke weed with Santi and Travis when they were teens. The thought of him doing hardcore drugs shocks you. 

"Is that why you're not flying?"

He looks furious, his throat going pink at the sides.

"Who the hell told you that?" He asks sharply. 

"Will mentioned it and-"

"That's not his information to share." 

"He wasn't really sharing it," you defend, not wanting to get Will in trouble with Frankie. "Just a comment to Santi and I drew my own conclusions."

You lapse into quiet, letting the synth beat of the song fade into a cheesy love ballad. Frankie smells like cigarette smoke and his old spice deodorant. He’s always worn old spice. You catch whiffs of it as you drive. It's kind of pleasant. 

You think about tonight and how awkward it was at times. How Tom spoke to you with that annoying arrogance. 

"I can't stand Tom," you say with a sigh.

You think Frankie gives a soft amused exhale but you can't be sure. The dark of night makes it hard to make out his features unless a street light flickers overhead.

"Why?"

You cross your arms, pressing your spine harder into the truck seat. 

"All that stuff about my mom and his wife's grandma. Like it's the same thing when that couldn't be further from the truth. He doesn't have to watch his mom dying. No offense," you add after a beat. "I know he's your friend." 

"Barely." Frankie's face betrays nothing.

The song has changed into something new and techno. You peel off your sweater, uncomfortable in the muggy heat of the truck. 

 "I'm sorry about your mom." 

It's the first decent thing Frankie has said to you since you got back. You think he's only saying it now because you're pretty wasted and might not remember it tomorrow. Still, it touches a bruised part of your heart. 

"Thanks." 

You surprise yourself by feeling two fat tears slip down your cheeks, hot and thick. The kind that cling to the waterline before spilling over. You rub at them with the back of your hand, praying that Frankie hasn't noticed. If he did he isn't saying anything. 

Soon enough you pull onto your street gut growing cold with every inch you get closer to the dying skeleton in the home. Closer to her shrill screams and the empty look in her eyes. 

When Frankie pulls into the driveway and kills the engine you almost don't want to leave. But you do, unbuckling and grabbing your purse and sweater. 

He gets out of the vehicle, shocking you by walking around to open your door. He goes a step further by holding out a hand. He does it reluctantly, eyes averted. 

You're off kilter in more ways than one. It feels like he's almost being kind to you which immediately puts you on edge. 

"This was so stupid," you say, weaving slightly as you exit the cab, ignoring his extended hand. "All this fuss for nothing." 

You move slowly down the driveway, concerned that your head feels floaty and your belly warm. You think that Frankie will just leave but he walks alongside you, all the way to the front door covered by the awning. 

Rain falls in muted notes above you on the stretched fabric like a drum. You reach for the door before pausing to stare at him. Frankie stands there looking dismayed. The curls not shielded from his hat stick to his neck

"How're you getting back home?"

"Cab." 

"Jesus, Frankie."

You reach into your purse, peeling off a few of the bills from the wad that Santi gave you. You hold them Frankie's way but he just shakes his head and puts his hands at his pockets. 

"You don't live that far from me," Frankie says quietly. "I might just walk it, actually."

"It's raining."

"Barely." 

He shrugs, not very bothered by it. 

"Suit yourself." 

He still isn't looking your way when he removes his hat. You watch almost transfixed as he brings one hand up, combing his hair from his face with his fingers. He sweeps his slick dark curls back before settling the hat back on top of his head. It's an action he has done since the day you gave him your father's old hat. 

And for a moment when he does it now it's like you can see the shy, quiet boy he once was. The one who didn't like to disobey rules, who the teachers liked because he was smart. The boy that had a hard time looking at people in the eye when he first moved to town. The boy who was embarrassed he didn't remember sunglasses that first day. 

Its brief, a flash of past and present in one body. But the sight of it hurts as much as it heals. It makes your throat feel right. 

"Thank you for the ride." 

"Yep." 

He turns and lifts the collar of his jacket up, burrowing like an owl. He doesn't cast a backwards glance as he goes sauntering off into the spritzing rain. 

But that's Frankie. 

He's never been good with goodbye. 

dividers by @saradika-graphics

taglist

@beezusvreeland

@joeldjarin

@maried01

@severelysentientnova

@speaktothehandpeasants

@vickie5446

@yellowbrickyeti

[onlythehobi]

ooohhhh pip and benny heheheHEHEhe

THE TENSION THEY BRING TO THE TABLE HSJSKKXJXNXKD i want to scream

btw can someone shut up tom please

[auteurdelabre]

Holding Pattern part 3

Frankie Morales x F!Reader

a03 link here

Summary:

You move back to your childhood home in Florida to care for your ailing mother, only to find the past waiting for you in every room. Your always kind older cousin Santiago refuses to let you disappear into the sadness, pulling you into his world without hesitation. But Santi's world involves Frankie Morales; your cousin's best friend and the boy who broke your heart decades earlier. Thrust into each other’s orbit again old memories make their way to the surface, blurring the line between hatred and desire.Because the boy you learned to despise is the man you can't seem to forget.rated 18+ for later chapters

THIS STORY IS ON A03

tags: Friends to Enemies, First Love, Childhood Friends, Brother's Best Friend trope kinda, Angst, Smut, Flashbacks, First person POV, Protective Frankie, First kiss, parent with terminal illness, HEA.

You should know that this contains a parent being terminally ill so if that is triggering for you, please be aware.

THEN

The summer of your ninth year brings about sticky weather and Hilary's start to a lifetime habit of stealing from makeup shops. Lipgloss, mascara, little items begin to clutter her bedroom shelves. 

You made the mistake of asking her where she got them in front of your mother, confused because neither of you had any pocket money. 

Hilary was grounded for a week and barely spoke to you. Santi however was still kind enough to occasionally include you in his summer plans. It makes you feel like you were part of their little club most days. 

But Travis is always so awful. He'll push you down during a race to the river. He'll roll his eyes when you try to speak. Sometimes he burps in your face just for the heck of it. Most of the time Santi and Frankie laugh at that. Sometimes only Santi does. 

Today the four of you are in an empty park by the river. You're cloud gazing as Santi rides a tire swing on a nearby tree. 

"This one looks like a helicopter," you tell them excitedly pointing up. No one responds to you, all engrossed in their tasks. But you don't care, as the youngest and the only girl you're used to being ignored.

Travis is carving something into the trunk with his pocket knife. Frankie has the kite his father brought back for him from some tour. It's camo designed and has a long black tail. 

He flies it with calm deliberation, eyes peered up from under his cap. The same one you gave him last summer. 

"Can I have a go?" Travis asks, coming up to him, one hand over his eyes to watch it dance in the sky. 

"My dad got it for me," Frankie replies. 

"So?"

"So I don't want it lost or wrecked." 

Travis scowls at Frankie's back, huffing and watching as the kite soars through the bright blue of afternoon sky. You watch as well, transfixed at the black tail that streams after it. 

"This is mine then!" 

Travis jeers at Frankie as he plucks the baseball cap from his head. He drops it over his own dark curls. 

"Give it back you asshole!" 

Frankie is still holding onto the kite with one hand, the other reaching for Travis who goes speeding off with a laugh. Frankie prepares to give chase when he seems to remember the kite. 

"Pip- come here," Frankie says holding the kite string out to you. 

You stand, brushing the grass from your shorts as you jog over. You prepare take it from Frankie with a breathless grin. 

"Don't drop it." 

"C'mon Morales!" Travis jeers as he runs by. "Gonna stand around all day talking to the pipsqueak?!"

"I'm gonna kick your ass!" 

Frankie shifts abruptly preparing to chase after him when Santi drops down from the tire swing, stretching his arms overhead. He's immune to the hubbub going on. 

"C'mon Frank," Santi calls, stretching. "I want a Coke. Your treat remember?" 

"Yeah I remember." Frankie looks your way. "You want anything?" 

"Cherry popsicle." 

Frankie nods, pulling out his Velcro wallet and counting the crumpled bills inside. It's well known that in this group Frankie has the most money. Only because by comparison the rest of you have so little. 

Travis is a few steps away, but he comes back with a coughing laugh when Santi calls him over. 

"I want a grape soda," he tells Frankie. 

"You got money for it?"

"C'mon Morales," Travis says with an eye roll as he points you're way. "You're getting her something." 

Travis is looking at you, light eyes flinty under the brim of Frankie's hat. You hate that Travis is wearing it. You want to snatch it right off his stupid head and hand it back to Frankie. 

"She doesn't annoy me," Frankie replies, jerking the cap from Travis and placing it back where it belongs over his dark curls. 

You want to smile because yes, that's how it should be. 

"So I gotta babysit the kid while you two you fuck off?" Travis sneers. "Great."'

"You sure are doing a lot of bitching," Santi says coolly. "If you're so sick of us why don't you go hang out with all your other friends?"

Travis has no other friends and everyone knows it. You watch his face go beet red and you feel a bit of pity for him. Frankie must do the same

"Here," Frankie says taking the kite string from you and handing it off to Travis. "Watch it until I get back."

Travis, still red-faced, nods at his bare feet, taking the string and spool as the two boys head off in the direction of the corner store. Their sunglasses are perched on the end of their noses, both chatting animatedly to one another as Travis and I stand there watching them go. 

The kite still floats there above us and Travis is pleased slightly to be able to use it. 

You watch patiently for a while, bare feet tickled by the dry grass. 

"Can I try?" You ask, pointing at Frankie's kite in Travis's hand. He shakes his head, not even thinking about it. 

"Nah I'm still using it."

"Can I use it after?"

"I'm probably gonna be using it til he gets back." 

You pout, dropping down cross-legged onto the grass. With your neck craned you watch as the kite soars high in the sky. 

"Watch out," you say pointing to the tree with the tire swing. 

Travis looks over his shoulder to make a face at you. "Just shut u-"

He doesn't finish the sentence before the kite slams into the top of the tree, string tangled into the nearby branch.

"Fuck."'

You stare up in horror as the kite hangs from the branch like a dead leaf. Travis goes pale as he looks at you. 

"We need to get it down," he says. "You gotta do it, Pip."

"What? Why me?"

"You're lighter," Travis insists, taking your arm and pulling you to your feet. "C'mon."

"I don't want to."

"It'll take you five seconds. C'mon, before Frankie gets back." 

Despite Travis's tough-guy persona, he's at least a head shorter than the rest of the guys. He makes up for it by trying to appear menacing, but Santi's quick brain and Frankie's tall stature and shoulders dwarf him in more ways than one.

He'll never say it out loud, but you know Frankie intimidates him. 

"I don't like climbing."

"Sure you do. I've seen you do it a bunch of times at the playground."

"That's not as high." 

You look over your shoulder for Santi and Frankie, but they aren't back from the store. You don't see any sign of them. 

"You want to hang with the group right?" Travis says with a fearsome look on his freckled face. "That means you have to do what we say." 

"But-"

"Don't you want to impress Frankie?"

He hits a nerve you never saw coming. Yeah, you do want to impress Frankie. Frankie is nice to you. He buys you popsicles and laughs at your jokes sometimes. He's gentle in the way most boys his age aren't. 

So of course you want to impress him. 

That's what has you allowing yourself to be hoisted up and then pushed up the trunk by Travis, your tiny arms wrapped around the base until it can find purchase on one of the lower branches. 

It's what propels you to shimmy up the trunk, legs wobbling with fear as you climb higher and higher. 

You want to impress Frankie. 

You're halfway up the tree when you gaze up and realize there's no way your going to be able to reach that kite on the upper branch; one so thin it barely qualifies as a twig. 

And suddenly it's like you just realized how high off the ground you are, Travis looks like an ant below you. You cling to the nearest branch, your legs shaking with terror as you scream down at the waiting boy. 

"Get me down!" 

"C'mon, Pip!" Travis shouts. "Don't be a wuss!" 

You squeeze your eyes shut and hug tightly to the tree as much as you can. You can't climb down you can't climb up. You're stuck here forever. Maybe you'll be like the Robinson Caruso family, living in the trees. 

Travis is calling your name, your real name, which is how you know he's getting stressed out. But you don't answer him, you just remain there standing with your arms around the tree, trying to stop your crying. 

 "What the hell?" 

Your eyes pop open when you hear your your cousin's familiar voice. He sounds pissed off. 

He and Frankie are coming back from the store, both of both sets of eyes fixed on you cowering against the tree. 

"Santi!" 

Santee has dropped his soda, and Frankie has dropped your Popsicle into the grass. Do you don't even have time to mourn its passing, because your fear is debilitating. 

Travis hangs back from the duo, looking nervously at them before casting his eyes to you. 

"I'm scared!" You call out. 

"We've got you!" Santi calls back. 

You're sobbing with relief now, your cries turning into a plaintive wail as you watch the two boys come to the trunk. 

"I'm taller," Frankie announces as if there is no time to debate. Santi, normally more headstrong, just nods, looking up at you with fear in his eyes. 

You can hear Frankie starting to climb but amongst that wrestling, you also hear the sound of the branch you're seated on starting to creak. It's going to crack and give way. You're going to be hurt.

Your arms are scratched up, stinging as you hold tightly to the branch. You want to see your mom and Hilary. You don't want to be here. 

"Pip- look at me." 

Your eyes crack open to see Frankie there in front of you, one arm outstretched to you, the other wrapped around a nearby branch. His collar is ringed with sweat, his hair curling under his ears.  

"C'mon," he says roughly. "Quick." 

If it were anyone else you think you would hesitate. But it's Frankie and he looks so serious and safe and strong. Hiccuping through tears you reach out for him, pulled against his chest immediately. He smells like sweat and sunscreen. He smells like safety and strength. 

"Get on my back, okay? I'm gonna get us down." 

"No," you whine, arms tightening around his neck. Your face is buried in his shoulder and you're still trembling. "Frankie please. I don't want to fall."

"You're not going to fall," he promises through grunts, the exertion of holding both of us a loft like this must be a strain. 

"I'm scared."

"Look at me." 

You hesitate, wanting to shake your head. But something about the softness of his tone considering the situation, surprises you and you lift your eyes to meet his. 

"I'm going to get us down from here," He tells you with the same certainty he used previously with Santi. "I'm going to make sure you're safe. Do you trust that? Can you trust me?"

You eyes are still watery, making Frankie's face a watercolor blur. But you nod at him because yes, you do trust him. 

"Then you need to do what I say, okay?"

With his direction you hook your legs the best you can, inching your way around his body, his hand on your wrist tight. He only lets go when he can feel the grip of your fingers around his shoulder. 

"Hold on." 

He moves quickly, back muscles rolling as he climbs down the tree with careful precision. You hold his neck tightly, whimpering at the speed of his descent.

Before he touches the ground Santi is there, tugging you off of Frankie's back and checking your face for scratches. 

"Are you okay?"

You nod, even though tears are spilling down your cheeks. You were terrified, your body still shaking with fear. 

"Why were you up there?" 

"We were trying to get Frankie's kite," you say, pointing to it still hanging there. Guilt overtakes you as you turn to the tall boy. "I'm sorry Frankie, I couldn't get it." 

"That's okay, Pip." 

Your cousin moves from you over to a waiting Travis. 

"What the fuck were you thinking?" Santi demands. When Santi says something in that quiet, dangerous way of his, Travis listens.

"What's the big deal?" Travis says laughing uneasily. "She got down didn't she?"

You watch with satisfaction as he rears back and delivers a solid punch to Travis' nose. 

Because while Frankie is usually above using violence as a first resort, Santi isn't.

"Here's your breakfast, mom." 

"I don't want any."

"These eggs are done just how you like them," you redirect. "Put some hot peppers in them."

"I'm tired," she announces, pushing herself up from the table.  

"You need to eat something." 

She looks at you with troubled eyes.  "I'll have an Ensure later."

"Mom-"

"Oh just leave me alone!"

You watch her hobble into the TV room and know you're fighting a losing battle. 

You eat her abandoned eggs and finish tidying up the kitchen before finally taking a bath. It's the only place you can relax in this house. Your skin is  pruney by the time you finally get out, wringing your washed hair out with the towel. 

Your phone vibrates on the counter as you brush your teeth and you see it's Santi. 

The two of you have been keeping in sporadic contact the last few weeks. He's always checking in about your mom, coming by for the occasional visit when she's up for it. He hasn't brought up the awful run in with Frankie at the bar and neither have you. You read his latest message. 

Hey Pip. Thinking of going to the beach tomorrow with the guys. You in? 

You know that "the guys" includes Frankie. It always includes Frankie You wonder if Santi is testing the waters to see if, with enough notice, you'll willingly be in the same room as him. 

If you're worried about Frankie, I'll be there as a buffer. 

You frown, fingers moving slowly. 

He was pretty shitty to me the last time, Santi. 

You weren't exactly a princess yourself. 

If it was any other moment you'd say you were busy. But in this town you know so few people and after a week of being stuck at home with your mom you're actually dying for a change of scenery. 

But what if Frankie is a jerk to you again? 

Santi must read your mind because he types more. 

I told Fish what I'm telling you: be civil to each other or I'm not hanging out with either of you for the rest of the summer. You’re grown ups for fuck sakes. 

Santiago Garcia is even more stubborn than you. So if he says he won't hang out with you both he means it. And considering you don't really know anyone else in this town anymore aside from Christy Jordan, you can't exactly afford to isolate any form of companionship.  

Okay. Pick me up on the way. 

You can't figure out why you're so nervous the next afternoon. Maybe it's because your mom is in a foul mood or because the swimsuit you bought from home feels cheap. Or maybe it's because the thought of being around Frankie Morales for an entire afternoon scares you. You wish you had your own car; an easy way to escape if being around him gets too hard. You have the old truck your mom used to drive, but you want it here for Rosalita in case of an emergency.

We're here. 

You take a deep breath, sliding your sunglasses on and grabbing your tote bag. You bid your mom and Rosalita farewell and then you're heading down the walkway to a dented dark blue truck. 

Frankie's truck. 

The Miller boys and Santi in the back, Tom and Frankie up front, the latter obviously driving. 

"Have to squeeze up front," Benny says with a shrug when he sees your concern. "Sorry, babe." 

You scan the space, cringing. Tom steps out, beckoning for you to slide in between he and Frankie. 

"Gotta have the window," Tom explains. "I get carsick."

Yeah, right. 

You take a deep breath, considering cutting your losses and just saying that you'll come with them another day. But Santi is shooting you a very pointed look over his sunglasses. You feel like you're eight again, trying to gain his approval, trying to prove to him that you're cool enough to hang out with him and his friends. 

You force your eyes to Frankie's profile, watching how his hand curves around the wheel, the other draped along the window. He looks calm, but you can see the feathering of his jaw as he waits. 

You also notice he's wearing a different cap today. Some dark green one with a fishing logo on it. 

Without a word you slide into the middle of the bench seat, tugging on the seatbelt without a word. Tom follows you in and the conversations start up again as Frankie starts driving and the radio crackles to life. 

"I brought coal," Will announces from the back. "Anyone remember the actual BBQ?"

Santi waves the question away. "Yeah yeah, Plus I got the brauts."

"I got soda and beer," Benny grins. "So I win."

You make sure to keep your arms and legs tucked in, not wanting to touch Frankie if you can help it. He seems to be doing the same his body leaning away from you as he navigates to the lake. 

"What about you, Pip?" Santi asks from the backseat. "What did you bring?"

"Chips and dip," you answer, looking over your shoulder at him. "And stop calling me that, you asshole! Nobody calls me that anymore."

The group sans Frankie laughs indulgently and keep talking about how this river won't be overrun with tourists. You continue to sit there silently, your body growing tired from holding it so stiffly. You catch Santi's concerned expression in the rearview mirror a few times. 

You catch Frankie's eyes once and your throat tightens before you both jerk your gaze from each other. You can smell his old spice deodorant from here. A familiar scent he's worn since he was a teen. In an instant it takes you back decades, memories filling up your head before you distract yourself by turning up the radio. 

A peppy tune sounds out and you smile. If you can ignore Frankie, the day is beautiful and you get to spend it at one of your favorite places. 

"Don't," Frankie snaps, sucking at his teeth when you turn to glare at him.  

"Why?"

"I don't like it loud."

"It isn't loud. I barely turned it up."

You watch his big hand come to turn the knob, silencing the radio altogether. 

"My truck. My radio."

Tension grows before Benny cuts it.

“Remember Chris Tucker?” He adopts a mimicking tone. “Don't you ever touch a black man's radio!”

The group laughs, tension resolved as they start quoting more nineties action flicks. By the time Frankie pulls his stupid truck into the beach parking lot you're all dying to escape. You practically shove Tom out his side door. 

Frankie walks on ahead of the group, cap pulled low, dark eyes scanning for an empty space to set up. He's always like this; precise, eager to plan, more comfortable when he's in control. You're glad to be rid of his presence. You're convinced his old spice leeched into your skin. 

The guys fan out like they’re back in basic doing teamwork drills. Santi claims the picnic table closest to the grill, Will and Benny dragging the cooler over while Tom fiddles with the rusted barbecue. Frankie takes charge without saying much, hands moving with purpose as he lines up hot dogs, checks the flame, blah blah. 

Beers crack open in quick succession, the sharp hiss of carbonation cutting through the beach noise. You sink onto your towel with your magazine noting the way Frankie reaches for a soda instead of a beer. 

Guess he's the responsible one as per usual. Designated driver. Same old Morales.

Conversation drifts easy between the men as they work the grill. Topics like, summer plans, fishing trips, maybe a drive down the Keys if schedules line up. They talk about days that don’t start with medication schedules or the sound of your mother screaming your name. 

They try to include you in the conversation and you nod along, smiling when you’re expected to, but inside you’re soaking in the warmth on your skin, the breeze off the water, the rare feeling that you’re not needed somewhere else. 

You keep your distance from Frankie, circling wide when he moves close, busying yourself with your bag, your drink, anything. The silence between the two of you is loud He started it in the truck and now he’s committed, jaw tight, eyes forward. 

“Food’s ready,” Tom announces, clapping his hands together like he’s calling troops to attention. “Before Frankie decides the grill needs a formal inspection.”

Frankie shoots him a look but says nothing, flipping the last hot dog onto a paper plate.

You settle onto your towel with your plate balanced on your knees, listening more than talking. 

“Smells better than basic,” Will says, already grabbing a bun. “Remember those powdered eggs?”

“Illegal under the Geneva Convention,” Benny adds. “I swear half of that food was punishment.”

“You’re just weak,” Frankie mutters to them, handing Santi a plate. “It built character.”

“It built ulcers,” Tom says around a bite.

Frankie eats standing up, distracted, already half-focused on the grill again. He squeezes the ketchup bottle too hard. A thick red line splatters onto the front of his t-shirt.

Frankie looks down, frowning. “Shit.”

You snort before you can stop yourself. Frankie mutters something under his breath and peels the shirt over his head without ceremony, tossing it onto the table. The movement catches your eyes and then lingers. You do it subtly out of the corner of your eye, through the slow lift of your water bottle. 

Frankie's skin is flushed from the heat, muscles shifting as he reaches for a napkin. You remember him lanky and awkward, all elbows and sharp angles. This version is solid. Broad. Manly. 

Santi sits on the towel next to you, looking out at the water and muttering something about getting a new pair of sunglasses. You use his body to slightly hide behind, your eyes still lingering on this new version of Frankie. 

“See something you like?”

The voice comes from the table next to Will.  Your head snaps up. Heat floods your face. 

Its Benny looking amused as he winks at you. Benny clearly doesn't know your history with Frankie otherwise, you're sure he never would have said anything.

Frankie is mid-bite, ketchup still on his fingers, when the air shifts. He doesn’t look up at first and you hope he didn't hear. 

"Looked like you were staring at Fish,” Benny continues grinning devilishly.

Frankie goes very still and your embarrassment curdles into something mean.

"Gross. I’m not into guys with dad bods who peaked in basic.”

The words hit hard when not accompanied by a smile to cushion them.

Too harsh. Too far. Too unkind. 

Heat crawls up your neck because the group is silent in response. Will’s grin fades. Benny stops smirking. Santi doesn’t look at either of you at all.

Frankie’s jaw tightens. He wipes his hands on a napkin that’s already useless, folds it once, then again. Something to do with his hands. Something to focus on.  He doesn’t defend himself or make a joke and that makes it so much worse. You're almost wishing he'd bite back. 

But then you observe the way his shoulders curve, like he's trying to hide his naked torso.  That hits you in an even worse way, knowing that you’re responsible for his shame.

“I’m gonna hit the bathroom,” he says, raspy voice held even as he grabs his soiled T-shirt. 

He walks away with his shoulders stiff and his head down as he weaves through people, leaving you watching him with a stone in your belly. 

"That was shitty," Santi tells you from the next towel over. "Really fucking shitty."

You feel like you're going to cry under his heavy disappointment. You poke at your food, appetite gone, cheeks still burning. Santi stands, telling the guys he wants to take a dip and the brothers start stripping down, shoving each other toward the water. 

"Can you take care of the coals?" Tom asks and you nod, watching him join the others. 

You're thankful to be left to your thoughts for a moment. To collect yourself so you don't cry. You're ashamed as much as you are frustrated that despite his cold attitude, it’s you sitting here feeling sick and

Frankie comes back from the bathroom rubbing his hands on his jeans like he’s already irritated about something. The front of his shirt is damp from where he cleaned it, clinging against his chest. 

His eyes flick to the grill first, then to you. You feel him coming nearer and you crack open your magazine, pretending to be invested.

“Those coals need to be put out.”

You don’t look up from your magazine. “Yep.”

“They’re still hot,” he says, already moving toward the grill.

You glance up, annoyance flaring. “Tom was manning the grill, not me.”

Frankie straightens, jaw tightening. “Tom’s in the water. Didn't he get anyone to take care of it?"

"Yep, me, and I will."

You remind yourself to breathe through your nose, lest you say something unkind like earlier. But Frankie seems determined to test your patience.

"You should do it before-"

"Oh for fucks sake!" You snap the magazine shut. “Don’t talk to me like I'm one of your army buddies, Francisco. I’ll do it when I get to it.”

His eyes flash. He hates being called Francisco and you know that. Or at least he used to hate it. A lot can change in over a decade. 

He scoffs a sharp sound. “God, you’re so fucking annoying.”

That does it. You’re on your feet before you realize it, heat rushing to your face as you get in his face. 

“And you’re fucking insufferable,” you fire back. “You think because you’re older and louder you get to boss me around?”

“I’m not bossing anyone around,” he says, stepping closer. “I’m trying to keep things under control.”

Where did the shy boy of so long ago disappear to? The boy with a wide smile that made his eyes disappear. This man is snappy, his dark eyes are hollow. 

“You get to control a lot, but not me,” you say, matching his step without meaning to. There’s barely a foot between you now. 

His nostrils flare. 

“I’ve been taking care of my mom for months, Morales," you finish. "I can handle a fucking grill.”

That stops him up short and you see his mouth drop slightly. He blinks quickly, brows knitting as he stares at you. Clearly Santi told him about your mom. 

“That’s not what this is about.”

You swallow, thankful your sunglasses hide your burning eyes. 

"No? What's it about then?"

"About you saying one thing and doing another," he says a little louder, the vein by his temple bulging.

“Oh really?” you laugh, sharp and humorless. “Because it sure feels like you just enjoy telling me what to do.”

He leans down slightly, voice dropping but no less intense. “You twist everything.”

“And you act like you know everything,” you shoot back.

Silence snaps tight between you, thick and vibrating. You can feel your pulse in your throat, in your wrists. His cheeks are flushed, eyes dark, fixed on you like he’s forgotten where you are.

For a second, neither of you moves.

Then he exhales hard, dragging a hand through his hair. “I’m going for a swim.”

“Good,” you say, though your voice shakes just a little. 

He turns away, leaving the air buzzing where he stood, and you’re left staring after him, heart still racing, hands clenched at your sides. He passes the guys on his way down to the beach as they come back up, glistening with water. 

The guys dig into the cooler for drinks and a short while passes while you all sunbathe and drink. Santi doesn't seem upset with you anymore, which gives you some relief. 

"Looks like Frankie is gonna score," Will chuckles from behind you. 

You watch over your magazine as a woman with caramel hair and full lips shoots Frankie a coquettish look, coming to wade near him.  

"Damn she's hot," Tom murmurs. 

From what you can see over your magazine, the woman's skimpy bikini leaves nothing to the imagination. And yes, she is very hot.  Frankie has noticed her now, turning his attention her way as your group watches from their spots on the beach. 

"What is it about him?" Benny says shaking his head with bemusement. "Ladies just flock to him."

"And he's so damn shy," Tom adds. "It makes no sense."

You and the guys watch as Frankie speaks to the woman with his eyes averted. 

He takes off his ball cap to run his fingers through his hair before settling it atop his mahogany curls once more. This is something he's done since he started wearing hats, a self soothing gesture.  

He’s nervous.

"Maybe they think he's mysterious," Will offers.

"Girls love that mysterious shit, don't they?" Benny says tapping your calf with his cold beer bottle. 

"Dunno," you answer with a shrug, tugging your water bottle from your tote. "I'm not a fan of mind games."

Benny turns to to Santi. "You've known him since you were kids. He always been like that?"

"Yeah, pretty much. Frankie has always been… particular," Santi says carefully. He doesn't add more than that, but he does slant a look your way when you scoff. 

"He was such a golden boy at basic. Never wanted to do anything wrong," Will chuckles. "Never wanted to go off base in case we got caught."

That's more the Frankie you remember. The boy who liked following rules and who thrived on knowing what was right. 

Frankie has walked to the woman's towel and is talking as he clearly gives her his number. You roll your eyes when the woman blows him a kiss farewell.  

"I need to know what he says to them," Benny murmurs in awe. 

You e remember that Frankie used to be a good listener. You could tell him almost anything and you knew you wouldn't be judged. He'd never interrupt and he asked questions and those big dark eyes wouldn't look away. 

He spoke softly then. Didn't say as much as the others because he never seemed compelled to fill up the space. There was a quiet confidence he had and you suppose that's what still draws women in. 

You watch as he tosses his ball cap onto the shoreline, his t-shirt following before he's moving into the water and diving.  

"Remember the old pool by your place?" Santi says grinning behind his sunglasses. "Had that snack bar with the best hot dogs?"

It's like you're there now. The scent of fried food, the hot cracked concrete under bare feet. You give a tight smile, eyes distant. 

"Yeah. I remember."

Oh yeah. 

You remember. 

THEN

The public pool opens from June to early September every year. It's the closest one within biking distance and when the rivers and beaches get too busy, you and Santi go. 

You have friends too, but since it's the middle of summer many are on vacation, living lives much fancier than yours. 

On this day you're with Santi, Travis and Frankie. Santi is at the snack bar trying to scam some free fries; Frankie snagged one of the only remaining loungers, reclined comfortably with a paperback in his hand. 

The rest of you have set up towels around it in a semicircle with yours the closest to the water.  The pool is busy, the scent of chlorine and the shouts of children invade your senses. The day is hot and sweat trickles down your spine. You can't wait to jump into the clear water. 

You glance back at Frankie and Travis, curious if they're going to get into the pool soon. You feel weird being the first one in your group to do it though you can't explain why. 

You're at that age, the one where you start to notice more about your body and the way it's starting to fill out. The age where the act of developing feels humiliating. 

"You going in?" Travis asks Frankie. 

Frankie doesn't look up from his book.

"Maybe later." 

Frankie still wears your father's cap, his dark locks spilling out from underneath it. He told you his mom keeps urging him to cut it but he keeps refusing. 

Travis' dark curls fall into his face when he tosses off his t-shirt. He got his braces off last summer and you have to admit that he's grown kind of handsome. Not that you'd ever tell him that, he doesn't need the ego boost. 

"I'm gonna go in," you tell Travis. 

He gives you an appraising look as you lower your shorts, leaving them on your threadbare pink towel.  

Frankie looks away as you remove your oversized T-shirt, letting it join the shorts, your attention on the crystalline water. 

You wear the swimsuit from last year underneath; a red racer back you saw on one of the girls wearing during the summer Olympics. You begged your mom for one. Your mom had been in good spirits the day she brought it home for you, surprising you with a trip to the local water park. She even got you an ice cream. 

It was such a good day that you ignored how she swerved when she drove home and how she smelled strongly of wine.

But now a year later the swimsuit is much tighter, pulling taut against your swelling chest, cutting high on your burgeoning hips. You don't think it's too noticeable until an appraising Travis gives a whistle. 

"Damn Pip, when did you get knockers?"

At thirteen and awkward you feel stricken by the observation, humiliated by the attention to your developing body. You immediately cover your chest with your arms, dropping back onto the towel so harshly you have to swallow a yelp. 

"Damn, don't stop the show,” Travis laughs. “Give us a wiggle." 

Children splash and scream in the pool. The heat feels impossible to ignore and all you want to do is jump in. But you fear that Travis will say something else if you stand up again. 

"C'mon," he jeers, seeming to notice your discomfort. "Let's see the-"

"Shut the fuck up, Travis."

You whip your head around to see as Frankie slowly gets to his feet. His dark eyes are narrowed on Travis who only now looks away from your body in it's crouched position. 

"What did you just say, Morales?"

"I said shut the fuck up."

Frankie is always so quiet, so mild mannered that his vitriol surprises you. He barely raised his raspy voice, but the message is clear. 

"You her bodyguard or something?" Travis says with a sneer. 

"Nope."

"Then why are you butting in?"

"I'm doing you a favor. If Santi hears you talk like that to her he'll knock your teeth out." 

The two boys stare each other down; Frankie is a good foot taller than Travis when they stand next to one another. He's never been violent that you've seen but as he’s aged his hands have grown large, his shoulders wide. He’s still lanky though, still slender and boyish despite his sixteen years.

"Whatever," Travis finally scoffs. He heads over to the snack bar, giving Frankie the finger as he goes. 

Frankie doesn’t enjoy confrontation, so this quiet moment of chivalry hits you hard. Your eyes are wet with humiliation and sweat but you notice large feet stop beside your towel. When you glance up Frankie's hand extends to you. 

"Let's go."

You look up at him, your cheeks still stained red with humiliation. 

"I'm fine."

He crouches next to you, his eyes soft. 

"Ignore Travis. He's an asshole. Don't let him ruin your day."

You stare at the sincerity in Frankie’s face and now when he stands and extends his hand to you, you take it. He leads you both to the pool, murmuring softly about how cold it's going to be. Your toes curl over the edge, your hand still held fast in his. 

"Count of three," he tells you. 

You glance at his handsome face which is glowing gold in the sunlight and you feel something unfurl deep within you. Something that begins knocking around in your chest and belly as you both count down and jump into the cool water. 

“Three…Two…One!”

When you both resurface and he's smiling at you with his dimple on display, you feel warm everywhere. You spend the next fifteen minutes swimming, splashing and laughing.

Then he goes to join a recently returned Santi, muscles taut as he pulls himself out of the pool, water running off his body like he's been sculpted. You find your mouth has gone dry and in that moment you realize you have a crush on Frankie Morales. 

dividers by @saradika-graphics

taglist

@beezusvreeland

@maried01

@severelysentientnova

@vickie5446

[onlythehobi]

omg they drive me nuts 😭😭😭

pobrecita sjdjd sólo se quería dar un taco de ojo y este metido le arruina todo 😭😭😭😭

GIRL U DID NOT HAVE TO SAY ALL THAT

stop lying i love dad bods and i love frankie this is serious mischaracterization stop this

the little flashback at the end tho omg 🥹🥹

[auteurdelabre]

Holding Pattern part 2

Frankie Morales x F!Reader

a03 link here

Summary:

You move back to your childhood home in Florida to care for your ailing mother, only to find the past waiting for you in every room. Your always kind older cousin Santiago refuses to let you disappear into the sadness, pulling you into his world without hesitation. But Santi's world involves Frankie Morales; your cousin's best friend and the boy who broke your heart decades earlier. Thrust into each other’s orbit again old memories make their way to the surface, blurring the line between hatred and desire.Because the boy you learned to despise is the man you can't seem to forget.rated 18+ for later chapters

THIS STORY IS ON A03

tags: Friends to Enemies, First Love, Childhood Friends, Brother's Best Friend trope kinda, Angst, Smut, Flashbacks, First person POV, Protective Frankie, First kiss, parent with terminal illness, HEA.

You should know that this contains a parent being terminally ill so if that is triggering for you, please be aware.

You can never go home again. 

That expression plays in your mind as your mother shoots a vicious look your way from across the breakfast table. 

"You aren't my daughter."

It's been a month and a half since you got home. A month and a half of watching your already frail mother grow tinier and her mood shift. You've gotten used to these casual cruelties. These unkind words that first pierced you but now slide off your body like oil. 

"Okay." 

Your voice is tired as you place the plate of eggs in front of your mother. 

"Why the fuck are you in my house?" 

Rosalita took yesterday and today off and your mother's care has fallen entirely to you. It's left you feeling exhausted and maudlin. You want to go back to bed, or do work from your laptop home office set up in the spare bedroom. The Internet was spotty for a while but working here is fine too.

"Are you listening you little bitch? I said why the fuck are you in my house?"

Your mother has been in a nasty mood since Thursday morning. You're more thankful than ever for Rosalita who comes home tomorrow. 

"These eggs are done just how you like them," you redirect, just as she taught you. 

"I hate eggs."

"You don't have to eat them if you don't want to," you say gently lowering yourself into the seat across from her at the table. You dig into your own plate. "I'll eat yours if you don't want them." 

"You don't need more food," she snipes, poking at her eggs with a fork. You shrug, still eating, ears deaf to her insults. 

She watches you through narrowed eyes that slowly morph from disgusted to angry to confused. 

"My eggs are cold."

When she begins to quietly sniffle you simply take her hand in yours, thumb rubbing against her blanched knuckles. 

"It's okay Mom. I'll make you new ones." 

The call comes a few days after you've begun to settle in. 

"Come to drinks."

Santi's voice is upbeat in your ear. 

It was a pretty long week with Rosalita gone and the thought of drinks and being outside this home actually sounds good. Plus having Santi around for more than a weekend is a delightful opportunity. But before you agree, you can't help but pause, lips pressed together.  

"Anyone else going?"

"Millers. Tom." 

Brothers Benny and Will Miller and Tom Davis are Santi's military friends. They did basic together and ever since then have been thick as thieves. Last time you checked, Benny was in wrestling or something. Will in home security and Tom in real estate. 

You like the brothers both with their affable personalities, light hair and blue eyes. Benny is the charmer, roguish and flirtatious. Will is more subdued, but his attitude warm every time you chat. 

Tom is more guarded, his smile never appearing authentic. More like he's forcing himself to be human. You figure he's just tired, being the only dad in the group. 

You've seen them all a handful of times during visits home. They're kind every time, always including you in backyard BBQ's or pool nights. They talk to you like you matter, they're respectful and they don't creep you out like most men in your age bracket so the thought of hanging out with them this evening seems appealing. 

Rosalita is scheduled here with your mom for the next few hours so she won't be alone either. All in all it's a good set up for a nice break.  

But still you pause. 

"Is he going?"

You hear the sigh before it hits the air. "No. I asked but he's working tonight."

Relief causes you to grin and the knot in your stomach slowly loosens. 

"Okay. Text me the address." 

THEN

The summer of your ninth year brings about sticky weather and Hilary's start to a lifetime habit of stealing from makeup shops. Lipgloss, mascara, little items begin to clutter her bedroom shelves. 

You made the mistake of asking her where she got them in front of your mother, confused because neither of you had any pocket money. 

Hilary was grounded for a week and barely spoke to you. Santi however was still kind enough to occasionally include you in his summer plans. It makes you feel like you were part of their little club most days. 

But Travis is always so awful. He'll push you down during a race to the river. He'll roll his eyes when you try to speak. Sometimes he burps in your face just for the heck of it. Most of the time Santi and Frankie laugh at that. Sometimes only Santi does. 

Today the four of you are in an empty park by the river. You're cloud gazing as Santi rides a tire swing on a nearby tree. 

"This one looks like a catfish," you tell them excitedly pointing up. No one responds to you, all engrossed in their tasks. But you don't care, you're used to being ignored.

Travis is carving something into the trunk with his pocket knife. Frankie has the kite his father brought back for him from some tour. Its designed to look like camo and has a long black tail. 

He flies it with calm deliberation; eyes peered up from under his cap. The same one you gave him last summer. Standard Heating Oil. You rarely see him without it.

"Can I have a go?" Travis asks, coming up to him, one hand over his eyes to watch it dance in the sky. 

"My dad got it for me," Frankie replies. 

"So?"

"So I don't want it wrecked." 

Travis scowls at Frankie's back, huffing and watching as the kite soars through the bright blue of afternoon sky. You watch as well, transfixed at the black tail that streams after it. 

"This is mine then!" 

Travis jeers at Frankie as he plucks the baseball cap from his head. He drops it over his own dark curls. Frankie is still holding onto the kite with one hand, the other reaching for Travis who goes speeding off with a laugh.

"Give it back you asshole!" 

Frankie prepares to give chase when he seems to remember the kite. 

"Pip- come here," Frankie says holding the kite string out to you. 

You stand, brushing the grass from your shorts as you jog over. You prepare take it from Frankie with a breathless grin. 

"Don't drop it." 

"C'mon Morales!" Travis jeers as he runs by. "Gonna stand around all day talking to the pipsqueak?!"

"I'm gonna kick your ass!" 

Frankie shifts abruptly preparing to chase after him when Santi drops down from the tire swing, stretching his arms overhead. He's immune to the hubbub going on. 

"C'mon Frank," Santi calls, stretching. "I want a Coke. Your treat remember?" 

"Yeah I remember." Frankie looks your way. "You want anything?" 

"Cherry popsicle." 

Frankie nods, pulling out his Velcro wallet and counting the crumpled bills inside. It's well known that in this group Frankie has the most money. Only because by comparison the rest of you have so little. 

Travis is a few steps away, but he comes back with a coughing laugh when Santi calls him over. 

"I want a grape soda," he tells Frankie. 

"You got money for it?"

"C'mon Morales," Travis says with an eye roll as he points you're way. "You're getting her something." 

Travis is looking at you, light eyes flinty under the brim of Frankie's hat.  You hate that Travis is wearing it. You want to snatch it right off his stupid head and hand it back to Frankie. 

"She doesn't annoy me," Frankie replies, jerking the cap from Travis and placing it back where it belongs over his dark curls. 

You want to smile because yes, that's how it should be. 

"So I gotta babysit the kid while you two you fuck off?" Travis sneers. "Great."'

"You sure are doing a lot of bitching," Santi says coolly. "If you're so sick of us why don't you go hang out with all your other friends?"

Travis has no other friends and everyone knows it. You watch his face go beet red and you feel a bit of pity for him. Frankie must do the same

"Here," Frankie says taking the kite string from you and handing it off to Travis. "Watch it until I get back."

Travis, still red-faced, nods at his bare feet, taking the string and spool as the two boys head off in the direction of the corner store. Their sunglasses are perched on the end of their noses, both chatting animatedly to one another as Travis and you stand there watching them go. 

The kite still floats there above you two and Travis is clearly pleased that Frankie has given him the responsibility of taking care of it in his absence. 

You watch patiently for a while, bare feet tickled by the dry grass. 

"Can I try?" You finaly ask, pointing at the string in Travis's hand. He shakes his head, not even thinking about it. 

"Nah I'm still using it."

"Can I use it after?"

"I'm probably gonna be using it til he gets back." 

You pout, dropping down cross-legged onto the grass. With your neck craned you watch as the kite soars high in the sky. 

"Watch out," you say pointing to the tree with the tire swing. 

Travis looks over his shoulder to make a face at you. "Just shut u-"

He doesn't finish the sentence before the kite slams into the top of the tree, string tangled into the nearby branch.

"Fuck."'

You stare up in horror as the kite hangs from the branch like a dead leaf. Travis goes pale as he looks at you. 

"We need to get it down," he says.

“Yeah.”

"You gotta do it, Pip."

"What? Why me?"

"You're lighter," Travis insists, taking your arm and pulling you after him. "C'mon."

"I don't want to."

"It'll take you five seconds. C'mon, before Frankie gets back." 

Despite Travis's tough-guy persona, he's at least a head shorter than the rest of the guys. He makes up for it by trying to appear menacing, but Santi's quick brain and Frankie's tall stature and shoulders dwarf him in more ways than one.

He'll never say it out loud, but you know Frankie and Santi intimidates him. 

"I don't like climbing."

"Sure you do. I've seen you do it a bunch of times at the playground."

"That's not as high." 

You look over your shoulder for Santi and Frankie, but you don't see any sign of them. 

"You want to hang with the group right?" Travis says with a fearsome look on his freckled face. "We’re older. That means you have to do what we say." 

"But-"

"Don't you want to impress Frankie?"

He hits a nerve you never saw coming. Yeah, you do want to impress Frankie. Frankie is nice to you. He buys you popsicles and laughs at your jokes sometimes. He's gentle in the way most boys his age aren't. 

So of course you want to impress him. 

That's what has you allowing yourself to be hoisted up and then pushed up the trunk by Travis, your tiny arms wrapped around the base until it can find purchase on one of the lower branches. 

It's what propels you to shimmy up the trunk, legs wobbling with fear as you climb higher and higher. 

You want to impress Frankie. 

You're halfway up the tree when you gaze up and realize there's no way your going to be able to reach that kite on the upper branch; one so thin it barely qualifies as a twig. 

And suddenly it's like you just realized how high off the ground you are, Travis looks like an ant below you. You cling to the nearest branch, your legs shaking with terror as you scream down at the waiting boy. 

"Get me down!" 

"C'mon, Pip!" Travis shouts. "Don't be a wuss!" 

You squeeze your eyes shut and hug tightly to the tree as much as you can. You can't climb down you can't climb up. You're stuck here forever. Maybe you'll be like the Robinson Caruso family, living in the trees. 

Travis is calling your name, your real name, which is how you know he's getting stressed out. But you don't answer him, you just remain there standing with your arms around the tree, trying to stop your crying. 

 "What the hell?" 

Your eyes pop open when you hear your your cousin's familiar voice. He sounds pissed off. 

He and Frankie are coming back from the store, both of both sets of eyes fixed on you cowering against the tree. 

"Santi!" 

Santi has dropped his soda, and Frankie has dropped your Popsicle into the grass. Do you don't even have time to mourn its passing, because your fear is debilitating. 

Travis hangs back from the duo, looking nervously at them before casting his eyes to you. 

"I'm scared!" You call out. 

"We've got you!" Santi calls back. 

You're sobbing with relief now, your cries turning into a plaintive wail as you watch the two boys come to the trunk. 

"I'm taller," Frankie announces as if there is no time to debate. Santi, normally more headstrong, just nods, looking up at you with fear in his eyes. 

You can hear Frankie starting to climb but amongst that wrestling, you also hear the sound of the branch you're seated on starting to creak. It's going to crack and give way. You're going to be hurt.

Your arms are scratched up, stinging as you hold tightly to the branch. You want to see your mom and Hilary. You don't want to be here. 

"Pip- look at me." 

Your eyes crack open to see Frankie there in front of you, one arm outstretched to you, the other wrapped around a nearby branch. His collar is ringed with sweat, his hair curling under his ears.  

"C'mon," he says roughly. "Quick." 

If it were anyone else you think you would hesitate. But it's Frankie and he looks so serious and safe and strong. Hiccuping through tears you reach out for him, pulled against his chest immediately. He smells like sweat and sunscreen. He smells like safety and strength. 

"Get on my back, okay? I'm gonna get us down." 

"No," you whine, arms tightening around his neck. Your face is buried in his shoulder and you're still trembling. "Frankie please. I don't want to fall."

"You're not going to fall," he promises through grunts, the exertion of holding both of us a loft like this must be a strain. 

"I'm scared."

"Look at me." 

You hesitate, wanting to shake your head. But something about the softness of his tone considering the situation, surprises you and you lift your eyes to meet his. 

"I'm going to get us down from here," He tells you with the same certainty he used previously with Santi. "I'm going to make sure you're safe. Do you trust that? Can you trust me?"

You eyes are still watery, making Frankie's face a watercolor blur. But you nod at him because yes, you do trust him. 

"Then you need to do what I say, okay?"

With his direction you hook your legs the best you can, inching your way around his body, his hand on your wrist tight. He only lets go when he can feel the grip of your fingers around his shoulder. 

"Hold on." 

He moves quickly, back muscles rolling as he climbs down the tree with careful precision. You hold his neck tightly, whimpering at the speed of his descent.

Before he touches the ground Santi is there, tugging you off of Frankie's back and checking your face for scratches. 

"Are you okay?"

You nod, even though tears are spilling down your cheeks. You were terrified, your body still shaking with fear. 

"Why were you up there?" 

"We were trying to get Frankie's kite," you say, pointing to it still hanging there. Guilt overtakes you as you turn to the tall boy. "I'm sorry Frankie, I couldn't get it." 

"That's okay, Pip." 

Your cousin moves from you over to a waiting Travis. 

"What the fuck were you thinking?" Santi demands. When Santi says something in that quiet, dangerous way of his, Travis listens.

"What's the big deal?" Travis says laughing uneasily. "She got down didn't she?"

You watch with satisfaction as he rears back and delivers a solid punch to Travis' nose. 

Because while Frankie is usually above using violence as a first resort, Santi isn't.  

The partially crowded bar smells like stale cigarettes and the floors are sticky but the drink prices are decent and they have lots of available pool tables and dart boards. 

Santi is at a table, scrolling his phone looking bored. He's got a beer bottle and a whiskey tumbler in front of him, his leather jacket amusing to you. You think you'll always see him as the boy in oversized T-shirts and muddy jeans. Everything else looks like a costume to you. 

You see beautiful woman eyeing him from the bar, giggling to one another when he glances their way.  

"This place is... Interesting," you tell him flatly when you drop into the chair across from him. 

"Nice to see you too, Pip." 

"Do not start with that bullshit," you say with an impressive glower. 

"Can't be too angry with me, I already got you a beer," he says pushing the bottle across the table to you. "One of those craft ones you losers in Seattle love." 

You chuckle, taking the bottle and a delicate sip. "Thanks." 

His phone buzzes and he pulls it out, scanning and rolling his eyes. "Tom's out. Says his daughter has a fever."

You shrug, not particularly upset. Tom was never one of your favorite of Santi's friends. Too opinionated and too few brain cells. 

You take another deep pull of your beer, glancing around at the busy bar. Santi watches you drink for a moment, the faint twangy music crackling over the speakers. Bodies are warming the already humid air. 

"How's auntie doing?" He says gently. 

You swallow. "She's okay. I mean, as okay as possible considering." 

"How's her memory these days?"

"Most of the time it's good. But she says weird shit every now and then. Like, she said my dad needed his lunch made yesterday. Then she told me that she has a male cleaner who doesn't charge her. Then she said that she needed my help to make a cake for some neighbor’s celebration. I asked and Rosalita has no idea what she's talking about." 

He exhales through his nose. "Shit." 

"Yeah." 

Your eyes drop to the sweating beer bottle. You wish you could stop this nausea that keeps rising every time you think too much about it. 

Santi's hand lands overtop yours on the table. 

 "You need anything?"

"Cure for dementia? Or liver failure?"

"Sorry, Pip. Fresh out." 

You smile, thankful for this somewhere normal interaction despite the nickname. Rosalita is totally great, but she's almost sixty and doesn't really joke around. Having your cousin here makes it feel a little bit lighter. 

"Seriously though," he says leaning forward. "You ever need anything you just call me."

"You know I hate talking on the phone." 

You both grin at that. But then you give him a real smile, nodding. You know he means it. 

"Santiago Garcia? Is that you?"

The two of you jerk your attention to the direction of the voice. A pretty woman with a tight skirt and crop top is making a beeline for the table, practically glowing. 

"Fuck," you groan, holding your breath as she saunters towards the booth, narrow hips swinging. 

Christy Jordan.

A girl you used to go to school with. One from the popular group who used you in order to get closer to your popular cousin. It never worked though. Santiago always saw right through her. Even now his usually charming smile is strained. 

"Hey..." 

He trails off, feigning confusion which amuses you because you know that Santi never forgets a face. 

"Christy," she prompts him, hip balanced against the empty chair next to you. "Christy Jordan. We went to school together." 

You're satisfied to see that her lipstick is smeared across her front teeth when she smiles.

"Right." 

You try not to laugh when she continues standing there, swaying slightly with a half empty pint glass in hand. Santi looks your way, looking bemused. 

"Gonna hit the can. I'll be back." 

You nod and only now does Christy glance your way, her thin brows reaching into her hairline. She gives a girlish shriek. 

"Girl, are you serious?! When did you get here?!!"

You're shocked when she reaches for you, arms wrapping around your neck when crouches down. 

"Hey Chris," you say with a tight smile. "How are you?"

"Good, good," she says, her beer soaked breath wafting into your face as she takes the empty chair next to you. 

Her eyes trail over her shoulder in the direction Santi left before she looks your way, puzzled. 

"Why did I think you lived in Seattle?"

"I do."

"Oh, home for a little visit," she says, sipping her foamy beer. "That's nice. You're mom must be so happy to see you."

You hold in a grimace as you think of how to politely tell her to fuck off. 

"You here alone?"

"No, some girls from work," she says. "We were just heading out when I saw you two."

When you saw Santi. 

She nibbles her lower lip. 

"Is Santi staying a while?"

"Not sure," you mutter, fingernail scraping the damp label on your beer bottle. 

"We should all grab dinner sometime," she says grinning widely. The lipstick remains and you don't say anything. 

"Maybe."

You scan the increasingly busy place, hoping that no one else from your youth is here. 

"What about Frankie?" 

Your eyes dart back to her and you feel your jaw clench. 

"What about him?"

"Should we invite him too? I see him in town sometimes but he's always in such a rush." 

Yeah. I bet. 

The last thing you want to do is sit around and talk about Francisco Morales but Christy seems hell-bent in continuing on.  

"Do you still see each other?"

No. 

You ignore her and crane your neck, thankful to see your cousin striding back to the table. He notes Christy seated next to you and gives you a meaningful look. 

Why is she still here? 

You shoot one back. 

I have no fucking idea.

He taps your elbow when he nears you, head tilting. "Booth opened up."

You give him a grateful nod, grabbing your purse and going after him. To your horror you see Christy is following suit, still jabbering on. 

"I can't believe how long it's been," she says with faux enthusiasm. "I mean, when was the last time we were all together?"

You know exactly when you last saw her. Your cheeks burn as you think of it. 

"Travis' party," you offer quietly, but you might as well have been talking to yourself because she's not even looking your way. 

"Are you in town long, Santi?"

"Not too long," Santi lies with a smile that doesn't touch his eyes. "Guess that's why I'm looking forward to catching up with my cousin."

"That's so sweet," Christy gushes, completely oblivious to the brush-off she's being given.  

"Well, it was nice seeing you Chrissy, have a great night," Santi says, his charisma covering the casual dismissal. 

Christy's pretty face colors, her laugh a tight trill. "Yea, we were just heading out. So nice seeing you."

Before Santi replies, the door to the bar opens and a familiar blonde head enters, body wide and muscular. Santi shoots him a broad smile. 

"Miller!"

Christy has the good sense to take her leave now, giving you a brief wave as she joins the gaggle of women exiting the bar. 

"This place is a hole," Will announces as he drops into the booth next to Santi. 

"I've heard." 

Will smiles warmly at you. "How you doing, sweetheart?" 

Will is about the only person who can call you that without it sounding embarrassing. 

"Pretty good, thanks. You?"

Will shrugs. "Could be better, could be worse." He looks towards the bartender and then back your way, motioning to your bottle. "You want another?" 

You shake your head. "I'm good."

Santi feigns being insulted. "You gonna ask me?"

"Your legs broken?" 

The two men chuckle and slide out of the booth, heading to grab more drinks. You scroll your phone until they return, feeling a bit uneasy after that interaction with Christy. It’s been years but the sight of her still causes you to see red.

Will drops a bowl of pretzels onto the table when hereturns, shrugging off his jacket. If he was single you'd be ogling the muscles that strain under his shirt when he does. 

"Where's Viola?"

"Work," He says between bites. "You still with that Trent guy?"

You know for a fact that Will is not asking for himself. Will has been in a relationship with Viola for almost two years and he's utterly obsessed with her. 

"Nope. Trent was a flash in the pan." You give him a smirk. "Why? You gonna set me up?" 

"Like you'd ever date someone I suggested."

Santi is held up at the bar, chatting with o one of the pretty ladies you noticed eyeing him before. 

"Maybe I need to try the Santiago method," you giggle. "Shamelessly flirting but with an air of mystery."

"Worth a shot," Will says. "Could try it on my brother."

"Yeah right. He's seen me get angry playing pool. No mystery left."

A few moments pass as the two of you chat about mundane things like work and local politics before he grows serious. 

"Santi told us about your mom. I'm really sorry." 

You feel your teeth clench together not in anger, but in frustration. You'd been hoping to get away from this sort of talk tonight. Hopeful that Santi hadn't shared your mother's illness with all his friends. But you can't say that you're surprised, of course he would tell them. 

Santi appears now, sliding in beside Will with his drink. 

"Where's Benny?"

"He had to drop stuff off after the match and then stop to grab Fish," Will says, throwing back another handful of pretzels. You feel Santi dart a sharp look your before glancing back at Will.

"I thought Fish was working."

"Got off early I think," Will replies between crunches. 

You attempt to hide your displeasure behind your beer bottle before shooting Santi a dark look. He studiously ignores you, deciding to start in on a story about Colombia. 

Just great. The one night you were hoping to escape stress and here it is hand delivered to your table. 

Francisco Morales. 

Catfish. 

What are you even going to say to him? It's been years of silence. Years of trying to forget him and the hurt he caused. Years of excusing yourself if he's at mutual functions, and years of avoiding home visits. 

Santi tried to update you on him through the years, but you never shared interest. You wanted to erase him from your past and memories. Santi questioned you over the years, confused that the close friendship dissolved. Clearly Frankie has done the same on his end. 

A blonde man walks into the bar then, handsome face slightly bruised at the cheek. He half jogs over to the booth, sliding between bodies. 

"Hey beautiful," Benny says with a wink, kissing your cheek softly before going to sit next to his brother and your cousin. "Santi. Long time."

"Nice face," Santi quips.

"You should see the other guy."

As Benny chastises his brother for not getting him a drink you glance around the bar, thankful that Frankie doesn't seem to be anywhere. Maybe it was a miscommunication and he's not coming after all. You find it easier to relax at that. 

"Good match?" Will asks Benny who you can see has a cut lower lip to go along with his bruised cheek. 

"Sure was. You all better come out to the next one." Benny looks your way. "I'm serious. You too."

"Hot guys in shorts punching each other? I'll be there."

Benny starts to detail tonight's match, elated that he made some serious money but frustrated that no one seems as eager to challenge him anymore. You're just starting to really relax when Benny smiles over your shoulder, brows rising. 

"Took you long enough, Fish." 

"Place didn't have the part I needed."

The husky voice sounds out from behind you and your entire body clenches at the sound. Your head slowly turns and you feel your stomach drop further when you see a scowling Frankie Morales coming up behind you. 

He's dressed in jeans and a T-shirt under some tan jacket that looks like its seen better days. 

His hair spills out from beneath his navy baseball cap in loose, unstudied waves, long enough to brush the tops of his ears and curl there slightly. A few strands escape at the sides. 

Your gaze finally skims up to his face to see that he looks the same as he always did. Pouty lips, sharp nose, dark baleful gaze. 

But there are lines around his eyes now, cheeks softer than in his youth, the crease between his brows deeper. You wonder how much you've changed when you see him taking you in as well. 

You've seen each other at the odd event, passing by without acknowledgement. But now there is time for a formal inspection. 

A quiet moment passes before his eyes get cloudy and he crosses his arms over his broad chest. 

"What are you doing here?"

The fact that he could be hostile to you at all catches up with you in a rush and you feel your spine straightening. 

"I'm having a drink with friends. What does it look like?" 

Frankie shoots a dark look at the men sitting there watching you both before his eyes dart back to you. 

"No one told me you'd be here," he says icily. 

"I didn't think you'd be here either, otherwise I wouldn't have come."

Frankie stares down at you and you feel the tension hanging around the table, three sets of eyes ping-ponging back between the two of you. 

"Well I'm here now," Frankie challenges in that same raspy voice you remember even decades later. 

Usually you would bite back when cornered by someone like this. You would have told him to get fucked or something equally harsh, but something distracts you into silence. You've just spotted the hat perched atop his dark curls. 

Standard Heating Oil. 

Your stomach plummets at the sight of it, making your mouth open and close like a fish until you lurch out of the booth. 

"I have to go anyway," you say, grabbing your purse as you make to slip past Frankie. He has the good grace to move back and give you space, your bodies no longer in danger of touching. 

The guys all make noises of displeasure, insisting you should stay. Frankie is silent of course, eyes on the floor. He looks like he's debating something. Probably another insult. 

"I have to go check on my mom," you mutter. "Thanks for the drinks."

You leave quickly, feet carrying you away from the table and away from Frankie Morales' piercing gaze. 

dividers by @saradika-graphics

taglist

@beezusvreeland

@maried01

@severelysentientnova

@vickie5446

[onlythehobi]

HE'S STILL WEARING THE CAP WTF real men yearn™️ or something like that

ugh i #need to know what happened at travis' party like NEOW

that frontal confrontation from frankie took me by surprise too 😭 wtf was his problem omg straight up to hating without even taking a seat 😭😭😭😭😭 can he NOT??? what happened to civil silent hatred-

YES PIP DON'T STAY SILENT !!!! idc im on her side for now

[auteurdelabre]

Holding Pattern

Frankie Morales x F!Reader

Summary:

You move back to your childhood home in Florida to care for your ailing mother, only to find the past waiting for you in every room. Your always kind older cousin Santiago refuses to let you disappear into the sadness, pulling you into his world without hesitation. But Santi's world involves Frankie Morales; your cousin's best friend and the boy who broke your heart decades earlier. Thrust into each other’s orbit again old memories make their way to the surface, blurring the line between hatred and desire. Because the boy you learned to despise is the man you can't seem to forget. rated 18+ for later chapters

THIS STORY IS ON A03

tags: Friends to Enemies, First Love, Childhood Friends, Brother's Best Friend trope kinda, Angst, Smut, Flashbacks, First person POV, Protective Frankie, First kiss, parent with terminal illness, HEA.

note: I know, I know I'm in the process of writing another story, but this one literally stole me away and wrote itself, I swear.

You should know that this contains a parent being terminally ill so if that is triggering for you, please be aware.

Chapter 1

"Honey, I think you should come and visit your mama. She's not doing well."

The call came from Rosalita, your mother's at home nurse. The woman who checked her medication, who got her out for walks, who provided companionship three times a week.  You paid for her wages to assuage your guilt.

Penance for leaving home and never looking back. 

You hate returning to Florida and its oppressive, sticky heat. Back to the dim grime of your old neighborhood. Back to a world you scraped off your body, scrubbed it clean and entered a world unlike it on the other side of the world: Seattle. A land of cool weather and overpriced coffee. Where no one knew your name or your history. 

But what's that expression? Make a plan and God laughs? That must be true because just as things were starting to go really well at work and heat up with your handsome new neighbor Dave, you got that call from Rosalita.

Hillary, your older sister lived in the house with your mom up until a two weeks ago. Scamming insurance companies with her slip-and-fall routine at big box stores, hooking up with men until she drained their bank accounts. 

She was unreliable in many ways, but at least she made your mom meals, helped her with laundry and ensured the house was in order and paid for  

A better daughter than I've ever been. 

But three weeks ago she and a bartender you'd never met before announced that they wanted to strike out on their own in Canada. They were going to find a little cabin and start life there. 

She didn't care that it left your mother alone in the house. Didn't care that the dementia slowly eating away at her body and mind now required constant care. 

"Rosalita can take care of her," Hillary said when you called her after the doctor's call that confirmed your worst fear. 

"I can't afford to hire her around the clock, Hill."

"Not my problem. I've spent the last five years taking care of her. Now it's your turn." 

You could hardly be mad at her, could you? She was right. Five years since your mother's first fall after a stroke; the one that left her frail, with a fading memory. How were you to know that worse was yet to come?

"Based on the latest lab work and imaging, your mother has been diagnosed with alcoholic hepatitis," the doctor told you with a fatigued banality when you called him. You were probably one of several people getting devastating news from him. "Given the extent of the liver damage, this is not something we can reverse."

He let that settle as you floundered for breath, the phone at your ear as you sat at your dining table. You'd expected a routine health summary of her dementia which seemed to be progressing slowly. 

But this? 

"With her dementia and overall health, we’re looking at a life expectancy of months rather than years. In our best estimate, less than six months.” 

You heard papers shuffling and you could imagine your mother's doctor with his long jowls and patchy hair before his large oak desk.

“Our focus from here would be comfort, symptom management, and making sure she isn’t in pain."

"Does she need to go into a home do you think?" You asked, still in shock. You did the mental calculations of the cost and figured you could dip into your savings. 

"She will need full-time care the longer this progresses but moving your mother at this stage isn't suggested," he told you with a sigh. "She also made it clear to me that she wished for her final months to be spent at home."

Why she wanted to spend months in this old, ugly house you're walking up to is beyond you. As you look at the dead flowers in the planter and the overgrown grass you frown, wondering if you should have just gone against her wishes and brought her back to your two-bedroom condo in Seattle. 

Since the promotion you worked impossibly hard for the past decade you now work remotely, overseeing departments and meetings in a nice shirt and sweatpants. You can work anywhere with access to a laptop and steady Internet connection. 

You’ve made decent money at your job but not the kind that could offer full time healthcare workers for your mom. The only option left was to move back home with her. 

Even if she hadn't been the best parent she was still the only one you had. Time had softened those rough edges of your childhood memories, painting them with a, gauzy filter. 

You take a deep breath now, looking up at the home with its faded siding and steps worn smooth with decades of walking up and down. 

Now or never. 

The porch creaks under your feet and you make the mental note to repair it. If you're going to be here you want to be doing something more then sitting around watching your parent die. 

"Hey ma," you call out as the screen door clatters shut behind you. "Did you know the door was unlocked?"

"Honey? You here already?"

You watch as your mother shuffles into the kitchen, her slippers faded with age. Despite weekly phone calls ever since your move to Seattle and the doctor’s updates you still weren't prepared for the weight loss. 

The sight of her tiny body swallowed in an old bathrobe causes you to take a physical step back. She doesn’t seem to notice. You shakily cross the yellowed linoleum to bring her into your arms, her frail body warm to the touch. 

"I can't believe you're here," she says with delight in her tired eyes. "Feels like ages."

"Was the flight okay?"

"Yep. Good."

"And the taxi?"

"Also good."

You struggle to find something else to say. Has it always been this difficult to hold a face to face conversation with her? Or did distance do it?

"You didn't have to come here to stay," she tells you in a voice cultivated through years of smoking. "I'll be fine. The doctors are making a big deal outta nothing." 

Sure Mom. You're going to be gone in six months but it totally isn't a big deal. 

"Stop trying to get rid of me. I just walked in the door," you joke with a smile so strained you wince. 

"You got much to bring in?"

"Nope just suitcase."

Already your mom is reaching a bony hand towards the handle of it. "I'll help you unpack-"

"You can help by sitting your ass down on the couch," you quip, softening the harshness of the message. 

"Is this how its gonna be?" She asks wryly. "You being the mama?"

Wasn't it always that way? 

"Yes it is." 

Even her smile looks tired as she waves you off. "Okay honey. You win." 

She shuffles away, back bowed, legs frail. It hurts you to see it. You open the fridge, sticking your head inside to freeze any unwanted tears. 

Your mom was always a shitty cook, but today her fridge is downright bleak. Mustard. An old lime. Chinese food boxes half full with chow mien and almond chicken. 

"Mom what the fuck have you been eating all week?"

"Language," she hollers from the TV room. "And I've been ordering in. Plus your cousin stops by every so often when he's in town and stocks the fridge. Gives me spending money when he can too."

"Of course he does," you mutter with a smirk. At least now you know where she's getting this extra money. 

Your older cousin, Santiago - Santi to most - is always blowing in on the wind when his job allows. As a freelance military advisor he's less serious than most would think. Easy going, prone to laughter.

You just wish he had better taste in friends. 

"He’s in town now,” you mom continues to bellow the best she can. “He took me to the casino last week!"

"Of course he did."

Santi was always the cool older cousin growing up. The one who took you for ice cream and taught you how to swim when your mom was passed out on the couch between shifts at the liquor store. When your older sister wanted nothing to do with you because you were 4 years younger and had nothing in common with her. 

You order groceries on your phone in between unpacking in that same bedroom you slept in your entire childhood. The boy band posters still hang on the walls, the narrow bed with its floral sheets still sitting in the fading sunlight. Its eerie how little has changed. 

"Clean sheets," your mom calls out to you from down the hall. "Did them this morning."

"You're supposed to be relaxing," you say in exasperation, and she doesn't answer .

You finish up, coming to find her at the couch with peanuts in a bowl, eating like a tiny chipmunk. The news is playing with the closed captioning on, barely heard over her munching. 

"I'm making us lasagna soon so don't fill up on those."

"Yes Mama," she quips

You come to stand next to her beside the threadbare couch, hip balanced against the wall. You used to do this as a kid too, hovering, never touching down too long, always ready to flee. 

"The place looks nice," you observe, looking around to see the space rather tidied. "Hillary did a good job before she left."

"Wasn't Hillary," your mother scoffs. "The cleaner does it for me."

You wrinkle your nose in confusion.  "The cleaner?

With what money? Your mom isn't exactly rolling in cash. She has enough to cover the mortgage and some groceries, a few expenditures like getting her hair permed with the extra money you send each month. Is this another Santi gift?

“How often does she come by?"

"Once a week. And it's a man."

A man? You're thrown, eyes narrowed. 

"A man comes here to clean? Do you pay him?"

She looks up at you, brows tight.  "No. Of course not. He does it for free."

"What's his name?"

"Can't remember."

"What's he look like?"

She frowns and you can see her frantically trying to remember anything about the man she claims comes here to clean. 

"I'm trying to watch the television."

It hits you hard, watching her tiny fingers change the channel with the remote. The certainty in how she speaks, like nonsense is the truth. 

Rosalita did mention this on the phone over the past few months. How your mom's mind had slowly been deteriorating along with her body. But seeing it happen before your eyes has your heart aching.  

How am I going to last through this? 

"Hello?" 

A deep voice is at the door, startling you. You walk over to the entryway, seeing a familiar man enter. 

Speak of the devil.

Santi is still the coolest person you know. Handsome, charismatic, unflappable. Molten eyes, glossy black hair, a joke for every family dinner he finds time to attend. You think you relate to him more than most of the cousins because you too ran away from home the minute you could. 

He turns the corner, catching you out the side of his eyes. His handsome face breaks into a beam. 

"The prodigal daughter has returned."

"Just in time to see the prodigal son."

He pulls you into a warm hug, pressing a kiss to your cheek. 

"Your mom said you'd be in today. Had to confirm it with my own eyes." 

You know what he’s saying. Had to make sure she was lucid. Had to make sure it wasn’t just something she was saying with her addled brain.

“You could have called to make sure.”

“You hate talking on the phone.”

“Text then.”

“You never check your messages.”

Fair enough.

You laugh, squeezing him back before looking him over."Someone's been working out. Seeing a special lady back in Colombia?"

He shrugs. "I mean, in between taking down drug cartels I do okay."

You both chuckle and then that cocky smile is back on his tanned face. The one that makes his eyes disappear. The same one he wore when you were teenagers. 

"How long you back for?"

"Taking the summer off," he says, spreading his arms wide. "I need a fucking break. How about you?"

You motion to the other room, voice dropping. "Until…." 

Santi's disposition immediately deflates and he cringes. 

"Right. Yeah, stupid question." He nods. "I should go say hi."

He goes into the other room and you smile hearing your mom exclaim his name with joy. 

"My darling boy!"

You can't help but feel like twenty years has melted away in this moment. The sound of your mom's laughter and the warmth of house.  It's almost like old summer days: your cousin is here to ride bikes down to the river or to the mall to check payphones for forgotten quarters. 

Santi's parents are dead, mom in childbirth, dad from a car crash where he was the drunk behind the wheel. You always thought it was weird, you with just a mom, he with just a dad. Together you almost made a family. 

"You want anything to eat?" You ask, motioning to the kitchen when Santi reappears. "Groceries should be here soon."

He shakes his head. "Nah, Frank's waiting for me in the truck, we're meeting up with the guys."

You visibly stiffen when you hear his name. 

Frank. Frankie. Francisco Morales. 

His face flashes into your head and you're surprised at the vitriol the memory brings. You can't help but grimace as you think of his unkempt dark hair and ugly baseball cap he never seems to leave home without. 

"Still not his biggest fan, huh?" 

You break from your reverie to find Santi smirking at you. 

"Why do you say that?"

"Your face. Looks like you sucked on a lemon." Santi scans your eyes, voice softening at the edges.

“Just tired from the flight.”

“Liar.”

Santi was always able to see through your bullshit.

 "Are either of you ever gonna tell me what happened? 

You shrug, forcing yourself to sound less embittered.  "We grew up, that's all." 

Santi nods but there's no conviction in it. "Sure."

A rap comes at the screen door and you glance over to see your groceries are being delivered by a short young man with cycling gloves. 

"Better let you settle in," Santi says, kissing your cheek before he starts to leave. "I'm here for a bit myself. Gimme a call when you find time for a drink." 

"Sounds good." 

You watch him leave over the delivery man's shoulder, the fading sunlight kissing his arms as he pulls open the door of the old blue truck at the end of the driveway. 

The figure in the driver's seat is a dark blur against the shadow cast by the sunlight. But the silhouette is unmistakable, sharp nose, baseball cap, hair curled slightly out from the edges of it.  

At your age you think that you shouldn't still carry that grudge for him. The one you've nurtured for decades, letting it grow bigger and uglier with each passing year. 

You think you see his head tilt your way, but you force your attention to the man with the grocery bags. 

Once the truck ambles away from the curb and the delivery boy given a tip, you stand at your kitchen table and once more are transported back in time.

27 years ago. 

At eight and eleven you and your sister are complete opposites. She loves makeup and magazines. You love climbing trees and running through sprinklers. The age gap isn’t huge, but as a pre-teen she finds you downright annoying. 

"No, you can't come to the mall with me and my friends," she announces as she runs glassy strawberry lipgloss over her pout in the mirror. 

Your mom is working double shifts again. You'll be left inside the stuffy all day by yourself and the prospect makes you feel restless.

"Please? I have money for a soda."

Your pride is forgotten as you think of following her friends around in the air conditioned mall.  There will be samples at the pretzel placed and sometimes Hillary’s friends are nice and they share their fries with you in the food court.

Hillary however hates it when you’re clingy.

"I don't care. I'm not your babysitter."

She doesn't even cast a look your way when she heads out of the house, waving to her friends who wear the same belly shirts and thick eyeliner.  You watch the three of them wander down the street, laughing shrilly before you slink miserable into the kitchen. 

You make yourself up a peanut butter sandwich, determined not to let Hillary have all the fun. 

You're not supposed to leave the house alone, but you're not spending another summer day inside by yourself. Your backpack is filled with a swimsuit, towel, sandwich and hat that used to belong to your dad. Your sunglasses perch on the end of your nose as you prepare for your adventure. 

Just as you're pulling on your sneakers the front door bursts open and your cousin Santi is there, breathing heavily. As always his t-shirt is too big on his tiny frame, his black hair wet at the temples from summer sweat. 

This is customary in your family, bursting into each other's homes. You don't do it half as often at Santi's though, because your uncle Diego is rough and loud. He's what they call a mean drunk, you overheard that at a family BBQ. 

You guess that means your mom is a sleepy one. 

"We're going on Travis' new airboat," Santi tells you with an excited laugh. "His dad says he'll take us all for a ride. You and Hillary want to come?"

Suddenly Hillary abandoning you isn't such a bad thing. You'll get to go on a river boat! She'll be so jealous when you tell her at supper tonight. 

"She's not home but I wanna go."

"Okay, c'mon, Pip. Grab your bike." 

Pip is the nickname given to you by the brotherly Santi by the time you were five years old. You absolutely hate it, but you’re in no position to fight. You want an escape from this house and he’s giving it to you.

Travis is there at the end of the driveway, oversized teeth full of braces. He scoffs when he sees you toting your pink bike after Santi. 

"Seriously dude? She's like five."

Santi tells Travis to shut up as you mount your bike, the backpack sitting heavily on your shoulders. You ignore Travis' sneer. 

"We have to pick up Frankie on the way," Santi tells you both as he clamors atop his rusted black bike.

"Who's Frankie?"

"New kid in our grade who moved in a few weeks ago. He's a couple streets over." 

The three of you cycle the few blocks to Hunter Street, pulling in front of an old place with grey siding and lopsided railings on either side of the weathered steps. 

A kid sits there on the steps wearing denim shorts and a blue T-shirt as you approach. His dark brown hair is thick, curling with sweat at the nape and under his ears. 

"Hey Frankie," Santi calls out as you all glide forward, lifting a finger from the bike handle in greeting. 

"Hey," Frankie says to the boys, ignoring you altogether. You're used to it as the only girl, the youngest, the tagalong. But you don't care as long as it gets you out of the house. 

"Travis says his dad is gonna take us on the airboat," Santi says excitedly. "You wanna come?"

"Sure." He speaks quietly, like he's afraid of his own voice. 

His feet look too large for his lanky body when he stands, grabbing his fallen bike from the grass and heading over. He doesn't introduce himself but Santi motions to you/

“This is my little cousin.”

“We call her Pip,” Travis pipes in and you shoot him a dark look. Frankie glances over at you now, nose wrinkling.

“Pip?”

“For Pipsqueak.”

Santi doesn't bother a more formal introduction so the four of you just pick up and go before you have time to give Frankie your real name. Not that it matters. You’ll always been known to his friends as Santi’s baby cousin.

Frankie isn't a very fast biker, almost at pace with you pumping your legs as fast as they will go. He's the tallest in the group so you don't know if he's being lazy or he's just not got the endurance. 

"Where did you move from?" You ask through pants, trying to be friendly. It's intimidating talking to a boy, especially one older than you but something about Frankie feels different than the often cruel Travis. 

He doesn't look at you when he answers. "Texas." 

"You don't have an accent." 

"We move around a lot," Frankie mumbles, cheeks pink from the heat. "Dad's in the army." 

"Oh. Cool."

It’s not uncommon around here to be an army brat. Half the kids in your school are.

You've all been riding about fifteen minutes when the sun moves higher, bearing down on you against the black pavement. Frankie blinks against the bright sunlight, cupping a hand over his brow as the four of you ride, his raspy voice rising slightly to address the boys up ahead.

"I’m gonna go back for my sunglasses." 

"No time!" Travis throws over his shoulder dismissively. "Dad says he's leaving at eleven sharp."

Frankie frowns but continues to pedal. He pulls away from you now, noticing that Travis is glancing back every so often and snickering. The three ride on ahead of you and you feel your cheeks burn, your legs are on fire as you fight to keep up with them. 

With the dappled sunlight over their heads you think they could be brothers from behind. Dark hair in messy curls blowing back as you ride.  Frankie’s shoulders are wider than the others, a stripe of sweat down his spine. Travis half crouches when he rides, always needing to prove himself a daredevil as he shouts out jokes to make Santi laugh.

Santi just pedals with focus, glancing back every so often to give you an encouraging smile until the four of you stop at the old park at the end of the block, feet landing on the pavement to stop the bikes.  

"Shortcut," Santi announces, climbing off his bike. He and Travis start navigating their bikes through the bushes and you go to follow suit. There are large roots poking up from the ground, but you're used to it. This way is the fastest to the river. 

"Looks kinda dangerous," Frankie offers softly as he dismounts. His dark eyes scan the darkened space, assessing the potential damage for his bike. You notice his bike is much nicer than anyone else's. 

You’ve caught up to them now, keeping pace with the slower Frankie who stands at the mouth of the trail, still glancing around nervously.

"C'mon Frank," Santi laughs along with Travis, speeding up his steps.

"Yeah, stop being a little bitch,” Travis shouts over his shoulder. “I wanna see gators." 

You watch Frankie's cheeks go red at the insult and he starts to lead his bike into the trail. Unlike Santi and Travis you've noticed that Frankie isn't loud. He's soft spoken and appears to be painfully shy. 

"Not gonna be able to see a fucking thing out there," he mutters to himself, fingers tightening around the handle of his bike until his knuckles blanch. "Don't know why I'm even going." 

Even at eight you can tell that Frankie is on the verge of frustrated tears when his head tilts down and he starts blinking fast.

You walk alongside Frankie feeling sorry for him, backpack hitting the back of your knees when you suddenly pause. You quickly slide the strap off your shoulder and unzip the bag, momentarily elated at the thought of being useful to one of the older boys.  

You reach into the backpack and dig around past your peanut butter sandwich and apple, past the extra socks and handful of change before producing one of your father's old baseball caps. It's a dark navy cap with his work logo on the front that you extend Frankie's way, not quite brave enough to meet his eyes.

"Here. This'll help I think."

He stops walking as he glances over at your offering. He takes a moment to assess, nervous, like a feral cat brought indoors. He takes it from you gingerly with one hand still holding the bike for balance.

Now you raise your gaze to see him holding the cap by the brim, dark eyes scanning the logo on the front. 

"Standard Heating Oil?"

"It's where my dad used to work," you say quietly. You don't talk about your dad much. You barely remember him. You're thankful when Frankie doesn't press it.

Frankie nods, pulling it over his dark curls. It's slightly too large but he pushes it up, his eyes reappearing. This close you can see that they’re almost black.

When you give him a nod and thumbs up he smiles shyly back at you. You notice a dimple in his right cheek when he does. 

"Thanks, Pip."

[onlythehobi]

ARE U JOKING@**$*$?"?????

okay first of all idk u were back 😭 now that i do OMG STOP?????

new frankie story while i wait for tba update and oohhh don't i love a good f2e with angst, flashbacks and frankie in the mix???

NOW that last part. HELLO??? the gasp i GASPED-

[followyourfleart]

𝐂𝐥𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝟒𝟑: 𝐔𝐧𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐡𝐞𝐧𝐝 ˖˚⊹ ꣑ৎ

Next | Pervious | Fic Masterlist | a03

blurb - Joel in New York. That was never a sentence you ever expected to form. But he's here, pacing around your penthouse. He's different in every way: how he looks, how he speaks, how he feels, and most of all, how he views himself. That's all you ever wanted. But can you and him manage to finally unhash everything between you? Or will this city swallow you both whole?

warnings - Past gaslighting, mental abuse, physical abuse, verbal abuse, and emotional abuse. Past two toxic mothers (generational trauma, not Joel or Reader), brief descriptions of past, unrealized sa, self-blaming sa victim, blaming sa victim, baby trapping, violent behavior, HEAVY toxic relationship, threats to one's safety and child, toxic masculinity, degrading a victim, self-degrading, and a panic attack. Past medical emergency and talks about getting help and medication complications

a/n- Make sure to take it slow while reading; this chapter will always be there! I haven't done one of these in a while, but I recommend listening to "House of Cards" by BTS for the first present scene, then "Strangers" and "Sun Bleached Flies" by Ethel Cain for the second flashback!

Word Count: 14.8 k

May 12th, 1995

2,474 days after Flight AA8934’s departure

“And you’re only going to take this medication when you feel strong bouts of anxiety. Or when you’re on the cusp of a panic attack. Any more could lead to—”

“I know, Doc.” 

“Do you, Joel?”

“I do.”

Joel played with his thumbs, looking down at them while his legs dangled from the elevated seat. He’d never felt more like a child, not even when his mama still took him in for his doctor appointments as a teenager. Now, the same feeling plagued him, worse than before.

Why was he here? Well, the answer was simple. 

It had all started—yes, all his stories nowadays seemed to have started like this—at his folks’ place. 

Last year.

 He had already spent the whole day feeling sick and sweaty, barely able to keep his eyes open, like he was stuck half underwater. Wrangling in Sarah was harder than usual, almost painful. She would squeal with excitement, and it’d ring through his head. She’d kick his leg, and it would shake his own body. Nothing he did made him feel… normal.

Work was torture. He couldn’t focus on the cashier and gave three people the wrong amount of change. He sweated through his whole uniform twice. His hair had gotten this oily look to it from how wet his head had gotten.

So, combined with all this, dinner was worse than torture. He sat motionless at the dinner table while his dad pampered his granddaughter. Every voice trying to talk to him—his dad, his mama, his brother—slammed into his head. The food tasted so bad, which was something he would never have said about his mama’s cooking.

He needed water, that’s what it was. Joel had shakenly decided that’s what he needed in the middle of his conversation with his brother about the different tastes of rations the military offered. He stood up abruptly, said sorry to a confused Tommy, and headed for the kitchen.

The pain—it had finally registered as pain—began digging harder into his gut. He held onto the wall as he shuffled into the kitchen.

Everything in his burn. He grunted and tried to be silent, quiet enough to pass by and reach that damned sink he knew so well. But he couldn’t. His legs felt useless underneath him and trembled. 

So it was only natural the world spun, and tile of the kitchen suddenly rose to meet his face. Joel fell completely flat onto the ground, taking all the jars and containers on the counter with him onto the floor. 

Shortly after, Joel was wheeled out on a stretcher, carried out into an ambulance while his mama sobbed over him. 

Shortly after, Joel got diagnosed with ulcers and high blood pressure.

The ulcers were open sores that lined his stomach—he was special, he had three small. Two small, one big—that was the main reason that brought him pain. Apparently, stress itself didn’t bring about them. However, his nurse had lectured that the stress he had been putting himself rose his stomach acid, creating it.

The high blood pressure he expected, but paired with the ulcers, had brought along these stiff veins that made his bleeding worse. It brought it all to a head at that dinner, the blood loss knocking him out cold. 

Nasty little duo, they were.

Of course, his smoking contributed to it. Also, the ungodly amount of hours he was putting himself through at work. And the lack of sleep.

Really, it was everything.

His mama had been so mad. In the cold, bleak hospital room, she rushed to him when she was finally allowed in. Before his dad could say a word, she was slapping his shoulder over and over while thick tears ran down her face.

“How dare you!” She sobbed, “H-how dare you do this to yourself! I told you to stop smokin’! I told you to take your breaks! Why didn’t you listen to me?! Why?!”

He hadn’t been able to meet her eyes.

“Nothin’?! Is that all you can say to me?! Do you even know—even know h-how it felt seein’ you like that?! I-I thought you had died! Dead! In the kitchen I raised you in! In front of Sarah! My eldest… my eldest baby boy, gone ‘fore my eyes—”

She had collapsed in the plastic chair, smothering her face and praying. Joel could only look upon her; this numb feeling washed over him. The pain medication had killed it all, destroyed it.

He hadn’t felt this numb since—

His dad had walked up to his side, and his fist came to slam into the stiff mattress by Joel’s side. When Joel looked at him, he was haunted.

“What happened?” His dad’s voice was harder, “I thought you were finally takin’ care of yourself. Y-you were eatin’ just fine ‘gain! You told me you would take it light at work. Now I’m hearin’ from these nurses you still smoke, that you pushed yourself to the brink.”

Joel hummed. That only had lit up the fire in his dad’s eyes. He only got like that when Joel was misbehaving.

“Sarah found you first. She rushed to the kitchen first and screamed for help. What if she were here? What if she had seen you like this? She’d never recover.”

“Where… where is she?”

“What?”

“Where’s my daughter?”

His dad swallowed, “She’s with Tommy, back in the house. Tommy said she had fed her milk, and she passed out quickly. But you can’t—”

“Then she’s fine,” Joel murmured as he shut his eyes. 

“No, she ain’t!”

“Yes, she is. I’m still alive.”

“Alive—don’t you be talkin’ funny! This ain’t alive! You’re actin’ more like a machine than a man.”

“I am alive.” He relented. “I said I’d be alive, for Sarah, and that’s what I’m doin’. Bein’ alive.”

Joel didn’t mention how this was the best he could do. Truly, there was nothing more that could be done. He hadn’t tried to hurt himself since that night on the porch, nor did he try to take his life again. After pulling himself together, he buried the gun deep underneath a tree so that no one would find it. Not him, or Sarah.

So, everyone should be grateful he’s moving in the first place. 

He had looked back out the window, where the night had completely over. In the reflection, the image was comical; Joel lying weak on the bed, his dad beside him, his mama speaking aloud her favorite prayer:

So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand

He got prescribed Diltiazem and Lansoprazole, once a day, every day. The pain and throbbing of his veins calmed down. Almost disappeared. 

Thankfully, that nightmare was last year, only two months after his attempt.

Now, he had the privilege to press his lips together and look over to the poster on his right, plastered against the blue cabinets. On it was the picture-perfect version of a man and a woman, hugging each other with the widest possible smiles on their faces. They looked far off behind the camera, seemingly pleased with themselves in whatever situation they were in.

In big, bold letters above their heads, it said: “Help is not as bad as you think it is!”

Right, sure.

“Joel?” His doctor repeated. He had kind, down-turned eyes. “Are you listening?”

“Hm? I’m sorry, could you—could you repeat that ‘gain?”

“Of course. I’m just saying that this diagnosis can be hard on anyone.”

“It’s fine.”

“Is it? Ulcers and blood pressure last year, and now… anxiety.”

Joel felt that last word drop like a stone into his gut. He squeezed his eyes shut for half a second, trying to will them away, but he opened them anyway and looked back at his doctor. 

“It is what it is.” He nodded his head to the paper his doctor had been writing in, “I just take the medication, just like you said, and it goes away.”

“Well, not really—it’s just smothering your symptoms. The real root of the problem won’t change unless your diet gets fixed, your lifestyle becomes different, or any stressors in your life go away. If you need to talk—”

“Like the shrink?”

“They’re actually called therapists and psychiatrists, like me. Only difference is I diagnose you, while therapists talk about your mind.”

Joel grumbled, “So I’m just crazy regardless…”

“What was that?”

“Nothin’, nothin’...” His hands now ran over his jeans, trying to wipe his clammy palms. Joel shook his head, “And… and how long ‘gain do I take these pills. Weeks? Months? I take Diltiazem and Lansoprazole already—you probably know from my chart.”

For the first time during this whole appointment, his doctor—he never tried to properly learn his name—looked saddened. 

“No, Joel. Unless you fix your problems… you stay on them. Worse, if you build up a tolerance… then we switch you to harsher, stronger versions of the medication you’re on now. That risks you in more complications than good, and also… addiction. I know you smoke. Have you ever considered finding help for—”

“Listen, doc.” He cut in, “My smokin’ is just… recreational. To take the edge off.”

“So an addiction.”

“I’m doin’ well with it, and it’s helped more than hurt, really.”

“What about your ulcers, then?”

For that, Joel didn’t have an answer.

It seemed like his doctor expected this, because all he did was sigh and shake his head, disappointed. Joel squirmed at that look, uncomfortable all of a sudden. 

“Here—” The doctor opened a new pad, writing something down before ripping out a piece of paper. He then went to typing on his computer, “—it’s a prescription for Clonazepam. Take it as needed for anxiety. I’m putting in a prescription as well; you can pick it up as soon as you go downstairs.”

Joel took the paper, looking down at it. The doctor’s handwriting wasn’t even legible, but he gripped it tight.

The two men awkwardly shook hands before the doctor stepped around Joel and opened the door for him. Joel nodded and stepped out. Nurses bustled around, moving technology around, leaving little room. 

Joel lifted the prescription, “Thanks, doc, for—”

“Listen to me, Joel.” His doctor suddenly spoke with a hard tone, “I can’t force you to get help, Joel. All I can do is prescribe for you. You have to fight for yourself. Being passive helps no one, especially yourself. It takes a lot of effort to become different, and if you can't accept that… you’re going to hurt yourself; permanently.”

Joel stared at his doctor, eyes slightly widened.

He never felt such utter disgust.

Who was this man to tell him to ‘change’? No one could say that to him, not when they didn’t know anything about him. About what he had been through.

If he wanted to roll over and die, that was his choice. He almost did, but didn’t. That had to speak on his character, didn’t it? 

Instead of saying that, though, Joel merely shook his head, smiling large and fake.

“I’ll change my way. For myself.”

❛ ━━━━･❪ 🎕 ❫ ･━━━━ ❜

“I’m confused; is it stupidity or your stubbornness that caused you to fly practically halfway across the country—your first time flying, by the way—to a city you’ve never even planned to visit, to come see me?! Tell me, Miller, or I’ll throttle you myself!”

All you got was a blink and an awkward smile.

“Nice seein’ you too. You look gorgeous, sweetheart.”

You nearly tore the phone wall—the one you had just used to answer the call from the front desk—and chucked it into the closet furniture. You almost ran out into the streets of New York and started screaming at nearby pedestrians while you lost your mind all on your own. 

The only reason you didn’t is that the phone was too far and you were too busy pacing around your living room.

Joel, on the other hand, sat stiffly with his back straight up against your couch. He looked utterly out of place here. Not only in your penthouse, but in the entire city.

Nothing about New York City and Joel Miller meshed together. Not his worn-out flannels to the clean-cut stone of all these high-end buildings. Not his backpack with frayed threads to the glitter of so many lights. And definitely not his somehow kind smile to the cutthroat world you were used to.

Yet still…

You turned on your heel, pointing a finger at his glasses—seriously, when did he start wearing them so casually—and scowled, “I have work tomorrow!  I have important clients taking up my entire day, and I was supposed to be working on drafts right now. I was, until you just—goddamn, I’m still not processing that you’re here.”

“Want me to go back outside and walk in like normal and not get tackled?”

“This isn’t the time for your humor!”

“Sorry, sweetheart.”

You bristled, backing away from him, “No—no, you gotta stop calling me that.”

Joel’s eyebrows furrowed together, “You want me to stop calling you sweetheart?”

“Yes,” You lied, “I do.”

“I won’t call you that then.”

You blinked, completely staggered by this man. It took you a second to find any words to respond. You cleared your throat, “Good. That’s… yeah, that’s good. But besides the point!” You pushed your finger closer to him, trying to ignore how he watched the pad of your pointer finger, “You’re in New York! New York City, of all places. You’re here!”

“I should know, I booked the ticket.”

“You’ve never traveled this far! You’ve never flown anywhere! For fuck’s sake, you haven’t even left Texas!”

“First for everythin’.”

“You didn’t even say anything to anyone!”

“People knew I was comin’.” Joel shrugged, “I told my folks, and Tommy and Maria. I figured it out with Sarah and sent her to be with your daddy while her school’s in winter break—”

“You’re talking with my dad again?” You questioned, “I thought you two had had a fight?”

“We made up.”

“How the… whatever!” You turned around, your slippers almost sliding off your feet with how fast you were moving away from him. “You need to go back home. I have so many important business deals and meetings going on tomorrow, and you being here will only distract me.”

“I swear, that ain’t what I’m here to do.” He suddenly stood, following you on the plush carpet. “Makin’ your life harder is somethin’ I’d never do.”

“Then why are you here?!”

“For you.”

You stopped in your tracks, your back turned to him. Joel’s boots echoed as he walked onto the tile, before they stopped right behind you. You could feel his presence, his body heat. You curled away from it, even though it was all you wanted. 

“I got on that plane and trekked through all this snow so I could see you.” He clarified.

“Seriously? That’s it?” You turned back to him, suppressing the urge to jump back after seeing how close he was to you. “You’re telling me that all you came here to do—was to see me. That’s it.”

Joel’s lips pressed tight, like his mind was fighting itself. You watched as his eyes flickered over your own. Even a month separated, you knew all his tells. The only thing you didn’t know was what he would say.

Would he try to backtrack? Try to make something up and say a completely different reason. You truly didn’t know, and you hated that—

“I’m here so I can earn your forgiveness and be your boyfriend ‘gain.”

You choked, hands flying up to your throat like you were going to die from your spit. Joel’s hands tried to grab your shoulders to steady you, but you weaved around them. You walked away, hacking and eyes watering.

It was only when you leaned against your couch, nails digging into the leather. You couldn’t bear looking back at him, or whatever words he’d try to throw your way. Because they would weaken you step by step, word by word. 

You had tried so, so hard to be strong and independent, because look where dependence got you? Look where being the provider, protector, and supplier got you. Sure, Joel might’ve changed, but would that change your relationship with him? He was and always will be a big part of your life; there was no denying that. Yet, that didn’t stop the doubt from creeping in.

You had experienced his ‘change’ before. You had come back thirteen years later, thinking he had changed, and fallen for him. How could you guarantee that this time would be any different? You couldn’t, and that was the most dangerous part of it all. 

“Joel… you can’t just come back and ask me that.” You shook your head, keeping your gaze away from him, “It’s impossible.”

“Why?” His footsteps started again, following you, “Why is it impossible?”

“Because there’s so much we have to talk about before we even become friends again, much less… being back together.”

“Do you not see me as a friend, at least?” His voice sounded hurt, “I-I know I fucked up, but explainin’ it to you—”

“I’m not obligated to magically forgive you because you decided now is the time you want to explain things. I’m glad you’re healing. You look so healthy and nothing makes me happier. But—but I don’t want to even think about the park, or anything involving Kaia or us.”

“Why not?”

“Please, stop it, Joel.”

“You have to tell me! I can’t—can’t just stand here and try to figure out what’s goin’ on inside your mind with your actions alone.”

“Imagine what I dealt with it our entire lives, I’m sure you can handle a single conversation with me being a bit cold.”

“I know I ain’t been the most open partner. That’s what I’ve been workin’ on; so you don’t have to yell yourself hoarse to get it out of me.”

“But you can’t just say you’ve changed and not show me you haven’t! That’s not how it works, and I’m not about to give chances on simple promises spoken through words.”

“Then how am I ‘posed to get that chance?!”

You looked back at him once more, this time, your eyes blazing and meeting his, “I’ve given you chance after chance over and over again! I’m tired, honestly, I am. And you are too, I’m sure of it. You should live your life and find your place in the world where you don’t have to be stuck with me. Find the things that make you click, and maybe even another—”

In an instant, you felt his hands grip both your biceps in a punishing grip. Joel’s face was contorted to pure terror, like the words you would’ve uttered were ten times worse than any insult you could throw at him: “Don’t you dare tell me that I should be with another woman, don’t you even think it!”

“Why shouldn’t you?! You have Sarah, your family, and the company. A relationship is bound to come with that, and the best thing for you to do is to start fresh.”

“Damn startin’ fresh! I only want you! You’re the love of my life, nothin’ less than that.”

You hated how tears already started to sting your eyes, yet you didn’t fight his hands or pull away, “But I can’t go through this again!”

“You won’t. I ain’t ever gonna hurt ‘gain!”

“You can’t promise that.”

“I can and I will.”

“But I don’t trust you!”

“Then I’ll earn it back! I’ll—I’ll crawl through fire! Every humiliation, every piece of your anger, every inch of hate you got.”

Your hands found his, nails digging into his skin, “I’ve done that too many times. Too many times I’ve exposed every part of myself, and you still threw it in my face. I can’t—no, I refuse—to go through it again.” You huffed, teeth grinding against each other, “So let me go.”

“No.”

“Oh, you—let me go right now and—”

You didn’t have to complete the sentence, because his hands ungripped you. Yet, he didn’t let go of you easily. His fingers slid down your skin to your elbows, then forearms, then hands. He tried to hook them through your own, but your fingers moved away. 

You didn’t even thank him. You couldn’t because of how close he was to you, your back was pressed against the couch’s back, the neckline of your ratty, old sleep shirt exposing more of your shoulder. 

Joel hovered over you, his front almost pressed against yours, and his thick thigh—oh, how could you forget how big they were?—was close to wedging itself between your own. He was so close, his breath fanned your face. 

But through it all, his eyes couldn’t hide how he was looking over you.

Your skin, your eyes, your lips, every part of you was bared out for him to get his fill of. Every strand of hair like they had changed since you had last seen them. Even a flicker of disapproval sported over his features when he saw the dark circles underneath your eyes. You couldn’t hide from him, not like this.

The muted wind and snow outside cast the room in darkness, and only the two lamps illuminated the space. The soft light cast over his face, and the frown and the gleam of his glasses that you still hadn’t gotten used to. 

It took force for you to step to the side away from him, shivering not from the cold. Your eyes didn’t leave him, though. Instead, they called to him as you made your way to the kitchen. You flicked on the light, the white light brightening up the white appliances and furniture.

Joel hesitated, but didn’t lose right of you as you pulled out a wine bottle and two glasses. He came up the steps in the open space, looking around as you poured him a glass and slid it to him. He didn’t question it, drinking down the whole amount in three gulps. You merely sipped, catching the way he licked his lips and how his Adam’s Apple bobbed.

When he finished, he put the glass down with a clink. “Look… I ain’t here to fight you. That’s the last thin’ I want. You bein’ happy, it’s more important than anythin’ else to me.”

Your nail clinked against the glass rhythmically. “Then how do you expect to talk to me? We fight, Joel. That’s how we've always been.”

“We can change that,” He leaned over the counter, “Change is always possible. Dr. Harris taught me that, hell, you did too.”

“I did?”

“Yeah, remember when Sarah and all her friends snuck out, and you brought ‘em back. I was seein’ red so hard I thought I’d turn into a bull right then and there,” He dryly chuckled at the memory, “But you were the one who talked me down. We actually talked about it. Our feelin’s and all that crap. I want that ‘gain. I think that could be… be beneficial, to us.”

“And what if I don’t want to talk?” You questioned, running your tongue over your teeth to taste the remnant wine.

“We will talk.”

“You can’t guarantee anything. What if I called the front desk right now to have you escorted out? Then what?”

“You wouldn’t do that.” He said steadily, but it weakened a bit when you didn’t stop staring, “Would you?”

“Of course I wouldn’t. What am I, a monster?” You scoffed, rolling your eyes, “I’ll let you sleep for the night, then book you a ticket back to Austin the next morning. Simple as that.”

Joel frowned, offended, “I ain’t goin’ back to Austin.”

“Oh, did you plan to move to New York? Apologies, I don’t have any realtors on speed dial currently.”

“That ain’t what I here for either,” He chose to ignore your obvious sarcasm, “I’m here for us.”

“You’ve told me that. But what do you think is going to happen? That we’re gonna have a couple of deep conversations, then we’ll open up and argue and sob and fall into each other’s arms? Then kiss and make up and fuck our pain away and let all of the city know that ‘Joel Miller won his ex back!’ with banners. After all this, we go back to Austin, and we live happily ever after? Is that it?”

Joel pushed his glasses up his nose, “The sex part ain’t needed, but I’d like to do the rest of that, yes.”

“God, you’re such a—ugh!” Snarling, you downed the last of your wine and poured yourself more, “Such a stubborn, hard head. A cuddly wall, that’s what you are.”

“Only for you.”

“If this is your attempt at being romantic: please, spare me,” You begged, “The last thing I need right now is you trying your awful one-liners on me. I was the one who was good at them, and trying to teach you was not something I wanted to experience just yet.”

“Yet?” You glared at him, taking your wine glass with you and rounding your counter to create space. But of course, Joel didn’t let up, matching you step for step. Clearly able to see your irritation, Joel backtracked, “Then let’s talk ‘bout somethin’ else.”

“Like what?”

“Like New York. You like it here?”

“I’ve lived here for thirteen years, I’m used to this place.”

“I didn’t ask that, I asked if you liked it here.”

“I love it here.”

“Sweet—” He stopped before continuing, “I can hear your sarcasm.”

“What do you want me to say Joel?” You asked, “That I hate it here and that now that you’re here, it makes the place so much better? I’d be lying.”

“So you didn’t miss me at all?” Joel noticed in a heartbeat your hesitation and smiled small. While you sipped your wine to have something to do with your mouth, he leaned close. “I missed you.”

“Stop lying.”

“I ain’t got anythin’ to lie ‘bout.”

“Well, you did with Kaia.”

This time, Joel was the one with no response. His lips pressed together, and he took off his glasses. They landed on the counter softly. 

You saw him now, the man you were used to. Fundamentally, nothing had changed. His features had only become more attuned with his natural skin tone, not gaunt and tired. Those eyes—not hidden behind glass—now open for you to see. Those eyes that had shed tears, shown bright anger, chased you in desperation, and most of all, had been happy with you. Those same eyes, that held you down while his mouth and tongue worked over your sensitive, needy—

“If you want to talk about that, then we can. I’ll tell you everythin’.” He said, slicing through your thoughts.

You cleared your throat. “What is there to talk about? You knew Kaia was going to have Sarah, and when I asked you about it, you lied to my face. So technically, you lied twice.”

“I was going to tell you, I swear.”

“When?” You said back, exhausted, “We’ve already gone through this. I don’t think you ever were going to tell me, because it was easier that way.”

“It wasn’t easy. It killed me every time I couldn’t tell you.”

“Couldn’t? Did Kaia have leverage over you?”

“No—yes, but not at the same time—i-it’s complicated.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, “And maybe I’m tired of that.”

Joel’s mouth hung slightly agape. “What?”

“I mean,” You placed your wine glass down with a clink, “It seems like when we made progress, there was always some taller, new, emotional mountain for us to climb. My dad, Kaia coming back… I’m tired of being on an emotional rollercoaster when all I want is simplicity.”

“Let's have that, then: together.”

“How? Because I can’t forget.”

“I don’t want you to forget,” Joel urged. “I want…”

“You want my forgiveness.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, the soft, barely there wrinkles showing up in the corner of his eyes, “I won’t get that. Åt least, for a long, long time.” Joel opened them, “But I can start now.”

You wanted to tell him off and say that you were locking yourself in your office to grab your personal phone and somehow get Michelle to let you borrow her private jet. You couldn’t, though. It was like some part of your body was staying put, while the rest of you was terrified of what would happen if you let him stay.

Because what did it say about you?

What did it say about you when you placed your glass down and stepped toward him? What did it say about you when you looked down at his big hand and slipped your own through it? What did it say about you when you took him back to your living room after turning off the lights, and sitting him down right next to his backpack?

Worst of all, what did it say when you ignored all your fears screaming in your head, and in fact silenced them by sitting close?

You both stared at each other before looking away like it was a first date. You brushed your legs off from imaginary dust, clearing your throat. Joel picked at the frayed threads of his jeans. Neither of you made a noise.

Now that you were sitting down talking, it was much harder to start a new conversation.

Somehow, you found the courage to look back at him, only to see him looking back at you, too.

“But by myself,  I’ve had time to—”

“The first thin’ is that I’m so sorry—”

Both of you stopped, looked at each other, then shook your heads, small laughs leaving you both. You gestured to Joel. “Please, you first.”

“No, no, it’s fine.”

“I insist.”

He looked up at you, eyes flickering over your face. Joel then cleared his throat. He leaned over his knees, elbows resting joint to joint as he looked at you, “The first thin’ I wanna say is that I’m sorry. Sorry for the way our relationship turned out, or the way I treated you.”

“You weren’t a bad boyfriend.”

“I wasn’t a perfect one.”

“There’s no such thing as a ‘perfect boyfriend’.”

“I know, but I could’ve tried to be. I got so comfortable with bein’... comfortable in my own misery, that I forgot that it wasn’t good to stick with it. It brought both of us down ‘cause I was committed to you. It was my job to lift my side of the relationship, but I was unknown’ly brinin’ it down with my lies.”

“I just want to know why?” You pressed your eyebrows together and slightly shook your head, “Why did you lie?”

“‘Cause I couldn’t bear the thought of you lookin’ at me any differently. I couldn’t… couldn’t risk the idea of you leavin’.”

“But then that means you knew how much it meant to me. You knew everything, and you still kept it from me, after all the shit we’ve been through.”

“And I’ll spend the rest of my life regrettin’ it.” Joel almost placed his hand on yours, but pulled back at the last second, “It was your right to know. You did a lot for me then.”

“That’s why I can’t just… just get back together with you. I did so much for you, before I left and now. And I get it. The first time in the park, I get why you didn’t tell me Kaia was pregnant. Isn’t that so weird? I’ve had time to sit here and think and rationalize all in my head. About how you were barely an adult, and you had already been babytrapped. You didn’t owe anyone anything, even me. But the second time—when we were together—I gave you all the chances to tell me so I could be angry at you—with you—and work it out. Yet you still didn’t tell me.”

“I know.”

“And what’s worse?” You whipped your nose, feeling tears flooding your eyes again, “That Kaia was the one who told me. It was like the biggest slap in the face. This woman, whom I hate more than anything, knew a part of you I didn’t. It felt like I was being kept in the dark during all of it, even when I was blackmailing her for you, or helping you with Sarah.”

“I never meant to hurt you.”

“Oh, but you did.” A lone tear slipped from the corner of your eye, and you turned away, sniffling and looking out the windows into the snowy city. Joel shifted, trying to get near you, but you just continued: “I spent this month and a half just wondering if our relationship was really built on anything real. Is it all just us being… being broken kids inside and wanting to cling onto the closest person for comfort?”

“Never!” Joel pawed at your shoulder trying to get you to look at him, “The love I felt for you as a boy was real. Real as it gets. I just got lost along the way. I still made it back to you, though. Thirteen years, a month and a half, don’t matter. I’m here for us.”

“But I can’t do another thirteen years. I barely made it through this month. Because at least back then, I could say I hated you and my mom, but now? Now I’m hooked on you, and tearing myself away from you hurts worse than anything I’ve known. But I have to, for my own good.”

“And if we—I—‘came a better man? Would you—”

“I don’t know.” You admitted, honestly, “I truly don’t know where anything might lead between us. Hell, I don’t even know where my life is going. I simply go to work and come back home. I haven’t attended any public outings, because of my scandal, but also because… I just don’t have the energy. Our breakup drained me. I found you in everything, Joel.”

“I see you everywhere, too.” Joel nodded, “I saw you in my bed, I saw you in the clothes I hung up. I saw you in the empty kitchen—hell, I’d be at work and pass by your office with your coffee! I ate like shit, acted like shit. It was only when it bit me in the ass that I tried to be… different.”

“Well, life hasn’t gotten me. Yet. But it will. And if I’m with you when it happens… will I be different enough to move past it, or will I be stuck in the same cycle?”

“I don’t know.”

And that admission was the worst of it all.

You nodded, seemingly content with his answer. “I won’t take ‘maybes’ anymore, Joel. You know I love you, but I can’t do this anymore.”

“Don’t say that. Don’t give up on us—”

“Don’t act like I’m choosing this!” You suddenly bit out, jolting up suddenly, “Don’t act like I’m choosing to leave you. That’s a complete discredit to my character, and you know it. I was forced, and it was you who pushed me to that choice!”

“I did, but I didn’t do it out of any malice!”

You crossed your arms tight around you, backing away until your body hit the freezing floor-to-ceiling windows. The softest light illuminated Joel as he stalked closer to you, eyes wild at you, distancing yourself from him. Not the same way when you went to the kitchen, but rather like you wanted to leave him for good.

His voice trembled, “I wasn’t some monster tryin’ to hurt you. I’d bleed myself clean ‘fore I ever do that.”

“Oh, we both would’ve been dead long ago if we wanted to play that game.”

Joel shook his head while he crowded you toward the window, “Exactly. Both of us. Me and you, as it was always meant to be.”

“That’s not—”

“It is!” His voice raised, desperate, “I know what therapy helped change my head, but some things ‘bout me will never change. My love for you will never change, how all-consumin’ it is. We fight the same, we cry the same, we love the same. Y’know much that makes you mine?”

Your anger flared harder than it had this entire time he’d been here. Never once, in your entire relationship, did he ever use the phrase ‘mine’. Joel being possessive over you was never something you expected. He wasn’t the type of man to take, because he spent all his life giving and giving. 

But now, you were his? You weren’t anyone’s. Maybe you slipped into the mindset of belonging to one another when you were with him, but never this sole view of just you being his.

Not like this. 

“How dare you!” You snarled back. Your strength in your hands, grabbing his jacket, he never took off, and pulling him the rest of the way, “I’m not anyone’s, especially you. You lost that privilege when you started lying to me!”

“I know what I lost. You standin’ here reminds me of it. But don’t expect me not to want you, not to crave you. Life’s taken you from me far too many times. And when I finally had you—” His hand came to almost cup your face, but it balled itself into a fist before he could reach you, like he was denying himself the pleasure, “—I lost. But you’re tellin’ me I can’t even try to get you back?”

“Joel—”

“Even if you say no, even if you leave me, y’think anythin’ ‘bout me’ll change?” A bitter laugh escaped him. “‘Find a new girlfriend’. Don’t make me laugh. No woman compares. No one has the grip over my heart as you do. Not Kaia. She might’ve had me physically, but you got me physically, emotionally, mentally—fuckin’ spiritually our entire lives. So even if you decide this ain’t for you, I don’t care. You’re mine, even without a ring on your finger, ‘cause even as a child, I knew what I wanted—”

In a flash, you shoved him back. He stumbled a couple of steps, yet not an inch of shock covered his face. Instead, it was his blown eyes, staring you down like a starved animal.

You were no better. Your body had decided for you to become intertwined to the bone, the vein to him. It was all overwhelming. This utter want, this need. And the worst part was that no matter how much you denied it, you had just as much of them running through your veins

Your body was tearing your mind apart.

You wanted to cry and hit his chest over again, push him out of your penthouse, out of your city. You wanted to calm down and drink and talk like the rational woman you were. You wanted to keep fighting, and just like Dallas, take each other on every flat surface.

And the way he looked at you, you knew the same thoughts ran through his head. Under him, over him, beside him. How ever both of you could contort, twist, and bend. Kiss and lick the column of his throat, keep him forever, and never let anything hurt him again. Believe him and let yourself be protected.

Yet you couldn’t.

Because you were still so mad. How could he waltz back in and throw you for a loop? How could you actually consider trying with him once more?  

God, you were frustrated beyond belief. 

So both of you gave it.

You don’t know who rushed to whom first, but all you knew was that both of you were moving. Your back left the cold window, and he left the dark corners of your living room. You crashed in the middle, arms wrapped tight around the other. 

Neither of your lips pressed together—no, he hadn’t earned that privilege yet. You knew he knew because he didn’t dare grab your face—but rather, his nose was pressed just below your throat. He gulped you down, your scent and your everything. His hands covered every inch of you, hugging and holding you flush against him to the point your bones cracked.

It was hard grips, tight tugs, wandering palms, yet no one cared. It was like reclaiming a home rightfully yours, walking into its halls after years of deprivation.

But you didn’t let him go as easily either. Your nails clawed, yet you couldn’t feel him. His stupid jacket was in the way. So you pulled back despite his whine and pushed it off him. He helped you when he realized what you were doing, shucking it off his shoulders and letting it fall with a soft thud.

You were back on him, this time your face pressed into where his shoulder and neck met. There, you smelled everything he was: citrus and the wood he worked with. 

And you.

You still could smell yourself against his skin, even after over a month.

That brought a smile to your lips. 

Your fingers threaded through his hair, pulling him back yet again, his time his face close to yours. His eyes were nearly swallowed by the black of his pupil. Yet, his hands came to rest high on your waist, almost on the flat of your back

“You—you smell the same… with me in there, still.” Was all he could say, huffing hard.

You nodded weakly, “You do too.”

“Does that prove it to ya? That I’m yours? My own body’s changin’ to remind me of you. Every wakin’ moment, you’re there. That’s why you haven’t left my clothes, ‘cause you haven’t left me.”

A noise rumbled deep in your chest. He was saying all the words that itched that part of your brain, “You’ve fucked me over too. I can’t even try to take care of myself without you in my mind.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I try to sleep, but I still stay on my side of the bed. I wake up, I sometimes make enough for three, as you and Sarah’ll walk outta the hall and into the kitchen. I turn on the TV, and it always lands on a show we’d watch together. Then I sleep, alone, with you haunting me, holding back any real satisfaction.”

Joel’s lips parted, “And y’think I’m any better?”

“Must be.”

“Well, I ain’t.” He tucked his face over your shoulder, fighting against your grip in his hair, “I think ‘bout you every wakin’ moment. Nothin’s the same without you. All I am is helpless to learn to cope with a life without you ‘gain.”

“It’s what…”

“What I deserve?”

You didn’t say that. “It’s what we both got.”

“Cruel, ain’t it?”

You nodded, burying your face into his soft, longer curls. “It is.”

You both stood like that for a long, long time. You didn’t bother to see how much time passed with him leaning on you, or how your body felt weighed down. You didn’t care.

Joel was back in your arms. Despite your sadness and betrayal, nothing felt more right. 

Wasn’t that sad?

“Tell me, Joel.” You suddenly spoke, “When you're silent like this, something is going on in your head. Or… something you’re keeping from me.”

No hesitation: “There is.”

You exhaled through your nose, closing your eyes, “This is your last chance. I can’t take any more of this. Because we have to experience tenfold the pain to get another piece of your past. It isn’t right, isn’t normal—”

“Last time,” He pulled back, eyes shiny. “No more hidin’. No more secrets.”

“Please. Don’t lie to me again.”

“Never again. This is the only way to start fresh ‘tween us. The only way is with the truth.”

❛ ━━━━･❪ 🎕 ❫ ･━━━━ ❜

July 29th, 1988

Four days before Flight AA8934’s departure

White crib, or brown?

Babies actually had a lot of options when it came to things like furniture and clothes. At least, the girl babies did. 

They had all the colors in the world. You could pair yellows with blues for the summer. Pinks with whites for the spring. Browns and oranges for the fall. Reds and greens for Christmas. Not to mention the thirty other color combinations that he hadn’t thought of. 

Boys were harder. Not many options other than red, green, black, and blue. Well, maybe he had a limited mindset. When he went digging in his mama’s family albums, they were all pictures of him in the… most questionable outfits imaginable. He had to give his mama grace, though. What could she really dress two boys in during the ‘70s?

That’s all he had time for now, looking over catalogs of baby clothes he couldn’t afford. House arrest hadn’t lightened up in the slightest, but it hadn’t tightened either.

Thankfully, neither one of his folks found out about his quick sneak out yesterday to see Kaia. He had managed to slip back, even with his trembling hands and a weird mix of rage and confusion swirling in his gut. He shouldn’t even be looking at baby clothes, not after learning all that.

Babytrapped. The word wasn’t unfamiliar. Usually, when he went to church with his mama, he’d overhear gossip about one of the town’s folk near the edge, close by the farms. A family with six kids and more along the way. People typically celebrated that fact. Kids were a joy to have around; there were more little ones for these ladies to pamper. But instead, their faces were cold with a hint of sadness.

The information that shocked Joel was how, apparently, the man always kept his wife pregnant to keep her at home, to keep her with him. The thought made his skin crawl. The thought of having children not out of love but purposeful control felt sickening.

How could someone take another person’s autonomy away like that? It was vile and low and the Devil’s work, as the old ladies said before moving on to judging each other’s lemon cakes. 

Ironic. 

Now, what was Joel to do? Keep being with Kaia? That baby growing in her belly wasn’t his choice. It never was. It was all a lie. At least before, he could take some responsibility. Not being aware enough, not checking the condom, those were things that could be placed as his fault. 

But now, he couldn’t even do that. All the power had been taken out of his hands and placed in hers. He felt lost, caught between telling his folks and keeping it to himself. He threatened Kaia, saying he would, but the shame, the idea of them looking different at him… he wouldn’t be able to bear.

Because he was the eldest. All his folks' hopes and dreams had been placed onto his shoulders. Now, all he had become was an unmarried, soon-to-be father, trapped and jobless. 

There was nothing to be proud of.

If his folks cast him out right this moment and threw him onto the streets, he wouldn’t be able to blame them. He would get rid of himself, too. 

That would be the best rather than the awkwardness that plagued the house. Thankfully, his folks had decided that going over to Clyde’s house to ‘talk’—about him, for sure—was much better than being here. 

Joel was content to have the house to himself, burying himself deeper into the living room couch and into the countless catalogs spread around him. Though it felt lonely. Tommy was out being free, while you… well, you weren’t coming over, that’s for sure.

He would’ve liked that, though. You were curled up next to him, pointing at the things you thought were adorable and suited his baby. Your hand guiding his to each picture and choosing which event would match which outfit. As if this were your baby. As if this was your baby with him—

Joel sighed, throwing the catalog with summery dresses off to the side. It landed ungracefully onto the other cushion with all the other ones. He really needed to stop thinking about you. Rather, he needed to stop believing that life would have been any different, and it was you and him. It wasn’t. He was only going to drive himself mad.

Alone, he threw his head back, staring up at the ceiling. There were many things he could do instead of thinking. Like trying to apply for more jobs, seeing if anyone would buy his clothes. Yet… that didn’t stop this muddy feeling from expanding and taking over his whole chest. Around him, little dust particles floated in the rays of the sun. 

What to do, what to do?

Joel pondered for a bit, before giving up. Even thinking felt too much—

Ring! Ring! Ring! Ring!

His head snapped behind him to the wall phone. Automatically, Joel dragged himself up and over to the device. He’d become accustomed to picking up calls for his family. He was sure today that his dad had murmured something about the mechanic calling back with details about the truck he had dropped off. 

He quickly took the phone from its stand and pressed it to his ear, “Miller’s residence. This is Joel Miller, how can I—”

“Boy, is that you?!”

Joel nearly choked on his own spit.

“Mrs.—Mrs. Hall?”

Now, if there was one thing that Joel knew, it was that Kaia’s mama was off-limits. There were no family dinners, no helping her with her groceries, no talking about her cancer. Kaia kept that part of her life seperate to Joel. 

Once, Joel had mentioned in passing about doing something for both his mama and her’s for Mother’s Day. Kaia had given him a dark, almost violent look in her eyes, called him ‘beyond stupid’, and ignored him for days on end. 

That’s when Joel learned that Kaia’s mama wouldn’t be a part of this relationship at all.

A sharp noise ripped through Joel’s ear before she spoke up, “Did you hear me?! Y’need to put a leash on your woman! Actin’ like hell itself comin’ to eat her up—you put that down right now!”

“What’s goin’ on?” Joel gripped his phone tighter, “What’s with all the noise. Is the baby okay? Is—is Kaia okay? My folks ain’t home so—”

“Oh, she’s gonna be alright once I smack her right side up! I let her outside, and she does all this to me. Throwin’ shit ‘round the house ‘cause I told her the truth. She decided to trash my whole home, boy! Everythin’s ruined!”

He knew Kaia’s rages well, but destroying was not part of it. Maybe a quick throw—like with the plate—but not completely desecrating her childhood home like a madman. Not while she was pregnant. 

“Did you ask her what she wants?”

“Y’think I haven’t done that—put that vase down, you lil’ bitch! Don’t you dare throw it or I’ll—” A scream echoed from the other end, following a crash, “—oh, you’ve done it now! I’ll strangle you right here, right now!”

A protective beat flared through Joel, throbbing in his chest, “Hey! Don’t you talk to her like that! She’s carryin’ our baby!”

“I don’t care! I won’t be treated like a doormat in my house. Get your woman, boy, or I will! Pregnant or not!”

Joel rested his fist against the wall, “Fuck—fine! Just lemme—lemme talk to her! Give her the phone and—”

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, finally! Kaia! C’mere right now, he’s willin’ to talk to you. No, his folks ain’t home!”

There was some shuffling on the other side, as well as raised voices that disoriented Joel. His heart pounded so hard, it flooded his head as he waited and waited for anyone on the other end of this call to tell him what was going on. 

Finally, the noise quieted, just enough for harsh breathing to echo through the receiver, breath he knew very well.

“Kaia, what the hell are you doin’?” He hissed into the phone, pressing it harder into his head. “Your mama’s tellin’ me you’re throwin’ stuff, what’s wron’—”

“How much do you want this baby?”

For the first time, Joel felt a hot bubble of anger take over him. His lips curled, almost into a snarl. “Me? How much I want this kid? The one you—you forced onto me?”

“Stop mentionin’ that!” Kaia shierked at him, followed by the sharp shatter of something else, “I told you ‘cause I thought you would understand where I was coming from! Why I had to do it? You’ve understood everythin’ else in my life, so why couldn’t you with this?”

“Understand?! I can stand behind you for a lotta thin’s—and I have—but this… this I can’t! Not when you’ve used me to fulfill your sick future.”

“Why not?! You always liked it when we had sex! You came! You literally came, how’d you think this baby got in here?!”

Joel didn’t understand it either. He had seen her on top and keeping him in bed, hands on his shoulders, not letting him move. He had felt her be harder than usual, rougher too. But his head had been hazy with pleasure, and he had come…

Did he enjoy it?

He shook his head, “That don’t matter! You're damn lucky my folks are home. I’d tell ‘em right now, ‘bout what you did.”

“Why haven’t you…?”

“‘Cause it’s more than just us now! There’s a baby! I’d take you to fuckin’ court, but then how’d the baby be growin’ up? With parents that can’t fuckin’ bear to look at each other?! I gotta figure shit out ‘fore I push you out for good.”

“But I love you! And you me! This—this has been just a fight between us. There’s no reason to go to court, no reason. L-let’s just be together with this baby—”

“After this?! I won’t let me or my baby or my family near you with a ten-foot-pole!”

“Don’t say that, honey!”

“Crazy! You’re crazy, Kaia Hall!”

A deathly silence followed.

No more crashing or grunts came from the phone. In fact, Joel had to tilt his head into the phone to hear the grinding of Kaia’s teeth.

Joel’s hand opened against the wallpaper, cooling his sweaty palm. Not even the world around him dared let itself be known; the familiar tapping of water leaking from the kitchen faucet froze, the bugs from the slightly cracked back windows died off as well.

Of course, everything had cowered in fear.

He was, too.

Because when Kaia Hall went silent, she went ballistic.

It was a rage Joel was too familiar with. Her rage was quiet and calculated, then turned violent. That’s how the scar on his temple came to be. Saying the wrong thing, being the wrong version of himself, led to worse consequences for himself.

Joel knew better.

“I’m askin’ you ‘gain… how much do you want this baby?”

“Kaia—I didn’t mean to say that, I’m—”

“Answer me. Be fucking honest.”

Another beat of silence.

“I-I do want this baby. More than anythin’.” He complied, but his mouth kept rambling, though he knew it shouldn’t. Stupid man. “I wanna see this kid grow up… ‘cause they’re innocent. ‘Cause… I don’t even know. All I know is that I feel responsible, in some way, toward ‘em. I want to be a good daddy, no matter what, I’d put my own health and well-bein’ in the ground for this kid.”

Nothing.

“Kaia…?”

Now his heart started racing again.

Until—

“Then I guess this will teach you your lesson.”

Beeeeep!

Before he could say a word, Kaia cut the line, the harsh tone cutting through his haze. He tried to think straight but he couldn’t. Every bone in his body was screaming at him that he’d done something wrong. Something he couldn’t control was coming over him. 

Something that told him to run.

Joel dropped the phone, not even bothering to put it back onto the receiver. He stumbled toward the front door, body slamming into the wall as he hastily put his boots on with trembling fingers. He didn’t even bother to tie the knots or grab anything else of importance, like his house keys or wallet, because he was out before he could remember them.

Sweat poured out of his pores as he ran down the driveway to the sidewalk. Down the same way he did when he learned that Kaia was pregnant in the storm, away from you and his daddy and the path his life had taken. Now, he was rushing to that life.

Kaia and her threats were something to always take seriously.

Arlington—the town he’d known all his life—had suddenly turned into a maze. He couldn’t tell which street led where, which one would bring him closer to his innocent child. Soon, he found his way, unable to see straight as he made it out of the center of town and toward the edge, where the Hall family lived. It was never this far in his car. Why didn’t he take it? He would’ve been there by now. 

Finally, he saw it.

A large willow tree, with its hanging branches swaying in the wind, calling him to hurry. He listened, legs pumping harder than he ever ran. Joel nearly fell into the now turned dirt road, but he powered through it. He kept his eyes on the squat, tiny home near the tree, with its weathered grey room and dirty windows.

A car sat on its driveway, completely fresh and taken care of, unlike the rest of the house. Kaia loved that car, taking care of it in the garage. He could barely breathe by the time he got to it, and he used it to help him the rest of the way to the front door.

The porch was rotted through, the wood almost breaking underneath his sudden weight. Some of the windows were boarded up with shattered glass, or so dirty it was impossible to see inside. Even the porch railing was tipped over, the nails long rusted. 

None of that mattered, though. Joel barreled his fist onto the front door, almost ready to pry it open himself, “Kaia! Kaia opened the door—” Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! “—and let me in right now! I’m—”

The door did swing open, but it wasn’t Kaia. Instead, it was her mama, her chest rising, and her face flushed. The older woman had coiled, gray hair and was much shorter than Kaia. She pointed an accusatory finger toward Joel, snarling as he pushed past her to get inside.

“Where’ve you been, boy?! She’s been cussin’ a storm, the lil’ bitch. Your woman is out of control, and you need to get her under it ‘fore I call the police and have ‘em take her and your baby away—”

“Where are they?!” His head whipped around widely, taking in the mess. The tipped-over furniture, the ruined walls, the shattered plates, and smashed food. Yet, none of it had Kaia next to them. No noise that indicated that she was near. 

“She ran upstairs after she cut the call. The girl went completely blank and locked herself in her room—don’t care that I said she ain’t allowed to shut that door anymore. Just marchin’ to the beat of her own drum!”

That’s all he needed to hear.

Joel left Kaia’s mama behind, taking to the stairs. He took two at a time and made it to the second floor. It was completely ruined, just like the living room. The pictures of the family were ripped off the walls, left in shards of glass that crunched underneath his boots. 

Kaia’s room was the last door in the hallway, and the only one shut. Despite the bile rushing to his mouth, he made it to her door, once again pounding against the wood to get through. “Kaia, I’m here! You got what you wanted! Please open the door and talk to me!”

There was no answer, causing Joel to curse. He tried the doorknob, but of course, it was locked.

“Open the door! Think ‘fore you do anythin’!”

“I am thinkin’, are you?” Her voice was cold and detached. “Are you thinkin’, Joel Miller?”

Joel didn’t care for any cryptic messages. He brought his fist over and over the wood, trying to rip it open. When that didn’t work, desperation took over, and he stepped back. He took as much air as he could into his lungs and charged with his right shoulder.

The door barely budged, and his shoulder burned, but he couldn’t stop now. He went after it again and again, yelling out to Kaia to let him in and to stop this. 

With one final jolt, Joel put all his weight, and with the crash, the door brushed open, wood chips flying everywhere. It didn’t come off the hinges, but it did crash into the wall. Joel fell into the room, suddenly free from the one thing blocking him.

He looked around the room. It was the same since the last time he was here—the night his baby was conceived—with the same blue and purple sheets and the peeling posters along the wall. The desk was white and littered with papers and pens. It was perfect.

The one thing was that this room was untouched by Kaia’s rage. It was like she wasn’t even here.

Which was a lie, because she was.

Kaia stood in the center of it all, eerily still. It looked like all the life was drained out of her. She looked pale, unlike how she did just yesterday. Her face was numb, and looking directly at him. She catalogued every part of him, his disheveled appearance, his wild hair, without a single word.

And gripped so tightly in her right hand, to where he could only see the white cap and thin strip of clear color…

… was an orange pill bottle.

No.

No, no no what was she doing? 

Joel lifted up his hands in surrender, lip trembling. He kept on looking back and forth from her mouth to the bottle, “Kaia… tell me you take those.”

“I won’t if you don’t push me there.”

“I’m here now! Let’s just talk—gimme the bottle, and we’ll talk all you want. What do you want?” Joel tried, lifting his hand to take it from her. He knew exactly where she got them from. Kaia’s mama always had her pills out in the open, easy to have access to.

Kaia didn’t listen. “What do I want? I want… I want you to stop being so fucking difficult. When did you ever dare find the courage to hurt me like this? It started when you broke up, and since then, you’ve treated me like dirt under your boot.”

“I didn’t mean to! I only thought I was doing what was healthiest for both of us—”

“Oh, spare me the courtesy. I know you like to act like a ‘gentleman’, but you were the one who slept with me and left me the next second. Was your plan, wasn’t it? Use me and my pussy.”

“I would never treat you like that!”

“Really?” She cautiously took a step toward him, as if he were the dangerous one. “I think this chivalrous act is worthless. Everyone knows it, Joel. Everyone knows you aren’t anythin’ special. Jesus, I don’t know why I even gave you a chance at being a dad, Lord knows you’d fuck it up.”

Joel shook his head like a child, “I wouldn’t. I-I’ve prepared for this baby. I’ve done everythin’, despite what my folks say ‘bout it all. Do y’know how hard it’s for me to go ‘gainst my folks?”

“All you’ve done is listen to someone. Never taken charge of your own life.”

“Then why me!” He begged for reason, “Why’re you so hell-bent on takin’ over my life? If I’m so useless and stupid to you, then why? Why drag me into this fucked up relationship? We were so close on bein’ free of each other and bein’ our own people.”

Kaia stared at him like he was some strange creature from a spaceship. Then, she suddenly took steps toward him, rushing to spread her free hand over his throbbing chest. He gasped at the feel, but didn’t dare step away in case she did something rash.

Her nails dug through his shirt, clawing over his heart.

“Because of this.”

“What?”

“This big, foolish heart of yours. It’s so… loving.” She marveled at him, “So understandin’. I haven’t been this understood ever in my life. You got my life with my mama, you understood my mind, my anger. No one’s been patient enough to learn all those sides of me. So sweet, you are.

“But I hate when you’re anythin’ but that. Why? Cause I already have someone yellin’ at me ear at home. I already have the whole world against me. I don’t need you getting on me, too. That’s not why you’re mine, it’s to love me.”

“So why didn’t you tell me to be more patient? Why did you… why did you hit me? Why did you throw a plate at my forehead? Why did you hurt me?”

“Because you need to be reeled in!” She snapped, her nails suddenly turned into daggers, stabbing into his flesh, “Like a dog—a mutt—who gets too comfortable. You follow my rules for a bit, and I’m happy with it, then suddenly you get all this audacity to act however you want. You know what, that behavior got worse when Tommy’s bitch started throwing herself on—”

“Don’t you talk ‘bout her—”

Smack!

The sound of Kaia’s hand—the one on his chest—reaching up and slapping him across the right cheek echoed throughout the room. The sudden force whipped Joel’s head to the side, his eyes wide. All the words he had died in his throat, unable to voice themselves. 

Gingerly, his own hand came to touch the raw skin, heat already emitting from it. 

She hit him.

She hit him again.

He hadn’t been hit like this in a while, so he had completely forgotten all the feelings that came with it. But now, all the reminders came back.

The biggest one was how his mind felt so lost, but silent—no, obedient.

Kaia suddenly knocked his hand out of the way and touched what she had done, “See? This is what happens. You aren’t the type of man who can be reasoned with words. No, action works best with you.”

Joel didn’t respond.

“Isn’t this much better? Now I can finally get my words out without you talkin’ over me. It’s easiest for both of us. But as I was saying, she influenced you. You should distance yourself from her; it’s best for us. Don’t tell her anythin’. Don’t tell her about our baby, or how it came to be. Don’t even look at her for help, because well… she simply can’t. And if you do…” She cleared her throat, ”...I have these pills for a reason. If you’re not committed to me, why should I commit to you? To this baby?”

He croaked. 

“I know I say bad things about her, but that’s just me being a bit mean… maybe a bit jealous, I’ll admit. Maybe she is sweet. And if she is… then do you really think someone like her would be with someone like you? Don’t make me laugh, Joel. You might be a sweet boy, but you’d never earn her. No wonder you couldn’t say anything after all these years. You knew—deep down in your soul—that you were never worthy of her. And that’s how it’s always going to be, in this universe and the next.”

To that, Joel broke.

Tears rushed down his face, burning against his scalding skin. He sobbed like a baby, scared to move and scared to react. All he could do was stand there and listen to all the truths Kaia had been shielding him from, all the ones she just unleashed on him because he had pushed there.

Look at what he had done. Look at what he deserved.

“Oh, honey, don’t cry.” She cooed, trying to wipe his ever-flowing tears away, “It’s hard to listen to. That’s why you’re with me. No one is coming to help you, so we can be fucked up together.”

Joel finally moved, but it was to back away from her, his head heavy and swimming. He clawed at his hair, trying to rip it from his scalp. His hip hit something hard, and he heard things crashing into the ground, but he didn’t register. Only when his back reached the wall, did he slide down to rest against where it met the floor, sitting there lamely and limp.

Kaia’s room went in and out of focus, where his lack of breath was cutting off thoughts to his head. 

Lost. 

He was so, so lost.

The only sound was something clattering onto the ground, the rolling, and the little shakes cut through his head. The orange pill bottle was on the floor, and Kaia was stepping closer to him. She crouched next to him, then slid to her knees. 

Hands came to touch over his head, the tops of his hair, then lay over his shoulder, shaking him. 

“Joel… come back to me…!”

But her voice was threading throughout his mind.

“Stop it… you’re… scarin’ me!”

It was so bad that none of it was a single sentence, all choppy and not connected.

It wasn’t until she forced him to lean against her and was petting him, did he managed to gain some semblance of control. Yet it wasn’t full peace. He was still huffing against her skin, his body shaking. 

“You know not to provoke me, Joel…” She murmured, now stroking his hair, “... look what you’ve done…”

He finally spoke.

“I-I’m sorry…”

“You should. You almost tore our family apart. You almost hurt your child.”

Joel gasped, unable to breathe. His head was light, but he could reach his hand to her belly, trying to feel his baby there, “Sorry—daddy’s so sorry—”

“Hmmm…” She pondered, “I don’t think daddy is.”

“I am! I swear I am—”

“No, you aren’t.” Kaia mused, a small smile pressed against her lips as she gently placed a hand against Joel’s clammy hand, running her thumb over his skin. He flinched, “See, ‘cause if daddy was a good man to begin with, then none of this would be happenin’. If he had been a man like his brother or daddy, then you would’ve been much safer. But no. Look how weak he is! Look what he almost did to you.”

“No—no I’m a good man—”

“Are you?”

“Yes, yes I am!”

“Then you’ll also forget tellin’ your parents about how our baby came to be. You don’t want them separatin’ us, would you?”

“N-no, don’t take away my baby—”

“It won’t happen, if you marry me.”

Joel’s heart froze. He could tell it died right there, because it wasn’t thumping inside his ears. Rather, there was this high-pitched whine that echoed throughout his head.

“What…”

“Marry me, honey,” Kaia said so sweetly, “Then, we’ll get out of here! Me away from my mama, you with your baby. Wouldn’t that be lovely? You always wanted to have a small home, right near the edge of town. I remember you telling me all about it. Could you imagine our little one running in the yard, dropping it off at school, coming home to it? Wouldn’t that be everythin’ you ever wanted?”

What he wanted?

Joel wanted to be able to breathe. Kaia over him seemed to take away all the oxygen around him. The slouched position he was seated in, back slumped against the wall, crushed his lungs. The way his eyes couldn’t focus confused his brain. 

Joel didn’t know what he wanted anymore.

“I’ll be whatever you want me to be.”

“Yeah? You’ll listen to me?”

“Yes.”

“You’ll be good for me?”

“Yes.”

“You’ll raise this baby?”

“Yes.”

“You’ll love me?”

He hesitated at that.

Kaia caught on. Her free hand came to snatch his chin, fingers digging into the sting she gave him on his cheek. He was forced to look into her eyes. Those wild, all-consuming eyes. 

“Say it. Say you love me.”

Joel couldn’t, because he didn’t love her.

He loved someone else.

“Say it, Joel Miller.”

You or his baby?

His baby or you?

You, who knew him better than anyone. Who had held him through everything, through anything. Through the loneliness and the dread of his future. Who was there to give him every choice, even though it was ripped from him constantly? Who was going to leave, and it seemed like he had only seconds left with.

His baby, who was pure and untouched by this world. Who had no one in their corner yet, no one to back them up. Who had already started to provide some peace into Joel’s life, even though everything was getting derailed, and he knew he was going somewhere he couldn’t crawl out. 

You or his baby?

His baby or you?

Joel knew his answer.

“I l-love you.”

“Say it again.”

“I love you.”

“And you’ll never leave me, never stop loving me. Even when we fight and hurt each other, you’re mine.”

“Even… even when we fight… and hurt…”

She was content, though, despite his not finishing. Kaia grinned, letting go of his chin and wrapping her arms around his neck to hug him. She swayed him slightly, making it harder for him to focus.

“I’m so glad you came to reason, honey.”

❛ ━━━━･❪ 🎕 ❫ ･━━━━ ❜

What was there to say?

You had no words, only able to stare up at the creamy white ceiling above you. Your fan lazily rotated above you, the soft rhythmic sound of creak, creak, creak filled the space. 

The lights from the city poured over your bed, where you lay, nuzzled into the fluffy white blanket and the thick blue of your comforter. It refracted through the two wine glasses on either side of your side table, letting little white shards of light disco around you. The wine bottles lay empty. Your legs sprawled below you, the soft wind of the air conditioning blowing against your skin. 

You had stopped crying a long time ago; now, your eyes were empty. That didn’t stop you from crying, hiccuping from how drunk you were. Your nose had gotten thick with snot, and it blocked your breathing. You were forced to inhale through your mouth in shaky breaths. Your eyes had gotten swollen and flushed from how hard you’d been wiping them. 

This wasn’t real. Joel’s life couldn’t be real, because he was so close to you while he was being hurt the most. It was worse because you weren’t thinking about the gruff, hardened man who had built up a fortress to protect himself. 

No young adult should go through this. Joel had been nothing but good when he was young, and this was how the world repaid him? Stranggled into a relationship with threats and babies. 

The Joel you knew didn’t deserve it.

The Joel you loved didn’t either. 

You sniffled, turning over to face the inside of your bed. You blinked and looked at the figure right by you.

You had expected a lot of things when you saw Joel lying down next to you. One big thing was that he wouldn’t cry. This was just another thing that he was so numb to it all. It took Herculean strength to get him to realize what had even happened to him, that it wasn’t normal. 

That wasn’t what you saw.

You saw instead, tear tracks that had slipped down from the corner of his eyes, his nose flushed pink, and his bottom lip was trembling. He looked small, smaller than he ever had before. He simply looked like a puppy trying to find a comforting space to hide from thunder. 

You turned over, and with no hesitation, you reached over to brush your thumb over the tear beading, about to fall. The feel of skin against skin pulled him out of his mind and the past. 

Joel gasped, then looked over to you. He saw you crying and turned just as fast as you had. His hand came to cup your face, mimicking your soft touches.

“You shush now.” He whispered, “I didn’t come back to make you cry like this. I’m sor—”

“Shut up.” You hissed out, though it was weak. You scooted toward him, wiping your nose with your free hand, “I don’t want you to say the words sorry for that.”

“I mean it. This is… this is somethin’ that should’ve come up a long time ago for us. It would’ve done wonders for us, wouldn’t it? I came to you ‘bout my abuse. ‘Bout my attempt. Why couldn’t I come with this?” 

“There’s… there’s no timeline with these sort of thin’s. You hadn’t even started healing with Dr. Harris. Her coming back. It all had to be so hard on you—”

Just then, you felt Joel slip out of your palm and hover over you. You didn’t feel trapped between the bed and him; rather, you felt like the most comfortable blanket was about to be thrown over you. You would get lost in it. You reached up to him, trying to clean him off, but he shook your attempts off.

His forearm rested on the top of your head so that he could look down at you better. His other hand resumed its light petting.

“Don’t try to rationalize me. As hurt as I am… that don’t stop me from doin’ shitty thin’s. I can still be a mean person and be hurt. Those two don’t separate from each other. In fact—” He chuckled, “—Dr. Harris told me it's more likely that hurt people hurt people.”

You hated how you nodded, “You did hurt me…”

“I did, terribly so.”

“...but that doesn’t stop me from seeing you.” Your fingers clawed and fisted his shirt to hold him there so close to you, “All these horrid people from your past coming to hurt you. It made me forget what you did thirteen years ago. It… it almost makes me forget now—”

“Don’t. Remember what I’ve done.”

“Of course I do. This entire time you’ve been back, all I’ve wanted to do is either throttle you o-or hug you senseless.” You shook your head, “Look at what she’s done to you. What she’s done to us. She’s haunting us just as much as we were haunting each other.”

“You're more mad ‘bout it than me.”

“I’m livid, so much so I’m fucking boiling. How are you not?”

Joel shrugged to that, “Trust me… she’s done worse to me. Thin’s I’ve kinda blacked out on my own. It’s easier to protect my peace that way. Plus, there’s sorta this… less anger, more sadness to it. How small I was, how young too.”

“You were just a kid.”

“I was twenty.”

“Barely an adult,” You reminded him with whispered breath. Your hand cupped his face, “And to think you couldn’t come to me because of this…”

“I didn’t the first time at the park ‘cause I was ‘fraid she’d do somethin’ rash to get back at not only me, but at Sarah, at you. Then… the second time… I didn’t tell you ‘cause I thought the universe or somethin’ would punish me. Remind me to never get too comfortable.”

Your breath broke piece by piece. You sobbed out loud, “And to think I yelled at you like that. Oh, Joel…”

“Now,” His voice steeled slightly, but then softened, “Don’t—and I mean it—start actin’ like this is somethin’ you could’ve prevented. Can’t save a man who doesn’t want to be saved. But I know I do want to be saved now. And I’m savin’ myself, but it ain’t my job.”

“How could it not be? Maybe it’s the stupid fucking part of me that always wants to protect you. I’ve had it since we were kids, you know? This—this urge to shield you from anything bad.”

“I know you have. I’ve experienced it more times than I’ve deserved.” Joel smiled, “But I don’t want it if it hurts you.”

“Then what do I do instead? Watch you process it all by yourself? You can’t ask me to do that.”

“No, I don’t want that either. I want… I want you, but in a way that isn’t me just dumpin’ all my emotions for you to hold onto. I’m a grown man who’s learnin’ to handle himself better.

“What else do I want?”

He huffed out a chuckle, mimicking your voice in the softest way possible, “‘What I want…’” He looked straight into your eyes, “Well, it’s quite easy, really. Might make me look like some sort of simpleton.”

You gasped slightly, now looking away. “You’re flirtings atrocious. And the worst timing ever.”

“Can’t laugh the pain away?”

You couldn’t help it. A small laugh bubbled through all the tears, wet and ugly, but it was there. Joel seemingly caught onto it, his own smile cracking through wide over his wet face.

“There you are, beautiful girl…” Joel murmured, “Thought I lost you for a moment.”

“You didn’t.”

“Hm…” He suddenly leaned down, nose pressing against the side of your face. He breathed you in again, less aggressively than the first time, but it was still him taking lungfuls of you, “... I don’t want to lose you ‘gain.”

“Joel..”

“Listen to me. I want you to keep hold of your hurt. ‘Cause you deserve it. I didn’t tell you this to excuse any of my actions. I told you ‘cause I feel most comfortable and safe with you. I’m here now, in New York, to prove to you the man I once was isn’t me now.”

“So you want me to be mad at you.”

“Yeah…?”

“Or hold you accountable.”

“I like that better. Yeah, hold me accountable.”

Your eyes traced over his face, over everything you came to know and lose. He looked so content, mature. He looked happy to be crawling after you, willingly putting himself there.

It didn’t help that the hurt still swirled inside of you. You felt like a fraud and a horrible person. Yet, here he was, telling you that your feelings were okay and natural, and so was the sympathy you felt for him. When did he gain all this knowledge? When did he become so sure?

Suddenly, you surged forward and pressed your lips to his face. Not his lips, but rather, the tip of his crooked nose. Your bottom lip brushed against the rough scratch of his mustache. Joel let out a choked noise, his hand coming to lay on your hip to steady himself. 

When you pulled back, that shy blush you missed was back on his face. “W-what was that for?”

You just looked at him in awe, “I don’t know. I just really wanted to kiss you.”

Both of you looked at each other for a long moment, then. Neither of you moved to try to push it any further. It wouldn’t tonight, you knew. You wouldn’t let yourself, not until you felt that security. And Joel would rather tear his skin off than push himself into something he wasn’t ready for. 

You knew him well.

“I should let you sleep,” He reasoned, jerking his chin to your side table. When you looked over, you groaned. It was three a.m. “You got work tomorrow.”

“I do, yeah.”

“Shit, then I should’ve cut my story short.”

You glared at him, only to be met with his typical dry, sarcastic face. Then, with a grunt, Joel pulled back, taking himself to the edge of the bed to come to a stand. 

You frowned, propping yourself up. “Are you going back to your hotel?”

Joel froze before he could forward. Then, he sheepishly looked at you.”You won’t start yellin’ at me, right?”

“Depends on what’s about to come out of your mouth.”

“I was just ‘bout to tell you ‘bout that. You see… comin’ to New York was planned… but not that planned. I ain’t travelled ‘fore, remember? So I came here high on emotion, not really knownin’ what to brin’ except thatI’m stayin’ ‘til January Fourth. So I kinda…”

“What the hell did you do?”

“What I didn’t do. The backpack I came with? Yeah, it’s the only thin’ I brought. There’s like a pair of jeans, two shirts, some underwear, my toothbrush and paste, and a map of the city. And my wallet, ‘course, but other than that—”

“I’m sorry, what?!” You yelled out, jumping to your knees and coming to kneel on the bed next to where he stood, “You're telling me you came to New York City without anything?! Are you actually crazy?!”

“Also, no hotel. I didn’t book one.”

“Joel! What if I didn’t let you up into my house?! What if I were at work?! What if they had called the police?! What were you thinking?!”

Joel looked away from your intense eyes, rubbing the back of his neck, “That I’d stay by the entrance ‘til I say you ‘gain?” He noticed your flabbergasted expression, with your opening and closing helplessly. “Well—I could book one right now—”

“Oh, don’t you go there with me!” You got up from the bed, grabbing the sleeve of his shirt and leading him out of your bedroom, “You’re staying with me. There’s no way in hell I’m leaving you in this city.”

“Really? I get to stay with you?”

“Until you leave.” You huffed out, taking him down the winding steps and back into the main floor. Even from your long talk with him, the city still hadn’t slept. You took him back to the couch where his backpack was, hauling under your free arm despite his protests, “I have four spare rooms. Four more I don’t need. You’ll take one, thank you very much.”

“I’ll pay rent, if you want me to—”

“Joel, I’m going to turn around and drop this backpack onto your foot.” Snarling, you took him to the first bedroom near the hallway, opening up the door. 

It was the first time entering this side of your penthouse since you had moved in. You had no point for this winding hallway of rooms. Who had come to see you? Joel, apparently.

Inside, it was a large room. It had a raised entrance, with two steps surrounding the area where the bed was. An attached bathroom was on the left, along with a walk-in closet. The same full-length windows that adorned the living room were here. It was way less grand than your bedroom—the master bedroom—but it’d be enough. 

You dropped his backpack by the dresser after letting him go, not looking back as you unzipped the large thing, “I don’t know how well-stocked this bathroom is, but I know it has toilet paper and warm water and towels. We can figure out something else tomorrow. Maybe we can go… Joel?”

You had noticed that he wasn’t responding or coming up to you like he usually did. When you turned, you saw he wasn’t at the bedroom door. Rather, he was at the windows. He had moved silently over the carpet, looking down at the city.

The lights danced over his skin, and the muffled snow was a contrast to his hair. His lips were slightly parted, in awe of the sight before him. Joel’s eyes tried so hard to take in and comprehend what he was seeing.

But it was impossible to take in all of this city in one night. You knew better than anyone.

Abandoning his backpack, you came to stand next to him. He didn’t look at you, but his hand twitched and reached for you, before falling. You didn’t stop him.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Was what you said instead.

“It’s… it’s so overwehmlin’. All of it.”

“I know. Coming here after Arlington was… god, it was something else. Took me a full semester—maybe even longer, honestly—to get used to just looking at it.”

“Makes you feel like you’re an ant.”

“Yeah, it does.”

You shared a million different conversations silently, yet at the same time, you didn’t know what he was saying. You felt so lost, yet found.

“That’s why I’m here then, ain’t it?” He said suddenly. You blinked and looked up at him. He was looking down at you and was smiling slightly, swaying slightly on his feet. “To earn your forgiveness. Perfect place to do so.”

“This is the place? Really?”

“‘Cause it’s a part of you that I kinda pushed out. This city shaped you into the woman I love. I’d like to get to know what made you you.” 

“It probably won’t be too exciting. It was my work that did all that.”

“Then I’ll learn ‘bout your work.”

“You don’t have to—”

“But I want to,” He turned fully to you, hands clasped behind his back. “I will. ‘Cause I’m done of losin’ the life we deserve, and I’ll brin’ it back if it’s the last thin’ I do, sweetheart.”

Oh, we've started!! And this isn't your traditional crawling-yearning thing, if you couldn't tell. Hehe. And also, happy Pride month!! I love all my gays, dolls, queers, and everyone in between!!

Chapter 43 discussion subreddit

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@d0uwannkn0w, @saymonyung, @missladym1981, @somedayheaven, @ashleyfilm, @m0ldy-p3ach, @bearbo28, @millersrevolver, @forevermoretaylors, @pascalbrinas, @ae303, @fabiola-love, @itsmermers, @persiar9, @taniamiller, @televanglist1c, @crybabycowgirl02, @secretlettersfromyourlove, @purebarnes, @ashispunk557, @adoringanakin, @silksepia, @madnessofadaydreamer, @fuckthatbazinga, @juniperberries123, @joeldarling, @anqieluv, @s20066, @paperbag33, @lwmysun, @angelamariaxo, @opallanky, @paulieloverz, @vinnstarr, @woodxtock, @lysistratablogs, @kikixdee, @meme73-4 @onlythehobi, @kaletales13, @honey-moon-13, @sinpathyforthedevilish, @honeyphiil, @clownedcakez, @foryouaremine-atlast, @ichaborgasm, @serene-kn1vezz, @pinkcabinet, @kirsteng42, @captured-memory

[onlythehobi]

i knew kaia had threatened him with the baby but this was much worse 😭😭😭😭

GET OFF MY BOY!?@,'

also UGSHSHSHHDJD okay baby steps ik BUTBUTBUT they seem to be trying again? and we'll see joel yearn™️???

SIGN ME TF UP

[capuccinodoll]

— A haunted body, part eighteen: "All flowers in time bend towards the Sun" ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧⋆ ˚｡⋆‧₊˚ (jackson!joel x f!reader)

fic masterlist | ao3 | capuccinodollupdates | previous chapter | next chapter

— Chapter summary: After Joel's safe return, you find a rare quiet solace in his presence and the safety of his home. It’s a blurry line, and you're not quite sure if giving in to this feeling is the right choice. But for now, you choose to stop questioning it and just let yourself feel safe.wc: 22.4k

A/N: WARNING! This chapter contains fluff and smut, LOADS OF IT. Also, while I was editing this chapter I was listening to Jeff Buckley and noticed that I mention windows and sunlight streaming through them a lot here. It instantly reminded me of his song with Elizabeth Fraser, "all flowers in time bend towards the sun." I truly feel like the lyrics apply so much to Snow and Joel. If you haven't heard it yet, I highly recommend giving it a listen! Anyway, thank you so much for reading, and for waiting 2 months for this update. I hope you enjoy this part! In case you want to support me, buy me a coffee - ko-fi

If you liked it, leave a comment or reblog 🩷 your feedback really helps me keep writing.

Joel’s house. Morning.

Your body felt warm as you started to wake. Sprawled on your back with your right arm stretched above your head and your frame angled diagonally across the mattress, you were tucked comfortably beneath the warm blankets. And pressing down on the left side of your body, the heavy weight of Joel anchored you against the bed, the faintest hint of a snore slipping out now and then.

He was lying face down, his cheek resting against your chest just beneath your collarbone. His arm draped heavily over your ribs and the rest of his body followed that same diagonal line as yours.

You shifted slightly, extending your legs and reaching both arms over your head, but you had no intention of moving further; you were far too cozy. Joel’s weight was a welcome pressure and his body heat radiated like a furnace. He was wearing nothing but his pajama pants, leaving nothing but bare skin against you, while you remained covered in his shirt.

After one last stretch, you lowered your left hand to his back, letting it rest there for a moment. You leaned into him, just a fraction, and finally allowed your fingers to climb toward the nape of his neck, disappearing into his hair. Joel didn't stir in the slightest; he was out like a light.

Without a second thought, you hugged him, letting your chin rest on the crown of his head. Even with your mind still foggy, you knew the feeling washing over you was overwhelming; he was in your arms, alive.

No. Don't think about that.

You pushed the thought aside and let your breathing sync with his, surrendering to a long while of drifting in and out of sleep as the sunlight through the window climbed higher and higher.

Sometime later.

At some point in the middle of your idyllic dream, Joel climbed out of bed. You noticed immediately because, obviously, his weight disappeared from on top of you and suddenly you felt far too exposed.

Half asleep, you heard him shuffle to the bathroom; the toilet flushing, water running from the sink, and then, a couple minutes later, he was back beside you. He slipped under the sheets and blankets and, with one rough tug, hauled you against him again. You stayed there for a while, tucked against his chest, but you could only hold out for so long.

You seriously, seriously had to pee.

You shifted a little, trying to pry yourself loose; Joel pulled you right back against him. A quiet laugh slipped out of you.

Again, you started wriggling away.

“What’re you doing? Where d’you think you’re goin’?” he mumbled. His voice was low and gravelly with sleep and his eyes still completely shut.

“Gotta use the bathroom,” you whispered through a laugh.

Without another word, he let go of your waist, and you pushed the blankets off yourself too.

Oh, it was cold. The air wasn’t nearly as warm as it had been a week ago, and the floor beneath your feet felt freezing. That, and the fact that you were barely dressed. Your legs were completely bare, every inch of your skin prickling from the temperature.

“Oh, shit,” you muttered as you shut the bathroom door behind you. Sleep was making the cold feel twice as bad.

You rushed through everything as fast as possible, washing your hands and splashing warm water on your face afterward.

Jesus, your hair was a disaster. You fixed it as best you could with your fingers while staring into Joel’s tiny mirror, and the second you were done, you hurried back out.

On your tiptoes, you rushed back to bed and practically launched yourself onto him.

“It’s so freaking cold,” you whispered as you crawled beneath the blankets again, pressing your chest against his, sprawled on top of him.

Joel wrapped both his arms and half the blanket around you. The warmth of his chest seeped into yours almost instantly.

A sudden rush of happiness climbed from your stomach to your chest and burst right beneath your collarbone; you slid your hands along the sides of his head and pressed your lips to his jaw. You scattered little kisses there, trailing them up his cheek, then just beside the corner of his mouth.

His lips pulled into a smile that you kissed too.

“Gettin’ warm?” he asked, tightening his arms around you as his hands slipped beneath your shirt. On the way there, he hooked a finger under the elastic of your underwear.

“Yeah. Thank you.”

You kissed him again, but this time it was slower and deeper. Gradually, your right hand cupped his jaw, your thumb pressing against his chin and tipping it down, coaxing his mouth open wider for you.

You slid your tongue slowly into his mouth, grazing his lower lip with a lingering stroke before deepening the kiss; the lower part of your belly tingled at the taste. The sound that left him was a low soft moan.

The shift in Joel was instantaneous. His breathing hitched and his grip tightened until there was no space left between you. One of his hands slid down from your waist and his palm squeezed your hip, then moved lower to cup your ass. And driven by pure instinct, you shifted too, parting your legs to hook them around his hips.

You pressed yourself firmly against the lower part of his stomach, seeking more friction, and the contact drew another ragged breath from his lungs. Every point where your bodies met felt like it was suddenly sparking to life. Every point, wich basically was… every part of your body.

Your tongue keep exploring the heat of his mouth, sweeping against his in a slow, languid dance. He met you with the same unhurried hunger, his tongue tangling with yours as he tasted you deeply, because there was no rush, no world outside the four walls of this room; no one waiting for you, no one needing you, no looming shadow of duty. In the quiet safety of this room, the only urgency that existed was the pull of your own skin.

The kiss remained sensual and low, a long drawn out luxury you were totally entitled to.

Then, you pulled back just enough to graze your teeth against the soft swell of his lower lip, nipping it once, softly. The small bite broke his composure.

Joel’s breath hitched, and he brought his other hand down, both palms now heavy and big and commanding as they anchored to your ass. He squeezed firmly, his fingers digging in just enough to make you gasp against his mouth. And with a possessive grunt, he hitched you higher, dragging your body down against his as he ground his hips upward. The movement was precise, so precise, pressing exactly where you needed it most.

As he pulled you flush against him, you felt it; the unmistakable, rock hard weight of his erection through the soft fabric of his pajamas, pressing big and hot right against your center. The friction was enough to turn your knees weak even as you clung to his shoulders and the mattress under him.

You began to shift against him, a slow and rhythmic glide up and down, grazing yourself against his hard cock through the thin cotton. But you didn't break the kiss; you were too desperate to drink in the sound of the ragged groans catching in his throat.

Your body felt like it was nearing a boiling point. Skin to skin and heart to heart, your pulse was thundering in your ears; frantic, heavy and delicious beat that matched the insistent aching throb between your legs.

Joel’s hands abandoned his grip on your hips then, reaching up to fist the hem of the oversized shirt. He began to bunch the fabric upward as you straightened, sitting up to give him access and raising your arms to help him pull it off. He tossed the shirt blindly to the side, leaving you bared to him, wearing nothing but your underwear.

Suddenly, the cool morning air hit your skin, sending a visible shiver through you as your nipples peaked and goosebumps blossomed across your chest. But the chill was short lived; Joel’s hands were immediately back on you, his warm palms searingly hot as they settled on your waist.

You remained seated over him, looking down as you resumed that torturous, slow movement.

From this vantage point, you felt a surge of pure unfiltered power. What a beautiful sight Joel was, a beautiful wreck beneath you; his salt and pepper hair disheveled against the pillow, his cheeks flushed a deep, rugged red, and his eyes... they were blown wide, dark and glittering like black diamonds in the night. And scattered across his cheeks, forehead, chin, and chest, the cuts and bruises remained vividly visible as a reminder of just how fragile he could be. But not right now, not under your hand.

It was a feeling nearly impossible to put into words. You had never known yourself to be capable of this kind of intensity, or this kind of hunger. With him, and only with him, you felt like a version of yourself you’d never met before. A reclamation of your own body. It wasn't just lust; it was a vivid, electric sense of being alive, a hunger for life that burned brighter than the morning sun creeping across the floor.

You kept moving your hips, and even through the layers of fabric, his cock felt massive; a hard and pulsing weight that throbbed in perfect sync with the wet heat between your legs.

You leaned in, pressing your palms against the broad expanse of his chest, being mindful to keep your fingers away from the dark bruises on his skin. He was burning up, his body like a furnace radiating a heat that seemed to melt you so easily.

As you angled your body over him, Joel let out a wrecked sound and one of his hands traveled upward, his calloused palm sliding over the curve of your ribcage until it found your breast. He traced the swell before settling his thumb over your peaking nipple, rolling it with agonizing pressure until your back arched.

A broken moan escaped you, but he didn't let it fade. His hand drifted higher, until his fingers wrapped around the column of your throat for a fleeting second, just enough to feel the vibration of your next gasp, before his thumb pressed into the center of your jaw, coaxing your mouth open.

He slid his thumb inside, past your teeth, and you took him in without hesitation. You swirled your tongue around the pad of his thumb, tasting the faint salt of his skin and the heat of his touch, all while your hips never stopped their desperate move against him.

Looking down at him through hooded eyes, you watched the way his expression fractured into desperate need as you sucked on him. And then, he slowly withdrew his thumb, replacing it with his index finger. You took it into your mouth without hesitation, swirling your tongue around it until he slid his middle finger too; you sucked on them greedily, letting the wet, slick sounds filling the space between your heavy breaths.

Just after a few moments of watching you, he pulled his glistening fingers from your lips. He didn't let the moisture go to waste; he dragged his damp fingers down the length of your throat, then over the swell of your breasts, the cool air hitting the wet trails he left behind. His hands eventually settled on your hips, digging in with a possessive strength that anchored you to him.

"You're so beautiful," he rasped. "Just perfect."

A deep blush crept up your neck as you smiled down at him, but the sweetness of the moment shifted into something more commanding as he began to nudge your hips upward, sliding you further up his body toward his chest.

"Grab the headboard," he ordered.

You obeyed instantly, eyes locked on his as you reached to grip the wood of the bedframe. Joel adjusted you, dragging your body exactly where he wanted you, before he shifted himself downward until you were positioned right above his face.

"Joel," you whispered, letting out a shy breathless nervous little laugh. "Whare are you doing?"

He didn't answer with words. Instead, he leaned in to press lingering, warm kisses to the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, his hands gripping your hips and pulling you down firmly, silently demanding that you sit heavier against him. Then, he reached for the edge of your underwear, hooking his fingers into the lace and sliding them to the side until you were completely bared to him.

Joel went still for a moment, his gaze intense as he took in the sight of you, wet and swollen just for him.

"Perfect," he murmured, his breath hitching as he stared. "Look at you... look how ready you are for me."

The sound of his voice sent a jolt straight to you. You could feel the warmth of his exhales puffing against your folds, making you ache.

You lowered one hand from the headboard and brushed the curls off his forehead.

“Just for you,” you whispered softly. “Only for you.”

Joel went still for a few seconds, his eyes locked on your face. Gently, he turned his head and pressed soft kisses to the inside of your thighs. Your hand sank a little deeper into his curls, feeling the anticipation build as his mouth moved closer and closer to where you needed him most.

And then, finally, Joel leaned forward and let his tongue touch you. It was a slow, agonizingly long stroke from the bottom to the very top. He started at a crawl, tasting you with a flat tongued pressure that made your hips buck instinctively. He followed the line of your body, swirling his tongue around your clit with a gentle teasing flick before burying his face against you to drink in the taste of you. Every lap was steady and unhurried, a masterpiece of patience that had you whimpering his name into the quiet morning air within seconds.

But he didn’t break the rhythm. If anything, your soft and broken whimpers only anchored him deeper between your thighs. His tongue continued its steady kiss, flattening against you to drag another slow soaking stroke from bottom to top.

You couldn't stay still. Your hips began to roll in a slow, desperate circle against his face, chasing the pressure of his mouth and trying to sink yourself fully onto him. And the moment you moved, Joel’s warm hands slid down from your hips, cupping the meat of your ass. His fingers dug into your flesh with a possessive soft grip, pinning you down and silently forcing you to take every bit of it.

It was dirty, the slick heavy sounds of his mouth eating you, but there was an overwhelming tenderness to the way he was doing it. His mouth was so hot, so incredibly wet; he swirled his tongue right over your swollen clit with a teasing flick that made your entire body shudder against his face.

"Joel—" your voice broke, a strained sound as your fingers white knuckled around the wooden headboard behind you.

He let out a low vibration of a growl against you and his thumbs pressed hard into your bottom, lifting your hips slightly just to angle you better for his tongue. He began to lap at you faster now, his patience clearly fracturing into something a little more desperate as he drank you in.

The heat inside you was coiling tight, pulling into a heavy ache right where his mouth was working. You were so close; the friction of his flat tongue and the hot puffs of his breath against your folds were pushing you straight over the edge. Instinctively, your spine snapped taut as you leaned back, your head falling back as your neck strained. One of your hands pressed against his stomach to steady yourself, your fingers splaying as the first waves of the climax began to tighten violently around your core, leaving you completely at the mercy of his mouth.

The moment you broke, you broke completely. You clamped down in violent, desperate pulses against his mouth, a sharp, choked cry tearing from your throat as you rode the peak. Your hand buried hard into his stomach, your fingers digging in as your hips bucked helplessly into his face, forcing him to take the thick, soaking heat of your climax. Joel didn't pull away; he held you there with that bruising grip on your ass, drinking you in, his tongue catching every heavy tremor until the ripples finally began to slow.

Your chest heaved, every breath a ragged, costly struggle that rattled in your throat. Slowly, the possessive tension in his hands softened. He let out a low, satisfied exhale against your wet skin, pressing one last, lingering kiss right over your swollen center to seal his work, before sliding his lips to your inner thigh. You shifted your hips back, letting out a weak whimper as the cool air hit the slick trail he left behind.

His large hands began a slow soothing path, stroking up and down the length of your trembling legs, before sliding over your hips to rest heavily at your waist. Joel tilted his head back against the mattress, wearing a breathless smirk on his lips as he looked up at you.

"You okay, honey?" he rasped, his voice rough and incredibly deep.

You managed a breathless smile, your hand leaving his stomach to wipe at your flushed cheek.

"Give me a second," you whispered, feeling your poor little heart hammering like a trapped bird against your ribs.

Joel let out a soft chuckle and you felt the sound against your thighs.

You bit your lip, tilting your head back for a moment as you tried to catch your breath, before carefully shifting your weight. You slid your knees backward, moving off his chest and unstraddling his face.

That’s when your eyes fell on his lap.

Even through the soft fabric of his pajama pants, his cock was tenting the material so fiercely it looked ridiculous. It was massive, a thick rigid ridge pointing straight up toward his torso.

A purring sound escaped you. Crawling back up his body, you leaned over him, pressing a slow kiss to his mouth, tasting yourself on his lips. Your hand drifted down the broad expanse of his chest, tracing a path down his flat stomach until your palm cupped the hard length of him right through the cloth.

"And are you okay, Mr. Miller?" you whispered against his wet lips, your fingers tightening around the thick shaft.

Joel's thighs parted instinctively at your touch and a low hiss escaped his teeth.

"Take everything off," you commanded.

Without wasting a single second, Joel pushed himself up onto his elbows. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his pajamas and dragged them down his long legs, kicking them off the edge of the bed. He wasn’t wearing any underwear. He fell back against the pillows, completely bare, his chest rising and falling as you sat back on your heels and your gaze traced every inch of him.

Hooking your fingers into the lace of your underwear, you slid them down your thighs and tossed them carelessly to the floor before immediately moving over him again, knees framing his hips.

Looking down at him, you pooled a thick layer of saliva into your palm and shifted your hips slightly back to give yourself room, and wrapped your wet hand around the heavy head of his cock. You smeared the slick moisture over the crown before sliding your palm all the way down to the base.

Oh god.

He was stone hard, his shaft scorching hot and silky smooth under your wet grip. Along the side, a thick vein throbbed violently against your palm, pulsing with his heartbeat. You began to slowly stroke him, wearing a friction that coated his entire length in your spit, while you leaned slightly forward, teasingly rubbing him right against your soaking wet folds.

Joel’s eyes snapped shut and his head slammed back into the pillow; a deep groan ripped from the center of his chest, his jaw straining as your hand and your body drove him crazy.

Seeing him completely undone brought a wicked smile to your lips. You knew he was fighting with all his might not to grab you by the hips and sink into you right then and there. So while he stayed there, eyes closed and at your mercy, you guided his cock to your opening. You tilted your hips forward, aligning him perfectly, and began to sink down.

Slowly. Agonizingly slowly.

The sensation was so full of him, so intensely sweet, it made your vision blur. He stretched you completely wide, breaking you open millimeter by millimeter as you swallowed him inches at a time. Every internal muscle you had coiled up tight, wrapping around his thick pulsing width like a glove, gripping him impossibly close as you took him all the way in.

You froze, adjusting to the sheer size of him stretching you open from the inside, plugging you so completely that there wasn’t a single millimeter of empty space left between you. Joel let out a heavy, bottomless groan that seemed to echo from the pit of his stomach, his chest expanding as he took a ragged breath. And a long relieved sigh slipped past your lips; you leaned slightly forward, fixing your gaze on his face.

That was when his eyelids fluttered open and his dark eyes locked onto yours. Your expression instantly softened and your eyes filled with sugar and honey; unfiltered devotion as you took him in. His cheeks were flushed with heat, and his gaze was beautifully weighed down by the lingering remnants of the night; his eyelids were just a little heavy and swollen from sleep. His peppered hair was ruined, exploding in messy and wild peaks, little chaotic horns pointing in every direction where your fingers had gripped and tugged at the curls only minutes before.

And then, he smiled. His hands slid up from the mattress, tenderly stroking the curves of your hips and the smooth skin of your thighs. You smoothed your palms flat against his chest, caressing the warm skin as you began to lower your torso toward him, letting your hands slide up his chest until they wrapped around his shoulders. You leaned down and pressed your lips to his.

The moment your mouths met, Joel wrapped his arms around you, locking you against him with a squeeze at your waist. And then, he began to move.

He tilted his hips up, sliding out of you with agonizing slowness; he held himself there, teasing you for a suspended heartbeat, and then buried himself back inside you with one single, deep thrust.

You let out a muffled whimper straight into his mouth.

He pulled back again, dragging his cock nearly all the way out; paused for a agonizing second, and then rammed back in another sudden, deep thrust.

Another broken cry escaped you, but this time, the torturous pace was too much to bear.

Impatient and burning for a steady rhythm, you broke the kiss and pushed yourself up. Arching your spine, you planted your palms against Joel’s chest for leverage and took control.

You began to roll your hips in a slow tilt, rising up and sinking back down, feeling every ridge of him slide out and slide back in, filling you to the brim only to empty you again, over and over. But the slow torture was suffocating; the sheer hunger and raw need for more overtook you almost instantly.

Your pace quickened, your movements growing deeper, the friction escalating rapidly until the wet hard strike of your thighs crashing against his skin sounded loud and scandalous in the quiet room. Joel’s hands immediately clamped onto your ass, his fingers digging into the meat of your hips to help anchor your new found rhythm.

You looked down and completely melted into his gaze; his pupils had blown so wide his eyes looked entirely black, glittering with intense unvarnished lust, while a dark sudden flush crept rapidly up his neck and across his face.

Behind his head, the wooden headboard began to rattle, thudding against the wall with every frantic downstroke.

Overwhelmed by the sensation of him bottoming out inside you, you let your eyelids slide shut, throwing your head back into the morning air as you rode him.

Your hands stayed locked onto his chest, your fingers digging into his warm skin as you kept setting the pace, driving yourself down onto him with unyielding hunger. You were entirely in control, riding him with a desperate rhythm that had your head spinning from the delicious heat radiating from your core. Every single stroke was pure pleasure, a throbbing sensation that started deep between your thighs and rushed like wildfire all the way up your spine, leaving your skin tingling and your senses completely overwhelmed.

Joel was losing his mind beneath you too. His large hands clamped onto your hips, his thumbs digging into the bone to steady you, but he couldn't keep still. His hips began to roll upward, bucking his groin against yours with every stroke, using his own strength to shove his massive length as deep as it could go so you wouldn't have to work as hard for that agonizing depth.

"Ah... fuck," he whispered, a broken curse slipping past his lips. His jaw was clenched so tight the muscles in his face strained, his neck completely flushed as he looked up at you through those beautiful eyes.

You looked straight down at him from your height, your chest heaving, refusing to break eye contact even as a ragged whimper tore from your throat. Joel stared back, his teeth grinding together.

"Look at you," he rasped, his voice dropping into a whisper that was dripping with an overwhelming sweetness. "Taking every single inch... such a good girl. Ride it, baby, take whatever you want from me."

The adoring words sent a shiver through you, but before you could even gasp out his name, Joel’s right hand flew up from your hip.

Crack.

The sound of his palm striking the meat of your ass was loud and sharp in the quiet room.

A loud, shocked gasp ripped from your lungs, your hips freezing for a split second as the sudden, stinging heat of the slap bloomed across your skin. It didn't hurt; it was a delicious possessive claim that sent a jolt of pure electricity straight up your back, making your interior muscles squeeze around him in a tight desperate clench.

Joel’s eyes flared, a dark, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he felt you react. He immediately brought his hand down again, landing another stinging slap on the other cheek.

"Yeah, you like that, don't you?" he growled. He squeezed your hips tight, tilting you perfectly before his hips bucked upward once more, burying himself to the absolute root. "Keep going, don't stop, just…"

"Joel, oh my God—please."

You leaned down, your face just inches from his. The stinging heat on your ass and the thick stretch inside you made you completely shameless.

"Look at what you do to me," you whimpered, right against his lips as you ground your hips down. "You're fucking me so good, Joel, I’m so full of you."

The effect was instantaneous; a deep crimson rushed up his neck, staining his cheeks as a tight, guttural sound ripped from his chest. His hands clamped onto your hips with a bruising desperate strength, and driven by his reaction, you shifted your weight, changing the angle. Instead of just the steady up and down, you began to move your hips forward and backward, sliding your slick warmth right against his root. The friction was so intense, so devastatingly good, that your eyes rolled back under your hooded lids.

Your body was boiling, sweat slicked and heavy, and you could feel him hitting every sensitive, swollen internal muscle with a terrifying precision.

"Tell me how it feels," Joel rasped, his voice breaking as he bucked his hips upward to meet your grinding slide, shoving himself deeper. "Let me hear you, baby. Tell me how good you take it."

"It's too much," you cried out, your voice fracturing into a desperate sob as you quickened the pace. "It feels so good, Joel... you feel so good."

"Yeah? You gonna come for me?"

You nodded.

He squeezed your hip, releasing your skin for a fleeting second before another sharp slap landed against your ass. A devastating desolate moan tore from your throat.

"Use your words, c'mon," he rasped, weak. "Let me hear it from that pretty mouth."

The headboard began to crash with violent erratic thuds against the wall as your movements turned frantic. Joel’s thumbs pressed hard into your bottom, helping you rock against him, his teeth bared as his own breath rattled in his chest.

"Joel, I'm gonna come," you gasped out desperately, your eyes snapping shut as a single bead of sweat rolled down the valley of your breasts.

Your fingers balled into tight fists against his chest, your nails instinctively scratching deep into his warm skin as the tension coiled into an intolerable knot. A moan tore from the absolute depths of your throat as the climax finally broke over you; your entire body shuddered, your legs trembling so violently that your rhythm shattered completely, leaving you helplessly riding the explosive waves.

As your strength gave out, you fell forward onto his chest like dead weight, your chest heaving against his. But Joel didn't let you rest. His grip on your ass never loosened; he simply took the control you could no longer maintain.

Shoving his hips up with a raw, relentless hunger, he began to move your limp trembling body to his own liking; driving you up and down his thick cock while you buried your face into the crook of his neck, letting out helpless, broken whimpers and wet sobs against his heated skin.

He was moving you however he wanted, penetrating you hard and incredibly deep, his own breathing fracturing as his groans grew louder, sounding more and more desperate with every heavy thrust that bottomed out inside your soaking warmth.

"Fuck, you're so tight," he groaned into your skin, as he felt your interior muscles pulsing around him in the aftershock. "You're squeezing me to death, baby... I'm right there."

Desperate for the taste of him, you forced your torso up just enough to find his mouth, capturing his lips in a messy kiss. Joel met you instantly, his hands sliding up your back, wrapping his heavy arms around you with crushing strength to lock you tight against his chest. He was fucking you like an animal now, his hips snapping upward in a fast, brutal way that had you gasping for air against his tongue.

You wanted it so badly—you wanted him to fill you completely to the brim, to release everything inside you and feel his thick cock pulsing against your interior walls as he came, wanting him to stay buried deep inside you long after it was over.

But the explosion caught Joel by surprise.

Just as he reached his peak, a rough almost pained groan ripped from his throat. He abruptly tore his mouth from yours, his eyes flying wide with a wild dark light, and before you could even realize what was happening, his hands flew down to your hips, his fingers dig in with an iron grip, and he lifted your body up and off him.

His thick cock snapped out of your tight cunt just as he broke.

"Fuck—!" Joel choked out.

Without the tight seal of your body, his release shot high and heavy thick white ropes splattering across the lower part of your thighs. He stayed frozen beneath you for a few seconds, his chest heaving violently, his hands still trembling where they held your hips.

Your eyes scanned his entire face; his closed eyelids, flushed cheeks, lips swollen from your kisses, and the thin sheen of sweat coating his skin.

You reached a hand to his cheek, holding him still just long enough to press a kiss against his jawline. Smiling softly as he blinked his eyes open and locked them onto yours, you spoke.

"You okay, honey?"

Joel huffed a laugh, his hand sliding up your back. His palm was sweaty, matching the curve of your spine and likely the rest of your bodies. It was a gorgeous disaster.

You rested your head in the notch of his neck.

The heat in your body lingered for about ten more minutes. While Joel got out of bed to grab something to clean you up, you lay face down in the open air, feeling the sun on your skin. It was warm and comfortable, lying there naked in the sunlight on top of his sheets, but the moment your body temperature began to drop back to normal, the chill returned.

Your body was exhausted and wanted nothing more than to go back to sleep, but at the same time, you felt sweaty and sticky. That was why, when Joel came back and climbed into bed with you, you resisted a little as he tried to pull you back under the covers.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"Can I take a shower?"

He gave a lopsided smile, his eyelids heavy with sleep. He stretched his arms over his head and rested one hand against his forehead. "Sure. Right now?"

"I won't be long," you said, starting to get out of bed. You felt a sudden wave of shyness being completely exposed, so you yanked the top sheet off the bed and wrapped it around your body.

Joel laughed. "Hey, what're you doin'?"

Walking toward the bathroom, you looked back at him. "I'm naked!"

"Nothin' I haven't seen before, from every angle."

You pressed your palm against the door and started to push it open, but not before looking back at him one last time.

"Yeah, through the lens of lust!"

You rolled your eyes and stepped into the bathroom, feeling the cold floor beneath your bare feet. Unwrapping the sheet from your body, you carefully folded it in half and hung it on the hook behind the door. Then, you leaned half your body into the shower to turn on the water, adjusting it to the perfect temperature to take the chill out of your hands and feet.

Once you were fully inside with the hot water cascading over your head, you let your sore muscles relax. Your thighs and hips burned a little, and your abs felt pretty tender too. That was a hell of a workout you’d just had with Joel; you knew it was going to hurt a bit more in a few hours.

You washed up at your own pace, cleaning your neck, legs, thighs, back, arms, shoulders and everything. You ran your fingers through your hair and over your scalp, breathing in the scent of the shampoo you always smelled on him. You were just washing your face when the bathroom door opened.

You heard a few short steps approaching the shower, and a second later, the curtain was drawn back.

Joel’s face appeared through the steam. "Need a shower too."

You smiled. "Okay, come on in. I was just about to get out."

He slid the curtain open further and stepped carefully onto the wet floor. Moving forward, he walked right under the stream of water, trapping you against the wall. The cool metal handles pressed softly against the skin of your lower back.

Joel looked down and closed his eyes, water dripping from the wet strands of hair on his forehead straight onto your face. He shook his head, sending a spray of droplets over you.

Laughing, you lifted both hands and placed them over his brow. He smiled, and for a split second, you swore he looked completely different; a light transparent smile that brightened his entire face appeared on his lips. But a second later, your focus shifted to the bruises on his cheek, the cut on his forehead, and down toward his shoulders, his chest, his stomach. Joel had plenty of old scars there, but your eyes lingered on the fresh bruises, the scrapes along his ribs. It looked like it had to hurt.

Carefully, you reached out and grabbed the soap and the soft sponge next to it, working it between your hands until you had a good lather before you began to clean and massage his shoulders.

"You know," you started, running your palms over his collarbones, "if you wanted to shower with me, all you had to do was ask."

Joel closed his eyes. "Was fallin' asleep. But I got cold cause you stole my sheet."

"What about your comforter?"

"It's on the floor. But I was cold, and I heard the water, and I got tempted."

You moved your hands down his stomach.

"Mhm. Your skin is really soft."

Joel’s hands settled on your waist. "You think so?"

"Yeah. Which is funny," you said, gently touching just below his ribs, "because you wouldn't think so. Your hands are rough, but everywhere else is soft."

He opened his eyes. "They feel rough when I touch you?"

"Not really. They just feel… warm."

"Hmm."

Your hand settled over the bruise on his ribs. For a second, you remembered sinking your fingers into that exact spot just a few minutes ago.

"Does it hurt a lot? Did it hurt earlier?"

Joel shook his head. "Didn't feel it then. But it hurts now, that's for sure."

You crinkled your nose. "I'm sorry."

"No, ain't your fault. It's been hurtin' since before. Always hurts worse after the body relaxes."

"That's true," you said, sliding your hands back up to his shoulders. "You know what? I'm gonna go grab those oils I brought you. When you get out, I'll give you a massage."

Carefully, you nudged Joel aside a bit and squeezed past him. He turned toward you, tilting his head back and closing his eyes as he let the hot water wash down his back.

He sighed. "You're gonna turn me into a puddle."

Smiling and feeling a sudden wave of tenderness for how exhausted he looked, you stepped closer and wrapped your arms around him for just a moment, pressing a delicate fleeting kiss to his chest. His hand slid up to the nape of your neck, his thumb resting just under your jawline to tilt your face up. There, beneath the falling water, he gave you a brief kiss on the lips.

A minute later, you reluctantly stepped out of the hot shower. But it had to be done. You knew that if you stayed in there with Joel, you’d both end up leaving the bathroom at the same time, and by the time you finished getting dressed, he’d already be completely passed out on the mattress.

You found the t-shirt of his you’d slept in tossed to the side of the bed, along with your underwear, and changed while you listened to the shower still running. After drying your hair the best you could, you slipped back into the bathroom to run a comb through it. Joel was just stepping out of the shower as you headed downstairs.

The morning sun was pouring bright through the kitchen windows, and the early air carried that delicious fresh scent you loved. You took in the view through the glass for a quiet moment before grabbing the oils, then poured yourself a massive glass of water, drinking it down as if you’d spent days stranded in a desert. You poured a fresh glass for Joel and made your way back upstairs.

When you walked into the bedroom, he was already sitting on the edge of the bed, wearing his pajama pants. He’d gone ahead and changed the sheets for clean ones, and the comforter was no longer crumpled on the floor.

"Here," you said, holding the glass of water out to him.

He took it immediately, murmuring a soft "'Thank you" before draining the whole thing.

"You ready?"

He furrowed his brow. "For what?"

You smiled, climbing onto the mattress. "Lay down."

He eased himself down onto his back, and you settled in right beside him. Opening the small bottle of heartleaf arnica oil, you poured a tiny amount into the palm of your hand.

"Just a little bit of this, you'll see," you murmured, rubbing your palms together to warm it up. "You're gonna feel much better."

You gently began to work the oil into the bruised and battered parts of his chest and ribs, taking extra care around a few open scratches. You kept your touch light near those spots, massaging the skin around the scrapes to make sure you didn't press on anything that might sting. Joel let out a sharp breath just once, right as your hand passed near his breastbone. When you paused to ask if he was okay, he muttered:

"Yeah, yeah. Don't worry about it."

You smoothed your flat palm over the spot, barely applying any pressure at all.

"Okay, roll over."

He complied right away, letting out a soft groan as he turned over. You repeated the whole routine, pouring a bit more oil into your palms and working your way across his entire back, focusing heavily on his lower lumbar area. You’d noticed that was the spot he reached for most often whenever he sat down or moved a certain way; a familiar ache you felt yourself from time to time. And as you worked out the tension, you knew you were doing something right; Joel was making soft relaxed sounds he probably didn't even realize he was letting slip.

Next, you focused on his shoulder blades and shoulders, applying a bit of steady pressure with your thumbs. That was right when you caught the first faint sound of him snoring. Your movements softened into a light soothing touch, until you finally decided he was out for the count and that you were getting pretty sleepy yourself.

You tucked the bottle of oil back into its small pouch and left it on the nightstand, where the little clock caught your eye: 8:23 AM.

So many more hours left to sleep. You had absolutely nothing to do all morning but rest, and Joel’s bed looked so incredibly comfortable and warm, like a field of clouds.

You snuggled in right beside him, pulling the covers up over both of your bodies. Stretching your arms up over your head, you let out a long yawn, and a minute later, you drifted peacefully back to sleep: utterly exhausted, perfectly comfortable, and completely relaxed.

Still morning, close to noon.

It was a place you didn't recognize. Cold, with tall dark canopied trees that blotted out the meager light in the pale grayish sky. Ruins surrounded you; broken walls eaten away by a pervasive dampness that claimed everything, with green moldy vines bleeding into the old cracks.

Your heart hammered violently as your legs moved with frantic speed, trying not to trip over the clutter covering the ground. Rubble, branches, old trinkets, and fragments of machinery that looked like computers or something similar; you couldn't fully tell. You didn't really know what to do, only that you had to run and run and run, because something terrible was happening.

You could feel that sensation in your chest, that painful hollow that nothing can fill once it's already too late. Your bare arms were freezing, just like your cold neck and cheeks. Your entire body felt numb, and no matter how hard you ran and ran, you couldn't seem to make headway fast enough.

No, just the opposite. Your body could barely move, and you wanted to scream with all your might. But you couldn't stop, because you could hear it the entire time: thuds, noises, voices laughing and suffering. Louder and louder and louder, your legs straining until every muscle synthetic ached, until your body plunged forward and your palms struck the splintered ground.

You scrambled up, getting back on your feet however you could, and plunged into the dark room where the sounds and noise were coming from. A hallway to the right; you ran more, and more, and more, and more into the pitch black, letting yourself be guided solely by the small rings of light filtering through the cracks in the ceiling, until at the very end of the hall, your aching bloody hands slammed open the door and—

"No!"

A gut-wrenching scream tore from your throat like dozens of thorns piercing you from the inside out.

Men —so many men, you couldn't tell how many, only that there were man— filled the room, their faces hidden behind black cloth, and right in the middle of them lay Joel, unconscious.

No, not unconscious. Dead. His face was covered in blood, his clothes soaked through with it, and a massive wound tore through the flesh of his neck. Beneath him, a pool of blood expanded outward, swallowing up more and more of the old wooden floor, quickly reaching all the way to your feet.

You fell backward, unable to stand, and the pooling blood reached your scraped palms, his blood mixing with yours inside your trembling fists.

"No, no, no, no… Joel …" your shaky voice repeated, trying to get a better look at him, trying to reach him, but your knees kept slipping, and so did your hands and elbows. You couldn't…

You couldn't.

"Hey, hey, wake up."

A hand nudged your shoulder, rolling you over at the exact moment your eyes flew open and locked onto the ceiling.

"Hey, you're okay. You're okay."

You snapped your head toward him. Joel was sitting up, leaning his body over yours, his hand resting gently against your cheek.

You were in his room.

"Joel."

"It's okay. Breathe."

A shaky breath hitched in your throat. Your cheeks were soaked, and your chest physically ached.

He lay back down beside you and pulled you close. You buried your face into the notch of his neck, clinging to his body like a frightened helpless creature while a few lingering tears continued to track silently down your cheeks.

His arms wrapped tightly around you, and he pressed a kiss to your forehead.

"What happened?" he murmured, rubbing his hand up and down your back.

You closed your eyes, not wanting to talk about it.

Your hand drifted up his chest. "Nothing. Just a nightmare."

He squeezed you a little tighter against him. "You said my name. Scared me, thought it was somethin' else."

You opened your eyes and tilted your head back slightly, looking into his eyes.

"I'm sorry."

"No, don't go apologizin'. It's okay."

You tucked your face back into the notch of his neck, feeling your heart still hammering away, erratic and loud against your ribs.

"What time is it?" you asked.

He shifted slightly to check the clock, then quickly settled right back into place.

"Ten to eleven."

"Mhm. We should get up."

"You hungry?"

You nodded. "Starving. You?"

"My stomach was growlin' a little bit ago."

You let out a soft laugh, noticing how the sunlight was no longer focused right on the bed, but had spread out to wash evenly over the entire room.

He gave your shoulder a gentle squeeze. "Five more minutes. How's that sound?"

You pursed your lips. "Sounds good to me."

Joel's kitchen. Noon & afternoon.

Concerned that you’d get cold wearing nothing but a t-shirt, Joel insisted you put on a pair of pajama pants from his closet. They were huge, but they had a drawstring at the waist that let you tie them tight enough to fit. Then, he handed you a fresh warm pair of cotton socks.

Today was noticeably colder than yesterday. You could feel a crisp breeze drifting through the open kitchen window while he made breakfast (or was it lunch?) and you sipped a hot cup of coffee, sketching out a list of prep work for school. Joel was frying up bacon and scrambling eggs, having just dropped some bread into the toaster less than a minute ago. The kitchen smelled incredible.

On the notepad resting on the kitchen island, you had a brief breakdown of the material for the first few weeks, along with your reading plan and curriculum for the kids.

Classic fables. The Jackson library and the homes of a few townspeople held a solid collection of all kinds of stories, mostly the foundational ones. You figured it was the perfect starting point for the first group, who were right around five to seven years old. They had been born entirely into a different world, and you believed literature could provide a safe haven for them; a good way to spark their imaginations and give them the words to express them.

The morals could be incredibly useful, too. Lessons on survival, cooperation, cleverness, and above all, fear. As a community, Jackson felt like a safe place, but these kids had fear woven right into their DNA. Many of them had witnessed terrible things before arriving here, and many others had never set foot outside the walls. Fear was deeply rooted in both perspectives.

"And what're you gonna do about the books? Ain't exactly a lot of copies lyin' around," Joel asked, looking over at you for a moment as he pulled the toast from the toaster.

"Well, some of them don't know how to read yet. I'll read aloud to them. It's great for building listening skills," you smiled, "and really fun too. And if the stories aren't too long, we can make handwritten copies. I already talked to a couple of people who volunteered to help transcribe."

"That's great," he said, raising his eyebrows.

"Yeah. What about you? Would you like to help?"

Joel looked up at the ceiling, his mouth dropping open slightly. "Uh… I—I mean, sure. My handwriting's awful, though."

"That's not true. You have nice handwriting, it's perfectly legible."

"You think so?"

"I do. Besides, the copies need to be written in block capital letters," you said, looking down at your notepad to jot something else down. "I was also thinking it would be a cute idea if every kid brought in an object, and we came up with a story for each one. What do you think? Think that'd be fun?"

"Somethin' like, if a kid brings in a teddy bear, you make up a story for it?"

You nodded.

"Yeah," he replied. "That'd be fun. Mostly 'cause I imagine they're gonna show up with all kinds of strange objects."

You laughed. "Yeah, just imagine the possibilities."

Joel began removing the bacon from the skillet, placing it on each plate alongside the eggs, before grabbing another dish for the toast.

"And what about the older kids?" he asked, setting one plate down in front of you and the other right beside it. You murmured a soft Thank you. "Fables for them, too?"

"Oh, no. I have much bigger plans for the older kids," you said, raising your eyebrows.

Joel gave a lopsided smile and went to grab the toast, placing it in the center of the island before turning toward the fridge. "Is that so? Like what?"

A spark of excitement flared in your chest. While you were looking forward to working with the little ones, you knew the pre-teens and teenagers in Jackson were going to make for a much more interesting group when it came to discussions and deeper perspectives.

"Well, we're gonna read books too, but I was thinking it'd be a great idea to introduce the concept of diaries and chronicles. There are three copies of The Diary of Anne Frank and a few about the Lewis and Clark Expedition. They also brought in The Giver and Frindle. I think it's a good way for kids to learn a little more about what the world used to be like. Have you ever read that one? Frindle?"

Joel smiled faintly, pulling a tub of butter from the fridge and shutting the door.

"Yeah. Sarah liked Frindle."

It took you a moment to find your voice after that.

"Oh."

He sat down next to you, letting out a quiet sigh as he settled in.

"Called pens Frindle for a whole year," he added, shifting his gaze over to you. "I think it's a good idea."

You smiled. "Thank you."

"What else?" He reached out and grabbed the butter knife, digging it into the tub to scoop out a generous amount.

"Maybe they could write their own chronicles? Or diaries, just as an exercise. And they wouldn't necessarily have to read them aloud or show anyone," you said, lifting your mug to take a sip of coffee. "But it might be a nice way for them to express themselves or blow off steam, as long as it's not hurting them, of course."

"Think they'll all want to do it?"

You smiled and shook your head. "I doubt it. I don't know."

Joel hummed, bringing his mug to his lips.

You popped a piece of bacon into your mouth, and it was so delicious your eyes nearly closed. You tried the eggs right after. Then, after a moment of savoring, swallowing, and giving yourself a little more time to think, you asked:

"You think they'll like me?"

Joel had his mouth full and raised his eyebrows at the question. While you waited for him to finish chewing, you took a bite of toast.

"They're gonna love ya," he said finally.

"And how are you so sure? Teenagers can be..." Your eyes drifted up the walls and across the ceiling before landing back on him. "They can be complicated. And these kids, these kids have been through things. Maybe I show up with diaries and chronicles, and they just think, 'Who does this nobody think she is and what the hell is she doing'?"

He huffed a laugh. "Don't go lettin' them walk all over you. Let them know you're the one in charge."

"Okay, and how do I do that without being bossy in the process?"

"You gotta be bossy, but that don't mean you can't still be nice to them. You can pull it off, I've seen it," he said, raising his eyebrows. "Saw you orderin' the guys around on some of the construction sites before. Even me."

You furrowed your brow. "I am not bossy."

"Yes," he said, looking right at you, "yes, you are."

You frowned. "I'm—"

"And when you're in a bad mood?" He brought his mug to his lips and rolled his eyes.

Your eyebrows shot up in pure disbelief, your lips twitched into a tight smile.

"Excuse me?" You tilted your head. "And you're the one telling me this, Mr. Uncle Grumpy?"

Joel smiled and shook his head.

"That's literally what Benji calls you, isn't it?"

"That don't change a thing," he grumbled, furrowing his brow. "You are what you are. Might as well make use of it."

"Oh," you nodded, "okaay. I will. But don't you go complaining later."

He poked his fork into the eggs and brought them to his mouth, his eyes never leaving yours.

"Ain't complainin'," he said.

You ducked your head, hiding a smile.

Joel and you ate in comfortable silence for a while, occasionally making notes and chatting about your lesson plans.

The whole thing excited you for different reasons. The little ones had you looking forward to it because you just liked little kids in general; they were adorable and sweet, and their minds came up with a hundred interesting things. That was why you’d loved chatting with Sophie when she was that small; the conversations were always unpredictable and fun, and her imagination was endless. But of course, you’d always made a point to show her all kinds of books and stories, so she had a rich source of inspiration. You didn't know what some of the kids here would be like, or how much they’d interacted with the world, but you were eager to find out and, if possible, be useful to them.

The teenagers were a different story, since you hadn't had much contact with kids that age. But it was just as exciting, and you wouldn't hesitate to ask for help if you needed it. You had no intention of pushing past their personal boundaries and you kept a firm reminder in your mind to be careful with everything you wanted to teach them.

Overall, it was exciting.

After eating, you cleared the table and washed the dishes even though Joel insisted you shouldn't. And while you were doing that, he stepped out through the kitchen's back door, returning a few minutes later.

"Ellie's not out there," he said as he walked back in. "Don't know what she's up to these days."

The moody tone in his voice made you look up immediately. You were drying your hands with a dish towel as you turned around to face him.

"Have you asked her?"

He sighed. "She ain't exactly talkative lately."

"Well, I've seen her around with Dina," you said, resting both palms against the counter. "Just hanging out, nothing weird. They spend a lot of time together, maybe she's with her."

He nodded slowly, pursing his lips. "Keep an eye on her if you can, alright? She really likes you. Maybe... maybe she'd rather talk to you than me, about certain things, you know."

You nodded. "Of course, I will."

He ran a hand over the back of his neck and you watched him hesitate for a second before he moved toward the fridge and pulled it open. He took out a glass bottle about half filled with water and grabbed a clean glass from the drying rack.

You checked the clock on the wall, mounted right above the window next to the table. It was already a little past noon.

It was probably about time for you to head out, wasn't it? You didn't want to overstay your welcome, and you doubted Joel would ever be the type to tell you to leave. So, pushing yourself away from the counter, you walked to the other side of the room and stretched your arms behind your back.

"I think I should probably get going."

Joel turned toward you, the glass of water still at his lips. He swallowed and set it down carefully on the counter.

"Yeah? You got somewhere to be?"

You mentally scrolled through your imaginary schedule: no, you had absolutely nothing to do.

"Uh, not really."

He nodded and pursed his lips, shifting them to one side. "We could watch a movie if you want."

The offer caught you off guard, and it was briefly reflected in the few seconds it took you to answer.

"A movie?"

"Yeah," he said, stepping away from the counter and taking a few paces toward you. "Got a decent collection, if you wanna pick one out."

You smiled, lacing your fingers together behind your back. "I get to choose?"

"I'll give you some recommendations," he said, ducking his head slightly, "but yeah, you get to choose."

Joel's living room. A couple minutes later.

In Joel’s living room, tucked beneath the TV stand, were two players: one DVD and one VHS, both functioning and in perfect condition. Right below them were two small cabinet doors, and when you opened them, there was his collection.

His DVD collection was smaller than his stash of VHS tapes, but that didn't mean it was small by any means. Discs were harder to keep intact over time; most of the ones out there in the world were scratched or cracked, but Joel had stumbled upon a massive stash of DVDs in mint condition at an apartment complex near Jackson a while back. Good Will Hunting, Magnolia, Drop Dead Gorgeous, Seven, Wayne's World, Thelma & Louise, Fargo, Pretty Woman, The Green Mile… and more. There were so many options it was hard to choose. A lot of them you’d never even seen. Most of them, in fact. So, you asked him to give you a quick rundown of each one and which he thought was best for right now. He suggested The Truman Show and Pretty Woman.

"It's got romance and all that," he said, sitting on the couch as he held up the plastic case of his second suggestion, using the romance angle as his main selling point.

You inevitably remembered his harsh words about romantic comedies from many, many weeks ago.

"From the first damn second I saw you," he continued, "half-dead out there in the snow—I felt sorry for you. Everythin' I've done since then's been outta pity. That's all it was. I can't even look at you without thinkin' you're broken. And it makes me sick."

Your throat tightened, something forming behind your eyes. You blinked, hard, and swallowed down the heat rising in your chest.

"If that's what you think, then—"

"And that night? That was a mistake. A fuckin' embarrassment. I hate thinkin' about it. It won't happen again."

"Good. I hated it."

Joel looked at you, jaw clenched, eyes sharp.

"Yeah. Good for you. Cause this ain't one of those fuckin' pathetic romantic comedies you like so much. So give it up."

You took the movie from his hands and looked at the cover, running your thumb over Julia Roberts' face.

"We can watch something else if you want."

Joel’s eyes scanned your face. "No, it's fine. I think you're gonna like this one."

"You sure?" You gave a slow, lopsided smile. "Isn't it just another pathetic romantic comedy?"

His brow furrowed in a confused look, mixed with a faint smile. "What?"

A beat. You sighed.

"A while ago, after what happened at my place that first time, remember? You said this wasn't like one of those pathetic romantic comedies I like."

The expression on Joel’s face began to soften piece by piece, his furrowed brow relaxing as the memory clearly came back to him.

"Right," he said, ducking his head a little. He laced his fingers together for a moment, looking down at his hands for a second before looking back up at you. "I said that, huh?"

You nodded, pursing your lips slightly. "Yeah. You said a lot of things."

He looked at you in silence.

"Can I ask you a question?" you asked after a moment.

"I don't think romantic comedies are pathetic."

"Don't worry about it," you smiled.

"It was mean. I'm sorry. I know you and Sophie liked 'em."

Your eyes locked onto his in complete silence. He looked genuinely ashamed.

"It's okay. And I know we talked about this, but," you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, "did you really mean it? What you said that day? Be honest."

Joel leaned back a bit and looked toward the coffee table, where several DVDs were piled up.

Maybe, maybe he didn't even remember it.

"Did you feel sorry for me?" you prompted him. "You said that every time you looked at me, you just thought I was broken and—"

"No." He shook his head. "I don't feel sorry for you, and I didn't back then, either."

A tight pressure gripped your chest. He looked back up at you.

"I needed to push you away," he confessed.

A beat.

"I know that. But… why?"

His eyebrows twitched. His eyes dropped down to your lap for a brief moment before tracing back up to your face.

"Because I ain't like this. Snow, I," he shook his head, "I don't do this. Not in a long time, I… For me, this is, this is new. That night at your place, things got out of hand pretty quick. I lost control."

You sat up a little straighter, your mind parsing through everything that had happened between you over the last few months.

You knew he wanted to keep his distance; you knew he had a tendency to shut down. But you had never considered it was about physical intimacy. It hadn't even crossed your mind that that would be an issue for him. He certainly hadn't made it seem like one.

"There wasn't anyone else before?" you asked. "I mean, in these last few years."

He squeezed one hand with the other, his brow furrowing slightly.

Yeah. There had been. He didn't have to say it out loud; you could read it plain as day in his body language.

"It's okay, you don't have to tell me."

Joel bit his lower lip, a rare hint of nerves, and watched you as you shifted further back into the couch until your spine met the cushions.

He hesitated for a moment, and you instantly resented yourself for throwing out such a blunt question without thinking it through.

"Tess," he said.

You froze. Tess. You turned the name over in your mind. Speaking felt risky right now.

"She was by my side for a long time, before I came to Jackson," he continued, keeping his eyes away from yours. "But it wasn't like this."

"How do you mean?"

He looked up at you. "Don't know. It was... We kept each other company for a lot of years, did a lot of things where we used to live. They weren't necessarily good things, but they were what was needed."

"Where did you live before?"

"Boston."

"Oh, right."

He rubbed his hands together, a nervous habit. "Yeah. Anyway."

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked you something like that."

Joel gave a gentle shake of his head. "It's alright. Don't worry about it."

You dropped your gaze to your hands. "Well, if it's worth anything, this is all pretty new and strange for me, too. I've never really done this with anyone before. Not like this."

"And what're you thinkin' so far?"

You smiled little by little, lifting your eyes to meet his. "It's been pretty nice."

Joel nodded, a soft smile spreading across his lips as he reached out and took the Pretty Woman DVD case from your lap. He held it up next to his face.

"We're watchin' this one."

Unable to help yourself, you grinned and slid over toward him, wrapping your arms around his neck and pressing your lips against his. Joel seemed caught off guard for a fraction of a second, but his arms came around you immediately, pulling you flush against his chest.

You weren't going to tell him, but that tiny glimpse into his past meant everything to you. You knew he wasn't one for big words, and you knew how hard it was for him to open up about certain things, but he had done it in his own way, and that meant so much.

"Want somethin' hot to drink?" he murmured against your lips.

You hummed. "Yeah."

"Tea or coffee?"

You thought about it for a second. "Whatever you're having."

The sun poured warm and bright into Joel’s living room, even with the curtains drawn. At least with the fabric blocking the glare, the harsh rays weren't striking you directly.

It wasn't even two in the afternoon yet. Resting on the coffee table in the center of the room were your two empty coffee mugs and a plate scattered with crumbs from the blueberry pie you’d brought over yesterday, which you’d both finished off a little while ago.

With your stomach full and the quiet peace of the early afternoon settling in, your eyelids were growing heavier by the minute, even though you’d already slept for hours last night and earlier this morning. It didn't help that Joel was right there beside you; you were tucked into his side, wedged comfortably between the back of the couch and his outstretched body, your head resting on his chest while your eyes stayed glued to the TV screen.

You could tell he’d been drifting in and out of sleep because the second you asked a question or made a comment, he’d snap awake to answer before instantly passing out again.

"She is so gorgeous," you murmured at one point, watching Vivian appear on screen in that stunning red dress with the white gloves and her hair elegantly pinned up.

Joel’s eyes flew open. He stared blankly at the screen for a split second and muttered:

"Yeah."

A second later, his breathing went heavy again. He was already fast asleep.

By the time the movie neared its final act, you had formed a definitive opinion on it: you absolutely loved it. You deeply envied anyone who had gotten to live out their adulthood during that era. You would have loved to see a movie like this in a real theater, to let Vivian inspire you in a few ways; her hairstyles, maybe, or that radiant smile. Or maybe you'd have gone out to find your very own Richard Gere. Then again, right now you had a handsome older man of your own right beneath you. That had to count for something, didn't it?

Carefully, you slipped off the couch, trying not to disturb Joel, and walked over to the TV to take out the DVD. You tucked it back into its case and left it on the coffee table, where the other stacked discs caught your eye.

Inevitably, you ended up sliding another one into the player. The Bourne Identity. A man who can't remember who he is but possesses a lot of inexplicable skills. It caught your attention simply because it sounded interesting, and you remembered having a crush on Matt Damon back when you were little and your dad used to watch movies in the living room.

You took the disc out of its case, popped it into the player, and the moment the movie started, you hurried right back to your spot next to Joel, being careful not to press too hard against his chest or any of his sore spots.

As you rested your face against his chest, your eyes locked onto his neck, just inches from your face. He had that prominent mark running around his throat, purple and slightly greenish at the edges; the clear evidence of an act of violence you didn't even want to picture. It looked like exactly what it was: someone had bound him, choked him, or tried to do something worse.

Yesterday, the mark had been much more vivid, and while it still looked bad, it had softened just a fraction.

You let out a quiet sigh, your eyes continuing to trace his face and the marks left behind while Joel remained fast asleep. His breathing was steady, his chest rising and falling in total relaxation, while a hundred different thoughts and questions raced through your mind. Above all, you wondered: what on earth had happened to him in Ridgeway?

It wasn't like you were going to ask him, and it wasn't like he was going to tell you, but just thinking about it brought a dull ache to your chest.

Instinctively, you draped your arm across his chest, holding him gently as you closed your eyes.

The movie was barely ten minutes in when you drifted off to sleep.

A nap later

At some point in the afternoon, a few knocks at the door jolted you out of your comfortable nap.

Joel woke up instantly, and the sudden movement of his body jolted you awake too. You were still draped over him with your arm resting across his stomach, but you quickly pulled back as the knocking came a second time. The TV was still on, but the movie had already finished and the main menu had been looping for God knows how long.

Joel rubbed his face with one hand, giving your arm a gentle squeeze before he began to sit up.

"What time is it?" he asked, his eyes half-lidded and covered with sleep.

"I don't know."

He sat on the edge of the couch and looked back at you. His hair was a bit messy, his eyes glossy, and a faint smirk lingered on his lips as he stood up with a quiet groan.

"Be right back."

Lying back down, you watched him walk away and stretched your arms over your head. Then, you sat up on the cushions and grabbed the remote, muting the TV and leaning back to stretch your body one more time.

From where you sat, you heard Joel walk to the door and swing it open.

Were you even supposed to be here? Should you hide? Was he going to let whoever it was inside?

You didn't know. You weren't sure how careful you both needed to be with all of this; you’d never stayed over at his place for this long before. You’d already had that slightly awkward encounter with Ellie a while back, though of course, that was different. Joel trusted her, and you trusted her, too.

"Emily." Joel’s voice sounded flat and tinged with surprise as he said her name. You froze on the couch.

"Hey. Sorry, were you sleeping?"

"Uh—"

"I came by earlier this morning but I figured you were sleeping then, too. Just came to drop this off."

Footsteps, a few of them. Emily stepped inside the house. You pressed yourself harder against the back of the couch, though it was mostly pointless; it was positioned right in front of the archway separating the living room and the hallway.

"You didn't have to do that," Joel said. "Here, I'll take it."

Quick, get up and move to the other corner.

You shifted immediately and the hardwood gave a slight creak beneath your feet.

Emily laughed. "No, it's fine—Oh."

Her laugh stopped short.

You looked up toward the hallway, feeling a sudden wave of heat rush up your spine to the back of your neck and your cheeks, feeling completely exposed for a split second. She was looking at you.

And just like that, the cozy safe bubble you’d been sharing with Joel since last night had been abruptly shattered by the eyes of an outsider. Well, not an outsider. Emily. She stood there frozen, holding a glass baking dish with a white plastic lid. Inside, you assumed, was food. Obviously.

Standing entirely still, you became painfully aware that you probably looked like a creature caught red-handed; wearing Joel's t-shirt, Joel's pants, Joel's socks...

Not that she explicitly knew they belonged to him, but she could easily piece it together seeing how everything was completely oversized on you. And either way, everyone knew what pajamas looked like, or what someone looked like when they'd just rolled out of bed.

"Snow," she said, her smile turning tight. Her eyes scanned down and up your body, flicked over to the paused TV screen, and then landed right back on you.

Beside her, Joel stood just as still and caught red-handed as you were, wearing a white t-shirt and sweatpants with no underwear underneath.

But Emily didn't know that. You did.

"Hi," you said, smiling like an idiot. You crossed your arms over your chest to cover yourself up.

She opened her mouth to speak, but couldn't seem to find any useful words.

Turning back to Joel, she held out the dish. "Anyway, this is for you. And Maria said you can take tomorrow off too, if you want."

Joel’s eyes were fixed on you. He took the dish from her. "No, it's fine. I'll be there."

"Alright," Emily said, nodding as she stepped past Joel toward the front door. "Well, see you tomorrow." She glanced back at you, lifting her hand in a brief wave. "Bye, Snow."

"Bye, Emily."

She gave a faint smile and, in less than three seconds, turned and walked out the door. She left Joel standing in the middle of the hallway clutching the baking dish, and you, standing in the middle of the living room with your arms tightly crossed and an expression you weren't even sure how to label.

You looked over at Joel as a nervous, slightly baffled smile began to tug at your lips.

He raised his eyebrows. "Didn't know she was comin' by."

"Yeah, no shit," you said, shaking your head. "She saw me like this."

Joel’s eyes drifted down your body before he shrugged a single shoulder, completely dismissing your worried tone.

"She ain't gonna say nothin'."

Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel and started walking toward the kitchen. Your mouth dropped open at the sight of him, and you followed right behind without a second thought.

"How do you know that?"

"Ain't none of her business."

You huffed a laugh. "And?"

"Eh, I don't think Emily's the type to go gossiping around."

Once inside the kitchen, he set the baking dish down on the counter.

You stopped right beside him. "Oh, because you know her so well."

Joel tilted his head and raised an eyebrow, as if to say of course I do.

You felt your cheeks flare up again. "And now she's bringing you food?"

Joel hummed.

You furrowed your brow. "Does she always just walk in like it's nothing? I could have been naked or something."

He snorted a laugh. "Naked, huh?"

"You know perfectly well that was a possibility."

"Yeah, well," he dipped his head, "good thing you weren't."

Without blinking, you stared him down and crossed your arms tightly over your chest.

"Yeah, lucky us," you said, pressing your lips together. "Next time, tell her it's rude to just barge into a house that isn't hers. Unless you don't mind it, of course."

"It's the first time she's ever come by here."

You raised your eyebrows in pure disbelief. "Worse then."

Joel laughed softly and leaned both palms against the counter. He shook his head gently, his eyes bright with amusement, and asked:

"You don't like her, then?"

You clenched your jaw slightly before forcing yourself to relax, letting out a sigh as your gaze drifted down toward the fridge and the magnets on it. Your eyes lingered on the photo of Joel.

Uh-uh. "No. No, I don't."

"No? Why not?"

You shrugged a shoulder and looked back at him. "I don't know. I know she isn't mean or anything, I just don't like the way she deals with people."

Joel furrowed his brow. "How's that?"

You searched your mind for the right words, but the only ones you could find were simple and honest.

"She can be a bit cold. Or dismissive," you said, raising your eyebrows. "Sometimes I've seen people go up to her to ask a question or request something, and I just don't like the way she treats them. She isn't mean," you lifted a hand, "but she's just a bit indifferent and detached."

He gave a slow nod.

"And I had that completely confirmed this past week," you continued. "Every single time I asked her if there was any news about Ridgeway, she wouldn't tell me anything, she wouldn't even look me in the eye. She just kept saying there was no news," you tilted your chin up a bit, "and then later I'd find out they'd gotten a radio call or something. Even Eliza didn't know about half of it because Emily just wouldn't tell her anything. And it's not like it was confidential information or anything like that. She needed to know, her husband was out in Ridgeway too."

Joel let out a slow breath through his nose. "Didn't know that."

"Yeah? Well, I'm not surprised. She seems plenty nice and attentive with you," you said, raising a single eyebrow. "Maybe she's just selective."

He narrowed his eyes slightly, and you bit the inside of your cheek when you caught the faint smirk on his lips.

"I just don't think it's right for someone in her position to look down on people or act like she can't be bothered," you continued. "Because I’ve been there too and I know people are constantly asking questions and looking for things they need. So, okay, it's her job," you crossed your arms again, "then she should do her job. I swear I cannot stand people who get the tiniest bit of authority and immediately turn their backs on everyone else. We're all in the same boat here in Jackson, anyway, even the ones making the calls."

Suddenly, he stopped blinking. He just stared at you, nodding slowly as he began to straighten up, leaning his hip against the counter. Mimicking your posture and never breaking eye contact, he crossed his arms over his chest.

"Well, you're right," he said. "And I believe you, 'cause you're gettin' so fired up you're actually blushin'."

You clicked your tongue. "I am not fired up."

"Really?"

"Really," you said, opening your eyes wider. "Just… just tell her to do her job. I know you can do that because you used to do it to me all the time."

He frowned. "That ain't true."

"Joel," you smiled, "come on."

"I never—"

"Yeah."

"I never told you to do your job because you did your job," he said, pointing a finger at you. "What I did tell you was to stop botherin' me with everything else."

You snorted, knowing he had a point. "That is not true. You used to get annoyed even when I was just in silence."

He pressed his lips together. "You weren't exactly in silence, properly speakin'."

"Why? Because I was breathing?"

"And those little sighs you'd make every few pages while you were reading," Joel said, gesturing with his hand. "Always made me wonder what the hell was happening in that book to make you react like that."

"Oh Jesus," you rolled your eyes. "How many more times are you going to bring up the sighs? Get over it, man. You were annoying too."

Joel furrowed his brow, but a lopsided smile broke through. "Was I? Not anymore?"

"I'm not so sure about that."

"What was it you called me once?" He narrowed his eyes, trying to recall. "The most insensitive, proud, arrogant man you've ever met?"

Mmm. Something like that. If you remembered correctly, he was actually leaving out a few choice adjectives.

You're the most insensitive, thoughtless, proud, arrogant man I've ever met. And believe me, I've met a hell of a lot of assholes. It was something along those lines, if your memory wasn't failing you.

"Yeah, well," you shrugged, "you told me I was the most unbearable, incoherent, reckless, and delusional woman too. But who's counting, right?"

A low laugh broke from his chest.

What was so funny, huh?

Uncrossing your arms, you turned back toward him and said,

"Why don't you use some of that attitude on Emily, huh?" You tapped his arm. "Maybe that way she'll actually do her job right."

Without waiting for an answer, you spun on your heel and turned your back to him, your legs moving with determination toward the hallway as you planned to head back to the living room. But before you could even take five paces, Joel caught you by the elbow. He arrested your movement, pulling you gently backward and anchoring you flush against him with one large hand wrapped just above your belly button.

He brought his chest right against your back, his mouth dipping down close to your ear.

"Well, I got a better idea. Why don't I just tell Emily we need her help somewhere else and you put that pretty little ass of yours back at the desk across from mine?"

Your mouth dropped open, completely caught off guard by the words. "Joel."

"What?"

You clicked your tongue. "I can't, and you know it."

"I know. And I get the school thing, but Erin’s got plenty of help from Fabrizio and everyone else, and you could still keep doin' your work at the greenhouse either way."

"I do patrols now, too."

He hummed. "Only two days a week."

The way he was talking (like a little red devil perched right on your left shoulder) was pretty manipulative. But you knew exactly where his insistence was coming from.

You were having a good time, and you were getting along well too. You’d be lying if you said you didn't want to spend more time with him. But that was exactly where a clear sharp line needed to be drawn. Because what kind of relationship would you even have if you saw each other almost every single day, and during the nights, too? Didn't he think about that?

Since this whole arrangement had started, you really did enjoy being with him. To be fair, you’d always enjoyed his company, even back when you got along terribly, and you’d actually told him that. You didn't know why, just that you felt comfortable around him. But now, there was a much deeper layer to it, because you were genuinely getting along.

You’d told him just last night: how long could a good streak like this really last if you saw each other every single day, and how long would it take before you or he completely got sick of each other again?

"We already talked about this last night," you said.

"I know, and I get it, alright?"

"Do you?" You turned your head a bit to get a better look at him.

He pressed his lips together, puffing out the top one the way he always did.

"It's just a suggestion. Think about it."

You bit your lower lip slightly, your eyes scanning his face as Joel leaned forward; you could feel him hanging heavy against your lower back.

Averting your eyes from his face, you leaned back, pressing harder against him until you could feel his outline perfectly defined against your backside. You felt him let out a soft huff against your ear.

"Talk to Emily," you said, placing your hand over his on your stomach before brushing it away and stepping away from him.

Joel chuckled low behind you, letting out a rough sigh.

Without looking back, you made your way to the living room.

The clock above the fireplace read half past four in the afternoon, and the light filtering through the curtain and the window was still bright, though just a fraction paler than before.

You sank into the couch and folded your hands in your lap, wondering if this was the right time to leave. You weren't entirely sure. Joel wasn't giving anything away, but then again, you couldn't really rely on his cues. Maybe he wanted you to go, or needed some time to himself and didn't know how to say it. But then again, had he ever actually held anything back?

"What're you doin'?" he asked, appearing through the archway a second later and dropping down beside you. Shifting his hips forward slightly, he took your outstretched legs and rested them across his lap.

A soft laugh escaped you.

Jesus, he truly could act like a needy man.

"Nothing."

"Watch Bourne Identity?"

"Only a few minutes. I fell asleep right away."

He nodded, looking at the screen where the menu was still looping on mute.

"Want to watch somethin' else?" he asked, looking over at you.

You stretched your legs out further across his lap, and he gave your knee a squeeze.

"Do you?"

He pursed his lips. "Sure. Choose somethin'."

You smiled faintly and straightened up a bit, resting your hands between your knees.

He clearly noticed your hesitation; his eyes locked onto your face, waiting for you to speak.

You gave a slightly uncertain smile, feeling your heart flutter with a touch of nervousness.

"You know, I was wondering just a minute ago," you swallowed, dropping your gaze down his chest, "is it really okay for me to stay here this long?"

"What's that mean?"

You looked at him in silence for a second, wondering if he genuinely wasn't understanding the question.

"Well, I mean, is it okay? Or, you know, maybe it's too much?" You frowned, frustrated with how you were phrasing your thoughts.

He lowered his gaze to his hand on your knee.

"You wanna leave?"

"No," you rushed to say, and his eyes snapped back up to your face. "It's not that. I just thought that maybe, I don't know, maybe you wanted some time to yourself? Or something."

Joel let out a soft, lopsided smile, looking at you out of the corner of his eye.

Gradually, he turned his head toward you, taking you in completely.

What could he tell you? He certainly couldn't tell you that he didn't want to be alone. Though that was a bit limiting; Joel didn't want you to stay just because he didn't want to be alone. He wanted you to stay because he wanted to be with you.

Was that wrong? Was it too much?

Every time he asked himself that (and it had been several times between yesterday and today), he answered himself in silence with the memory of the last seven days. Those five days of the journey to and within Ridgeway had nearly drained the life out of him completely. His body had been beaten and cut; his eyes had seen more violence in a span of days than during his last year in Jackson.

He really thought that was it. The first few times they pressed a gun to his temple, he was sure they would pull the trigger, and that time they wrapped a rope around his neck and pulled and pulled until he thought his bones would snap, he swore that was it.

But it wasn't, somehow. And he thought of Ellie, of the last hug she’d given him before he left the house; he thought of Tommy, of Benji perched on Maria’s lap. But he thought of you too, and how he’d only left a simple letter. Because he’d thought it wasn't necessary to wake you—what for? He figured he’d be right back. Two days at most. But the time dragged on, and so did the suffering.

Upon his return, his body began to ache. It was as if every muscle and nerve had stayed rigid and numb right up until he crossed the gates into Jackson. He didn't even know how he’d managed to make it all the way back without collapsing. But the moment he arrived, and after settling everything with the guys (even after Hale checked him over and patched him up) his body remained tense.

He didn't feel anything, just a strange ache that ran through him like a massive bruise, one so constant it had already gone unnoticed.

But when he saw you outside Hale’s place, he knew he must be broken. Because on your face, he found the pain he was feeling. You looked at him like he was a ghost; your glassy eyes pierced right through his chest, and he felt the urge to touch you. But before he could do much of anything, you left.

You left, and he didn't see you again until that afternoon, when you made him understand in a rather direct way that you wanted him to leave you alone.

And he wasn't gonna tell you, but he saw right through you. It didn't hurt that you pushed him away. Well, maybe a little; it was hard for him to admit he'd been excited to see you. But he knew your attitude under that weeping willow was a normal reaction. You were angry. And you’d probably been scared, too. So, in situations like these, he just had to give you space; that was a lesson he’d learned many, many decades ago.

The next day, when he ran into Zach at the dining hall and Zach told him you were heading over to his place, he wasn't surprised. He’d been waiting for it, though he felt a wave of relief knowing the wait had been short.

The night before, he hadn't been able to sleep much, but with you here, he’d slept so deeply his eyes were still a little puffy. You tangled yourself around him like ivy; arms, legs, fingers, every part of you intertwined with his, keeping him warm after so many cold and cruel nights.

And it might be selfish, this need to want you here. Surely you had other things you wanted to do, other people to see. Or maybe you didn't, but you had to leave anyway. Joel didn't care; selfishly, he wanted you all to himself, just for today.

So yeah, he wanted you to stay. Just a bit longer. Because he needed and wanted the tenderness of your presence. And the wasn't anything he could do against it.

"Don't need no time to myself," he assured you then. He swallowed. "Stay here tonight."

Your eyes widened just a fraction. Joel knew what he said had caught you by surprise.

"You sure?" you asked softly.

He nodded. "Yeah. And tomorrow mornin' we both go back to our own things, how's that sound?"

You smiled. "Sounds good to me. Though I don't have any clothes," you raised your eyebrows slightly. "I should go grab something to wear tomorrow."

"Alright."

You nodded. "Okay."

He nodded. "Yeah. I'm sure we'll find somethin' to keep us busy later."

That surprised a chuckle out of you.

You placed your hand over his on your knee. "You really are a dirty old man."

Joel rolled his eyes, feigning exasperation, and shook his head.

"I meant watchin' movies or cookin'. You're the one with the dirty mind."

You hummed, not buying it. "Yeah. Well, you're probably already tired anyway."

He clicked his tongue. "Don't be so sure about that. That nap was pretty revivin'."

Hours later

"See you in a bit." Stretching up on your toes, you gave Joel a quick peck on the lips.

A second later, he opened the front door and you stepped across the threshold, wearing the dress you’d arrived in, your boots, and one of his jackets. Today was much cooler than yesterday, and if you walked back to your place with nothing but what you'd brought, you were going to freeze.

Joel watched you walk away for a moment, closing the door only when you disappeared from his line of sight. Immediately, the house felt quiet again.

For a while, he distracted himself by tidying up and cleaning. He went up to his bedroom and made the bed, straightening things here and there, and left the pajamas he’d lent you neatly folded on the mattress. He dusted the dresser in front of the window, arranging the picture frames on top, and swept every corner of the room as best he could.

Downstairs, he wiped down the already clean kitchen counter. He cleaned the cabinets, then the windowpanes and the backyard door, and just as he was drying the glass, he noticed Ellie arriving at the garage.

She opened the door and slipped inside right away, and Joel didn't hesitate for a single second to seize the opportunity.

He stepped out into the yard, feeling the cool air raise the hairs on his arms, and hesitated for a second before knocking on the garage door.

From the other side, he heard a few muffled noises, and a moment later, the door swung open.

"Hey. What's up?" she said. Her cheeks were flushed and her hair was a bit a mess.

"Out early today," Joel said, stepping inside. The girl moved aside to let him pass. "Where'd you go?"

"Had plans with Jesse."

"Ah, Jesse," he rested his lower back against the desk and crossed his arms, smiling. "What kind of plans?"

Ellie frowned and shook her head. "Don't start. It's not like that. What're you doin' here anyway? Don't you got company?" She raised her eyebrows.

In a split second, the smile vanished from Joel's face, and he went completely still.

Ellie tilted her head and waited a beat. "Look, I know Snow's here. I saw you guys earlier."

Joel frowned but didn't say a word.

"I was hungry," she tossed her head back, "so I went into the kitchen to grab some food and heard the TV. You were wiped out."

He stepped away from the desk. "Ellie, look—"

"Please, just don't say anything," she said, holding up both hands and shaking her head. A faint smirk tugged at her lips. "I already knew. I mean, I knew there was something, I just didn't think it was so... you know—"

"We're just friends."

"Yeah, right," she rolled her eyes. "Great friends."

Joel hesitated as he tried to speak again, suddenly feeling really nervous. He rubbed the back of his neck and let out a sigh.

"Snow and I... we're gettin' along, and—"

"Joel, chill, you're not my dad," she cut him off, waving a hand. "You don't gotta give me some speech like you're tryin' to convince me to like my new mommy or whatever—"

"Ellie."

She stopped talking, and her eyes softened, but Joel still had his brow furrowed, his thoughts tangled up in his head.

"I like Snow," she said. "And I like that you guys are... friends."

Joel pursed his lips and watched her for a brief moment; the look on her face and the softness in Ellie's eyes held no lie or forced reassurance.

He knew she liked you. He knew the two of you had formed a bond while he was away. And suddenly, he wondered if his relationship with you would affect yours with her. Lately, Ellie hadn't been very expressive with him, but he’d seen how she was around you. He hoped that wouldn't change.

"I'm fixin' to make a good dinner tonight. Snow's stayin' over too," he rested a hand on his hip. "How's about you come on over and join us?"

Ellie smiled, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. "Sounds great. But… maybe another time? I'm pretty wiped, and I still gotta go see Dina."

"Yeah? What for?"

"She found a few parts we were missin' to finish some traps," she leaned back, dropping onto the couch. "We're headin' out early tomorrow to test them."

Joel nodded. "Rabbits?"

"Hopefully."

"Right. Well, I'll leave a plate out for you anyway, alright? We'll have dinner around eight, just in case you change your mind," he nodded. "I know Snow'd like to see you."

Ellie nodded. "Okay. Did you give her the portrait?"

Joel nodded. "And how're you comin' along with the herbs and all that?"

"Almost done with a few of them," she smiled. "I'm headin' to the greenhouse tomorrow to show Snow what I got."

"You could show her now, you know. She'll be back in a bit."

"Nah, I'm good. Don't wanna interrupt whatever's about to go down in there," she said, holding up a hand.

Joel clicked his tongue.

"What?" She raised her eyebrows. "I didn't know you were the type to cuddle up on the couch like that. Ugh," she shuddered, faking a chill.

Joel let out a chuckle, Ellie echoed it.

"Alright. Take care of yourself then," he lifted his chin. "And tomorrow, let's get some dinner, just you and me. How's that sound? Whatever you want."

She pursed her lips. "Can you make that meatloaf you do?"

"Course. An extra large one."

"Alright," she nodded.

Joel smiled and took a few steps toward her. Reaching out, he gave the crown of Ellie’s head a quick affectionate rub. She ducked her head, immediately clicking her tongue.

"Watch yourself out there, alright? And don't be gettin' back late," Joel said, moving toward the open door. "Don't go doin' anything reckless."

Ellie snorted. "You neither, Casanova."

Joel hid a chuckle as he turned around to head back inside the house.

Your house. Ten minutes later.

You got home around half past five in the afternoon. Stepping inside, you caught the scent of the flowers on your coffee table and the entryway stand, mixed with the soap you used for your laundry.

You didn't linger. You went straight to your bedroom, tossed your dress onto the small couch in the corner and kicked your boots to the side, wrapping your arms around your bare body.

The closet doors stood open, and your naked reflection stared back at you as you stepped closer to find something to wear.

Your cheeks were flushed from the walk, and your hair was a bit a mess. But there was a particular shine in your eyes that made you pause and just look at yourself for a moment. It was as if your skin were glowing, as if the expression on your face had suddenly softened.

On your neck, there were two small marks, faint and nearly invisible, that Joel had left either last night or this morning, you weren't entirely sure. But your fingers brushed up to touch them, and it was as if you could feel his mouth there all over again.

You smiled like a fool, your eyes drifting down your body; they passed over the scar on your jawline, the scars on your collarbone, just beneath your ribs, and further down on your right thigh, where several small but distinct marks barely revealed themselves.

You tilted your head, observing yourself and suddenly seeing a difference. As you did, a lock of hair fell across your face.

You caught it between your fingers and breathed it in, then gathered a handful more. Burying your nose in the strands, you closed your eyes.

You smelled like him. From the strands of hair between your fingers to your very skin; his soap, his shampoo—him. The same clean scent of his fresh sheets, the exact same scent that was woven into his skin. You carried it now, and the feeling brought a flutter to your stomach that made every hair on your body stand up.

Well, that, and the fact that you were naked and your house was freezing.

Jesus, stop being so corny, what's the point?

The more time you spent staring at yourself in the mirror, the longer it would take to get back to Joel. So you finally turned away, moved along, and headed into the bathroom.

You took a quick shower without getting your hair wet, since you'd washed it just that morning, and went through your usual routine. With your skin soft and clean and your body much warmer than before, you stepped out of the shower wrapped in a towel. Your feet weren't cold anymore, and neither were your fingers.

Back in the bedroom, you misted yourself with rosewater and put on a little bit of everything you owned, smelling like a dessert all over again and feeling like one, too. You ran your fingers through your hair, brushed it out a little, and reached for the small wooden box inside your nightstand. From it, you took your necklace and fastened it around your neck.

Opting for comfort and practicality, you pulled on a pair of straight-leg jeans that hugged you perfectly up top, thanks to some alterations Isa had done, along with a cropped white tee and a slightly loose black sweater. You were right on the verge of putting on sneakers, but you chose your boots again. There wasn't much use fighting against something both cozy and cute.

Okay, what did you need to bring for tonight?

You grabbed a tote bag and tossed in clean underwear, your hairbrush, and a few other small things. Carefully, you folded the jacket Joel had lent you earlier and slid it inside as well.

You didn't waste any more time. You bundled up in his other jacket (which, technically, was already yours) and went into the kitchen to grab the blueberry pie you’d left in the fridge yesterday. You’d only tried a tiny slice to make sure it tasted right. You packed it into a plastic container and carefully settled it into your bag, strategically arranging everything underneath and around it so it wouldn't shift in any way.

Giving yourself one last look in the mirror and knowing that at Joel’s place, nothing but a tiny little hand mirror awaited you, you stepped out of your house just as the sun in the sky began to turn that sea of blue into a field of orange and pink.

Joel's house. Late afternoon.

The second Joel opened the front door, a delicious aroma hit your nose.

"Mmm," you breathed in, stepping into the entryway. "What am I smelling?"

Joel took the bag from your hand and closed the door behind you. With a smile, he lifted his chin and nodded toward the kitchen.

He’d changed his clothes and wasn't in his sleepwear anymore, but in jeans, boots, and a flannel shirt.

He look so good.

"Go on and look," he said.

Smiling, you walked over as the scent grew even richer. Your eyes instantly locked onto the pot on the stove. You stepped closer while he carefully took the container with the blueberry pie out of the bag and set it on the counter.

Inside the pot, vegetables were simmering away, releasing a thick sweet steam, covered and surrounded by a dark glossy sauce.

"Is there wine in this?"

He nodded, and your mouth watered instantly.

"Started a good while ago," he came up beside you. "Seared the venison, took it out, cooked down the veggies with the wine, and threw the meat back in. It's been stewin' for a while now. You real hungry?"

Smiling, you looked at him out of the corner of your eye. "I didn't know you knew your way around a kitchen like this."

"I don't know that much," he shook his head. "Just a few things I'm fixin' to stick with forever."

You laughed. "Is this one of your specialties?"

"Yeah. This, and the meatloaf I'm makin' for Ellie tomorrow."

"Oh, did you see her? Is she here?"

"No, she left a while ago. But we talked for a bit," he nodded. "Said she was headin' to the greenhouse tomorrow to see you. Wants to show you what she’s done with the herbs."

You were genuinely excited to see what Ellie had been working on. You thought it was incredibly sweet of her to want to help you out with all of this, and you were sure you’d find a way to thank her properly. Favors are favors, and they ought to be repaid right.

"I can't wait to see what she's done."

Joel smiled. "You're gonna like it."

It was only fair that you set the table. While Joel cooked, you arranged the plates, silverware, and everything else, though you still felt like you had too much time on your hands. But you distracted yourself by picking something to listen to; Joel had a box full of cassettes and handed over the authority for you to choose the music. You picked a Fleetwood Mac compilation and spent the rest of the time keeping yourself occupied with the glass of wine he had left on the table for you.

You had rarely ever had wine. Looked like almost never before arriving in Jackson. But here, they had a decent amount of alcohol, both produced by the community and brought in from the outside. Cider was pretty common, as was whiskey, but wine was a much trickier thing to come by for some reason. Joel, being who he was and knowing the people he knew, had a few bottles tucked away in a small cabinet in his kitchen.

He wouldn't let you help with the cooking, insisting he had it under control. That left you with only one job: sitting at the kitchen island with a glass of wine, just watching him. It wasn't like he had a whole lot to do after a while anyway, since the meat pretty much cooked itself, only needing a quick check every now and then. During that stretch of time, he pulled up a stool next to you with his own glass of wine, and the two of you talked about everything and nothing, mostly just casual drift.

"Pet Sematary," he said, bringing the glass to his lips.

"Never read that one."

He raised his eyebrows. "You ain't ever read Pet Sematary?"

You shook your head. "No. I only read Carrie, and honestly it didn't really make me feel any better."

"You gotta read Pet Sematary. Reckon it’s one of the few books I actually finished cover to cover when I was a kid."

"Weren't you big on reading?"

"Preferred doin' other things," he said, tilting his head. "But I got that book for Christmas one year, and then I caught the flu and spent a week in bed. Read the whole damn thing. Let me tell you, havin' a fever dream after readin' somethin' like that wasn't nice."

You laughed. "Is it really that terrifying?"

"Well, I was eleven. Doubt it’d scare me none now."

"I remember my parents watching the movie once, but I didn't pay much attention. I wasn't really into horror. Either that, or it scared me and I just didn't want to look." You suddenly sat up straighter. "You know what book I know you’d love?"

He frowned just a fraction.

"Lonesome Dove, by Larry McMurtry," you said. "You ever read it?"

"Not that I recall."

"It's about two old Texas Rangers who decide to drive a huge herd of cattle all the way from the Mexican border up to Montana. But they run into just about everything along the trail. It’s a Western, so you can picture it. Storms, bandits, different towns. I loved it when I read it, it's incredibly entertaining and," you raised a finger, "deep. It’s not just about the adventure, you know? It’s about the fact that the whole world around them is changing. It's the end of the Old West."

He nodded. "Modernity."

"Exactly. And they’re old men from a generation that spent their entire lives chasing outlaws and living in places where the government had no control. But everything’s becoming obsolete, you know? Their whole way of life."

"Yeah," he smiled, "it happens."

"I've got it on my bookshelf if you'd like to read it," you raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah, I'd like that. I gotta give you my notes or somethin' afterward?"

You laughed. "Only if you want to."

Dinner turned out to be an absolute triumph. You sat with him at the table by the window, savoring every single bite. The venison was incredible; the meat was so tender it practically melted in your mouth, to the point where you didn't even need a knife; you could cut it with just your fork. The vegetables were delicious and just as tender, their rich flavors almost making you want to roll your eyes in pure bliss.

Joel, of course, got a little cocky about it. There was a smug smirk playing on his face that he was clearly trying to hide. Still, you secretly suspected the man hadn't even realized it was going to turn out this damn good.

Between the waiting in the kitchen and the dinner itself, the two of you finished the first bottle of wine without even noticing. Midway through the meal, Joel cracked open the second one, which turned out to be just as delicious. You were really starting to get a taste for it; the flavor paired so well with the food that you couldn't bring yourself to turn down another glass, and then another, and maybe another.

And you weren't sure if it was the alcohol or something else, but you’d gotten so hot you shed your sweater before your third glass.

By the time you finished your second helping, you knew the alcohol was starting to do its thing. You felt it first in your feet, in that pleasant buzzing warmth around your skin, and then in the floating lightweight feeling warming up your chest. But most of all, you knew it because your eyes started losing their modesty.

You caught yourself tracking the movement of his lips every time he spoke or took a sip from his glass, your gaze lingering without a shred of hurry. You got completely pulled in, watching his profile under the soft light; the sharp line of his jaw, the crinkles around his eyes when he smiled. Your eyes drifted down to his hands, tracing the veins standing out against his rolled up sleeves, and you couldn't stop a clumsy wine addled thought from taking over your mind: oh wow… his fingers are really, really thick.

But there wasn’t a thing you could do about it; the wine had already hijacked your filters, and your eyes stayed exactly where they wanted to be. You knew you were being obvious, taking way too many seconds to meet his gaze whenever he spoke, like a woman suddenly turned shy.

And Joel, of course, wasn’t any fool. He noticed.

You caught the shift almost instantly. He stopped talking so animatedly, and his rhythm eased into a lazy drawn out cadence as his voice dropped a register, turning deeper and huskier.

His posture in the chair relaxed, leaning just a little closer to your side of the table, cutting down the distance between you. His eyes, which had been fixed on yours, began making their own unhurried sweep across your face. They lingered on your wine flushed cheeks, dipped for a split second to your mouth when you bit your lip, and drifted back up. He held your gaze for a long stretch of time, sending a tingle straight down the back of your neck.

When he picked up his glass, his fingers traced the curve of the crystal. A tiny, barely there tug pulled at the corner of his mouth; he knew exactly where your attention was anchored.

Oh, Jesus... you wanted to tear him apart.

But not here.

Dinner having ended quite a while ago, you got up from your chair and gathered your plate and his. Joel was up right after you; he cleared the glasses and the rest of the table, tucking the used napkins between his fingers while balancing the wine glasses and the empty bottle in his other hand.

Weaving your way into the kitchen, you placed the dishes into the sink with extra care, trying to let the clatter of the stoneware drown out just how hard your heart was thumping, and turned on the faucet. The rush of running water filled the room for barely a second before you felt his heat right behind you.

Joel stepped up right against your back. You felt the solid pressure of his chest nearly brushing your shoulder blades a moment before his arm shot past your side, planting his palm firmly against the edge of the counter, trapping you completely against it. His other free hand reached up without a hint of rush, gripping the handle and shutting off the faucet, cutting the water dead.

"Later," he said.

You felt his breath hit your neck, and your head tilted back on instinct. Understanding the invitation, Joel pressed his entire weight against your back. The solid unyielding feel of him felt so damn good you squeezed your eyes shut and smiled shamelessly.

His hand shifted from the edge of the counter, sliding down to your lower stomach. He flattened his palm there, pressing gently into the soft heat of your belly, before his hand began a steady inching crawl upward. At the same time, his lips found your exposed throat; he kissed you right there while his hand kept drifting up, caressing your chest. And as his palm brushed over your chest, his thumb grazed your nipple through the fabric of your shirt, catching a quiet sigh in your throat.

Your eyelids felt too heavy to keep open. Joel’s mouth kept tasting your neck with short nipping kisses and soft suctions, his hand traveling higher until his long fingers and broad palm wrapped around your throat, squeezing firmly from the sides.

A muffled groan tried to break free, but his grip trapped the sound against your skin, making the vibration rattle right in your vocal cords.

With a tug, Joel pulled your head back, forcing your spine to arch as he locked his hips tight against yours.

His other hand traced down your side, mapping the curve of your waist and hip, squeezing your flesh with a hunger that was driving you out of your mind. The wine and the friction of your bodies sparked a desperate ache between your thighs, and you didn't know how much longer you could go without tearing his pants off.

Sensing your restlessness, Joel nudged one of his legs between yours. With a firm shift of his thigh, he forced your legs apart and hitched his knee right into your center. You let your weight drop, desperate for the pressure, grinding down against him, but the thick denim of your jeans blocked the full sensation and the partial friction only fueled your frustration.

Joel caught onto your desperation and surged even harder against you, and you could feel him fully hard, a rigid ridge pressing into your backside through the layers of clothes. Unable to hold back, you reached a hand blindly behind you until you found the front of his pants, and wrapped your fingers around his crotch, squeezing firmly through the fabric.

The sudden boldness caught him off guard; Joel let out a low groan right against the skin of your neck as his grip on your throat tightened just a little more.

With a sudden jerk, he hauled you away from the counter. His hands dropped to your hips instantly, digging firmly into your flesh as he started steering you out of the kitchen.

A breathless nervous laugh slipped from your lips, cutting through the silence of the house as the two of you moved toward the hallway. And before you could even plant a foot on the bottom step of the stairs, you slapped his hands away, spun around, and bolted up the flight.

Halfway up, curiosity got the better of you, forcing you to glance back over your shoulder. Joel was already tracking you; his posture was stiffer, his eyes so dark and locked on yours. You let out a soft amused gasp and scrambled up the rest of the way.

As you cleared the final steps, your fingers hooked the hem of your shirt, yanking it cleanly over your head and dropping it behind you like a breadcrumb on the trail. Right before hitting the doorway of his bedroom, your hands flew to your back, unhooking your bra and letting it fall, too.

Joel trailed you without missing a beat. You heard him pause for a split second below to scoop your shirt off the floor, and then he kept coming, completely unhurried, stopping to grab the bra next. He was giving you a head start. He was granting you the exact window you needed to slip into the bedroom, kick off your boots, and shed your pants.

Hearing his heavy tread approach the threshold, you padded silently on bare feet into the bathroom. From inside, you caught the low huff that rumbled from his chest when he stepped into the room and found the bed empty.

The cool night air drifting through the bathroom window instantly prickled your skin, making your nipples harden and the hair on your arms stand up, but you didn't give a damn about the chill. You planted both hands flat and firm against the edge of the marble sink, arching your spine completely and tilting your ass toward the doorway; right at the perfect angle for where he was bound to appear in less than a heartbeat.

And yeah, just a heartbeat later, Joel filled the bathroom doorway. He stopped dead in his tracks, going completely still, frozen under the frame.

A thrill shot through you just from watching his reaction. Joel held your clothes in one hand, his eyes locked onto your bare skin, tracking the curve of your hips and your exposed ass. His jaw was clenched so hard the muscle bunched, and that sudden paralysis of sheer awe and desire on his face let you know you had him exactly where you wanted him.

Joel tossed your clothes onto the bathroom counter without a shred of care, while you stayed completely still, watching him. He tightened his jaw and brought his hands down to his waist.

Slowly, he unbuckled the metal latch of his belt; the leather creaked and the metal clinked in this quiet bathroom as he whipped it through the loops in one clean yank. Your pussy throbbed just looking at him; so mean, so serious, so intensely focused as he popped the button of his jeans and dragged the metal zipper down with a harsh rasp, never taking his eyes off you for a single second.

As he began to close the final few inches between you, an intense flutter turned your stomach over. Joel settled right behind you, planting one of his big heavy hands flat against your hip, digging into your skin to anchor you in place, while his other hand went straight for your center, hooking the fabric of your panties to the side.

Your breathing was already ragged and heavy, and your throat felt so dry you could barely swallow. Trying to hold onto that thread of control from the game, you tried to look back at him.

"You should get yourself a mirror," you murmured.

Joel huffed a laugh.

His thick warm fingers parted your wet folds. "Yeah," he said.

You shut your eyes instantly, letting out a low moan as you finally melted into his touch. His fingers were soaked in you immediately, sliding top to bottom. He brought the pad of his index finger up until he found your clit, pressing and rubbing in firm circles that made you flinch and arch your spine even deeper against him.

The wet obscene sound of his fingers moving inside you filled the bathroom instantly. But Joel took his time to torment you, sliding his middle finger along your slit and stretching your wetness before pushing a single knuckle inside your pussy. He went in easy, stretching you open, and a choked moan escaped your lips. A second later, he slipped a second finger in, opening you up from the inside, and began to thrust into your depths, curling his fingers upward to hook the exact spot that made you lose your mind.

"Shit, baby... you're fuckin' soaked," Joel growled in your ear, and the sound of his dirty voice only deepened the spasms already starting to ripple through your walls.

Your hands gripped the edge of the sink so hard your knuckles turned white.

The wet sounds of friction between his hand and your pussy were loud, giving away just how ready you were; every time he buried his fingers to the hilt, your eyelids grew heavier.

You started to lose all sense of rhythm, rolling your hips back on pure instinct, begging for more and more and more. But Joel didn't give in; he kept his hand steady, pumping inside you, catching your dirtiest, most shameless whimpers right out of the air.

"Joel, please," you stammered, letting your head drop forward. "Fuck me already, don't make me wait."

He cut his movements instantly. With a dragging touch, he slid his fingers out of your wetness. You lifted your head and licked your dry lips, desperately trying to catch your breath.

"You gettin' bossy on me now?" he asked.

A small smile tugged at your lips, and you glanced back over your shoulder. Joel already had his cock in his hand, stroking it up and down, using the same hand that was coated in your own slick. The sight of his size and the heavy veins tracing his shaft made you swallow hard.

"Over the sink, now. Put your hands further out and lean down," he ordered.

You obeyed instantly. You stretched your arms across the surface, planting your palms firmly against the cold marble that clashed sharply against the heat of your body. You slid further forward, arching your spine to the absolute limit and pushing your backside out, offering yourself to him completely.

Joel stepped forward, erasing the space between you. You felt the burning tip of his cock hunt for your entrance, pressing right where the ache of your need was loudest. Easy, he broke into you in one controlled heavy push, burying himself deep, inching further and further until he filled you to the brim.

He stretched you so wide you choked back a cry against the marble. He went dead still, granting you a few agonizing seconds for you to adjust to his thickness and squeeze tight around him. Feeling his pulse throbbing inside you was pure heaven.

Then, he started to move. At first, they were short testing thrusts, but as the rhythm leveled out, a whimper of pure relief slipped from your lips.

Joel took you at your word; he fucked you with relentless consistency, driving deep into you with every single stroke, making the wet echo of his hips slamming against your cheeks ring out through the bathroom. The moans spilled uncontrolled from your mouth, impossible to hold back.

Bit by bit, any trace of patience melted from his movements, turning harder. Joel reached a broad hand up to your shoulder and, with a firm yank, forced your upper body back, arching your spine flush against his chest. And without giving you a second to catch your breath, he shifted that same hand straight to your throat, squeezing with just enough pressure to pin you tight against him while he kept hammering into you from behind.

The shift in the angle made him sink even deeper, ripping cries and sobs of pure pleasure that vibrated right against the flat of his palm.

And just when you thought you couldn't open up any wider, Joel used his boot to nudge your foot, forcing your legs further apart. With a quick heavy grip, he hooked his free hand under your thigh and hoisted your leg up over the edge of the sink, splitting you completely wide open.

Locked in that vulnerable position, he started fucking you hard and fast, a pacing that completely stole your balance. Desperate, your hands scrambled to find a handhold on the wall or the counter, but you couldn't reach a damn thing; the sheer speed of his thrusts was rattling your entire body.

Joel had you pinned so tight against him that the only thing you could do was cling to his arms, burying your nails into his skin. You held onto him, feeling your one steady foot on the floor nearly lift with every strike, suspended in the air by the force of his hips.

To say you didn't recognize the sound of your own voice was an understatement; you didn't think you’d ever made noises as broken as the ones Joel was ripping out of you with every single thrust. It was a completely new sensation, being entirely undone, unable to do a damn thing but cling to him so you wouldn't shatter completely.

Slowly, his movements began to lose their speed, turning heavier. You felt his chest heave hard against your back as he dialed back the pace, locking you tight in his arms. He let your dangling foot finally find the floor, easing the strain on your muscles, and softened his grip on your body, though he stayed buried deep inside you.

Driven by the lingering slip of pleasure, you reached an arm back over your shoulder, searching for the touch of his skin. Your fingers found the nape of his neck and sank right into his curls, tangling in that soft hair you loved so much.

You tilted your head back, offering your lips in a silent plea, and Joel caught your jaw gently and planted a deep dragging kiss on your mouth.

While kissing you, his free hand carefully guided your leg down from the sink, helping you find your footing. He steered you away from the marble counter, backing you up toward the bathroom door.

Only when you hit the threshold did Joel pull out of you all at once, leaving a choked whine on your lips at the sudden cold absence. Before you could even protest, he brought his palm down in a stinging smack against your flushed ass.

"Bed," he ordered.

You moved toward the mattress immediately, your legs shaking and a delicious ache pooling between your thighs. You collapsed flat on your back against the mattress, sinking into the sheets, and hooked your fingers around the waistband of your wet panties, yanking them off and tossing them onto the floor. All while you watched him shadow over you from the dim light.

Your eyes, completely blown out, tracked Joel’s body as he stripped down under the faint light. He yanked his shirt off in one motion, revealing that broad torso, then kicked off his boots, and finally shed his pants, letting them pool on the floor.

God, he was so big. Huge everywhere; the width of his shoulders, the thickness of his ribcage, his massive arms, and that tremendous length pointing right back at you, glistening and heavy with thick veins.

You spread your legs wide on the mattress, begging him back, utterly unable to look away.

Joel climbed onto the bed, making the springs groan as he settled immediately between your open thighs. He gripped your knees, pushing them back toward your chest to split you open even wider, and lined his cock up with your pussy.

He slid in inch by inch, savoring the fit, stretching your already sensitive walls, but the second he was buried completely inside you, he gave you no quarter. He picked his rhythm right back up.

You held onto him with everything you had, wrapping your arms tight around his neck and digging your nails into his broad back while he fucked you hard, deep thrusts making you bounce right against the mattress.

The wet friction of your bodies took over the room again, mixing with Joel’s pants directly in your ear and your own shameless moans.

"Joel, please," you cried out, squeezing him tighter. "Put all your weight on me."

He lifted his head, locking his eyes onto yours.

"Put all your weight on me," you repeated.

"I'm gonna crush you."

"No, you won't," the heavy impacts chopping up your voice. "Please."

Joel let out a rough pant and buried his face right next to yours as he slowly let his body drop over you. You felt his weight gradually press you down into the mattress; his chest flat against yours, his stomach against yours, blanketing you in sheer heavy man.

"Yes, yes, yes," you started to babble, letting your eyelids flutter shut as your arms wrapped around him and your fingers buried deep into the hair at the nape of his neck.

You were right on the edge, suspended in that eternal second where the pleasure gets so sharp it almost hurts. Your legs were wrapped tight around his waist and your nails were dug into his shoulders, feeling the coiled tension in every single muscle.

Then you felt it. You caught that subtle unmistakable shift in the vibration of his body; the way his cock went even harder, pulsing and throbbing inside you, expanding to its absolute limit. Joel let out a guttural grunt, a purely animalistic drawl of a sound that drowned in the crook of your neck as he completely lost his rhythm and his grip on control.

Knowing you had him right there, that he was about to fall apart for you, was the final push that shattered your gravity. Your own orgasm hit you all at once, a hot burst that clamped your internal walls in violent desperate spasms around his length.

Joel roared against your skin the second he felt you clamp down on him, completely trapped by your climax. He delivered a few brutal frenzied thrusts, driving so deep you felt like you were splitting in two, before cursing loudly and dragging himself back with desperation.

You unlocked your legs from his hips to let him clear, and he grabbed his cock, letting go right over your belly. He was so flushed, his face so raw and undone, that your eyes could do nothing but watch him, panting and silent, while your own muscles kept riding out the tail end of your release.

He leaned forward, planting one forearm beside your head, and brought his face down to yours.

You cupped his face; your fingers pressed gently against his jaw as you pulled his mouth down to meet yours.

Joel's room. Half an hour later. Night.

You flicked off the bathroom light and shut the door behind you.

The effects of the wine were still floating through your system, but now it was pure exhaustion weighing you down. You knew you were gonna sleep like a baby tonight, so before climbing back into bed next to Joel, you went straight for the alarm clock on his nightstand.

"Six thirty sound good to you?" you asked, turning the clock around to set the dial.

"What time is it now?" he wanted to know. He was lying back with his hair still a little damp from the shower, wearing a dark blue cotton t-shirt and sweatpants.

"Quarter to ten."

"Ain't as late as I thought."

You smiled. "Right. I figured it was at least eleven."

"Six thirty's fine."

You set the alarm and slipped the clock back into its spot.

Carefully crawling over Joel’s legs, you slid under the covers as he pulled the sheet and the comforter up over you. You dug your toes into the mattress, stretching out on pure instinct just from the happiness of being comfortable, warm, and knowing you were in for a perfect night of sleep.

You draped your arm over Joel’s chest, and he leaned into you, shifting onto his side to blanket you with his body heat.

"Oh," he murmured, pulling back for just a second to click off the lamp on his nightstand before wrapping his arms right back around you.

The bedroom fell into darkness, but the moonlight streamed through the window; pale, soft, and soothing. It was a full moon tonight.

"Goodnight, Joel."

He let out a low sigh. "Goodnight, Snow."

divider by: omi-resources

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[onlythehobi]

UGH i sosososososo LOVED THIS

omg they make me wanna die like they're UNMATCHED no couple can even come CLOSE

can we talk about the way u write smut also like u deserve a shrine

NOW UMMM EMILY*@*'D i like how snow is obvs jealous like babe all that rant isn't only bc ur passional we know ur marking territory too💔💔💔

but smut, cuddling, date and movies? this chapter was a bless THANK GOD

[thecorpsethatwalks]

re-watching the original trilogy is great because you really get a sense for how weird luke skywalker is, just how quickly he becomes that weird AND how quickly he commits to it. Like he's honestly pretty chill in a new hope, but the absolute INSTANT he figures out he can move shit with his mind he goes full send on the cryptic off-putting bullshit. Walking around in full black robes, speaking in riddles, aura farming and backflipping whenever physically possible. He's clearly annoyed when he first meets yoda in empire, but he dismisses that pretty quickly in favour of ALSO becoming an over-dramatic space wizard. The combination of his two teachers being yoda and obi-wan kenobi and him being the son of anakin and padme creates the single most intense and fundamentally kind force sensitive perfectly embodying the heart of the jedi order whilst also serving egregious amounts of cunt and being bizarre to be around. He would have THRIVED as a jedi master during the high republic. he would have been every padawan's favourite and every other master's worst nightmare