-`♡´- tags: papi!Frankie, domestic chaos, implied phone sex, Frankie is soft, healed and down bad for his wife in this, fluff galore
summary: Three states away, five kids deep, and still magnetic.
word count: ~ 1,1 k
You don’t remember the last time you had five uninterrupted minutes alone with your husband Frankie.
Not in the kitchen.
Not in the shower.
Not even in your own damn thoughts.
The twins are teething. Mateo needed help with homework. Ava cried because someone at school said something mean and Solana demanded the exact pink unicorn pyjamas that were in the wash. The laundry is multiplying like it’s sentient. There are sippy cups in places that defy physics.
And Frankie is three states away for work.
You’re sitting on the edge of your bed when he calls, it’s late. The house is finally quiet in that sacred, fragile kind of quiet that makes you afraid to breathe too loudly.
“Hey,” he says.
And it’s ridiculous how just that one word softens something in your chest.
“Hi,” you murmur, voice tired, small around the edges. “Are you done for today?”
“Yeah. Hotel room’s ugly. Bed’s too big.” A pause. Then, lower, honest. “I hate this.”
You close your eyes, rubbing your temple.
“Yeah?”
“I hate being away from you.” His voice roughens. Not dramatic. Not poetic. Just real. “I miss you. I miss the chaos. I miss you stealing the blankets. I miss the way you sigh when you’re half-asleep.”
You swallow.
“You’re the one who starfishes,” you whisper.
“Don’t deflect.”
You can hear him shifting, probably sitting on the edge of that lonely hotel bed, rubbing his hand over his face like he does when he’s holding too much in. Which he does a lot lately, but you see through the act anyway.
“It feels wrong,” he says quietly. “Like I left something important behind.”
“You did,” you breathe. “Me.”
What follows is silence, the heavy meaningful kind.
“You okay?” he asks softly.
You hesitate. You don’t want to add to the weight he’s already carrying, but he knows you too well. He always has. Frankie has always been sharp like that—quietly observant, reading a room the way other people skim headlines. Maybe it’s something the military carved into him. Maybe it’s simply the way he’s built.
“I’m just tired,” you admit. It’s not a lie, but it’s not the whole truth either. “I don’t remember the last time we were just… us. Not Mom and Dad. Not crisis managers. Just magnets, like we used to be.”
He exhales. Slow and controlled.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “God. Yeah, I know.”
You can hear the smile in his voice when he says it.
“We used to not be able to keep our hands off each other.”
“Still can’t,” he mutters before he adds. “At least not if I have any saying in that.”
That lands. Heat creeps into your spine despite the exhaustion. Even after five children Frankie’s still hungry for you, no matter how much your body changed shapes and sizes.
“Oh?” you say lightly. “Mr. Morales struggling over there in your shitty hotel room?”
He huffs a quiet laugh. Low, dangerous. The one that always lures you in.
“You have no idea.”
You shift on the bed, suddenly hyper-aware of the way your shirt has ridden up on your thighs. You gently trace along the exposed soft skin. Soothing, not arousing.
“You miss me that bad?”
He goes quiet again but this time it’s different. Thicker.
“Mi amor,” he says softly, like a warning and a confession all at once. “I miss your body too.”
The air changes, tightens and your stomach flips.
“You do?” you tease, though your voice betrays you in its softer and breathier tilt. “Are you trying to seduce me over the phone now?”
“Maybe.”
You grin into the dark.
“That so?”
“I’m alone,” he says. “You’re alone. No one’s crying. No one’s knocking. Feels like a missed opportunity, if you ask me.”
You laugh under your breath. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Tell me what you’re wearing.”
“Francisco—”
“Just tell me.” A beat. ”Please.“
You hesitate for effect.
“Your old t-shirt,” you say finally. “The one that barely reaches my thighs, the pale blue one.”
The inhale on the other end is immediate. Sharp.
“Dios.”
You smile. Victory.
“Do you sleep in it when I’m home too ?”
“No,” you admit. “Because you usually take it off me when I do.”
There’s a low sound in his throat. Not loud, but you feel it everywhere you wish his hands would be instead.
“You’re evil,” he mutters.
“Me?” You laugh softly. “You’re the one who started this.”
“You started it the second you said you miss being like magnets.”
His voice drops another octave.
“I keep thinking about how you feel under my hands,” he says quietly. “How you melt. How you look at me like I hung the moon when I haven’t done anything but kiss your neck. How you moan when I reach that spot—”
Your breath stutters.
“That’s not fair,” you whisper.
“I know.”
Silence again but this one is pulsing.
“Do you touch yourself when I’m gone?” he asks, low and careful.
You bite your lip.
“Maybe.”
“Baby,” he growls.
You let him sit in it before you say: “I think you have to come home to find out.”
He groans softly — half frustration, half longing.
“I swear to God, when I get back—”
“You’ll what?” you challenge.
“I’ll remind you,” he says. “Exactly what being magnets feels like.”
Your thighs press together without permission.
“You’re all talk, Morales.”
“Oh yeah?” His voice is velvet and steel. “You’re the one who’s breathing heavier and I am alone in that fucking hotel room, hard as a rock—”
You freeze.
“…shut up.”
He laughs. Soft. Intimate. There’s this flutter in your chest that never quite died down.
“I miss you,” he says again, but this time it’s threaded through with heat and ache and something deeper than either. “Not just like this. All of you.”
Your chest tightens.
“I miss you too. A lot, actually. Not just as the best dad in the world but as my partner. My lover. Just— you.”
Another long pause on his end. The kind that feels like lying together in the dark. Which you desperately wish you’d do now instead.
“I’m counting down the days,” he says. “As soon as I’m home, we’re locking the bedroom door. Let the kids watch a movie. I don’t care. I need five minutes alone with my wife.”
You smile, eyes stinging as you blink the residue of tears away.
“Five?”
He scoffs. “Minimum.”
You laugh quietly.
“Come back to me,” you whisper.
“Always,” he answers immediately.
“I love you,” you say, already moving the phone a little away from your face to hang up.
“I love you more, always more. Talk soon, yeah?”
“Talk soon,” you hum and hang up, placing the phone face down on the nightstand and let the ache settle as a reminder that no matter the distance, some hearts still beat in sync.
tags: sexual tension, body worship, priest k1nk, religious imagery & guilt, blasphemy, church sex, kissing, forbidden desire, Jud is a boob man I don’t make the rules
summary: Father Jud has spent years praying desire away. Then you walk into his church after dark.
word count: ~1,8k
archiveofourown ˙⋆✮
The church is dimly lit, only the warm glow of candlelight spilling across the nave. Silence hangs heavy in the holy halls as you step inside, your footsteps echoing softly against old stone. The air smells faintly of wax and incense, familiar and comforting in a way that makes your chest ache.
Slowly, almost instinctively, you make your way toward the altar.
That’s when another pair of footsteps echoes through the church.
You turn.
And there he is.
Your priest. Father Jud.
Your breath catches embarrassingly fast at the sight of him. Tall and broad shouldered beneath dark clerical clothes, dark hair slightly tousled like he’s run a hand through it one too many times tonight. The candlelight catches across the sharp lines of his face, softening nothing about him. If anything, it only makes him look more dangerous. More unreal.
You instinctively incline your head, polite as you were taught. “Father Jud…”
He waves it off immediately, not rude, just firm. “Good evening. No need for formalities like that.”
The correction makes you freeze for half a second before you nod. “Of course. Sorry.”
“No, it’s alright,” he says quietly.
And then he steps closer. The air shifts with him somehow, warming around you until he’s close enough for you to smell the faint traces of incense clinging to him and something warmer underneath. Something unmistakably him. Your pulse stumbles when his fingers gently lift your chin, guiding your gaze up to his.
Up close the candlelight dances across his features, turning his eyes impossibly dark. You can make out the faint freckles scattered over his cheeks, the slight tension in his jaw like he’s holding himself together by sheer force alone.
“Why are you here?” he asks softly.
You should step back. Keep your polite distance. But you can’t seem to move.
“I don’t know,” you admit truthfully, your voice thinner than intended. “I just…felt the need to come here.”
His gaze lingers on you for a moment too long. For one dangerous second it flicks down to your lips before returning to your eyes so quickly you almost convince yourself you imagined it.
“You’re always welcome here,” he murmurs. “This is a sanctuary for all those in need.”
“I know, Father,” you whisper. “Thank you.”
He smiles then. Warm and devastating. The same smile that has haunted you through lonely nights and guilty dreams alike.
His free hand settles carefully against your waist, large and warm even through the thin fabric of your summer dress. The touch feels electric, enough to pull a shaky breath from your lungs. Slowly he guides you backwards until your hip presses against the edge of the altar, cold marble contrasting sharply against the heat suddenly blooming through your body.
“Tell me,” he says quietly, voice rougher now. “Is this what your heart truly desires?”
You swallow hard. Your first instinct is to lie. But standing beneath God and candlelight, with him looking at you like that, you can’t bring yourself to.
“Yes, Father.”
Something in him breaks at the answer. His hand drifts slowly along your side, over the curve of your waist and down your thigh until he hooks your leg around his hip. The movement pulls him directly between your legs and suddenly the hard length of him presses firmly against you through layers of fabric. Undeniable. Sinful. Real.
Your breath catches.
Your hand finds the back of his neck instinctively, fingers curling into the soft hair there as you press closer without even realizing it. His head dips forward in something dangerously close to surrender, his grip tightening on your thigh while both of you breathe hard in the close proximity.
“Father?” you whisper shakily.
“I am going to hell for this,” he mumbles against your mouth before lifting his gaze back to yours. His free hand cups your cheek with startling tenderness, thumb brushing softly along your jaw like he’s trying to memorize the feel of you.
Your eyes drop briefly to his lips before finding his gaze again. “I’ll follow close behind then.”
That’s all it takes. He kisses you like a man starving.
Not polite. Not restrained. Nothing like the composed priest standing at the pulpit every Sunday. His mouth crashes against yours with the force of something long denied, long imagined. Like he’s thought about this far too many nights and finally lost the strength to resist it.
One of his hands tangles tightly into your hair while the other grips your thigh hard enough to bruise. A needy little sound slips from your throat and he swallows it instantly, pressing you harder against the altar as his grip shifts lower, squeezing at your ass.
Your head falls back when his mouth leaves yours.
He kisses down your jaw, your throat, lingering at every pulse point until your hands are buried helplessly in his hair. There’s confidence in the way he touches you, in the way his mouth worships your skin, far more than someone denied intimacy for years should possess.
His lips drift lower. Across your collarbone. Into the soft valley between your breasts.
Then he unties the front of your dress. Cool air kisses your skin as he bares your chest to him fully and the look on his face nearly ruins you.
“You’re divine,” he breathes, awestruck.
Then his mouth finds your breast.
You moan softly the second his lips close around your nipple, unabashed and desperate in your need as he sucks gently, greedily. One large hand cups the other breast, squeezing softly, feeling the weight and softness of you while you arch further into his touch.
“Father Jud…” you gasp shakily.
“God help me,” he groans against your skin as he presses his face between your breasts like it’s the holiest place he’s ever known.
Your fingers rake through his dark hair while he stills there for just a second, breathing hard against your chest like he’s trying to gather control again. But it doesn’t last long. Nothing about this feels controlled anymore. His mouth moves to your other breast, giving it the same reverent attention while one of your hands fumbles blindly between your bodies for the zipper of his slacks. You finally manage to tug it down just enough to slip your hand inside his underwear.
He’s hard and heavy in your palm. The second you wrap your hand around him he goes completely still against you, a sharp hiss leaving him at the contact.
“Jesus…” he breathes helplessly.
You bite back a smug little smile as your hand begins to move slowly over him and he lets you. Completely.
His whole body jerks in your hand. A broken sound escapes him, rough and wrecked, his forehead falling against your chest while your fingers stroke him slowly, experimentally, feeling the sheer size and heat of him pulse in your palm. The candles around the altar flicker wildly, throwing gold across the sharp lines of his face, the sinful parting of his lips.
You had never seen him like this.
Not composed. Not gentle and distant behind folded hands and holy scripture.
Just a man. A desperate one.
“Don’t—” he breathes shakily, though his hips betray him immediately, pressing further into your touch. “God, don’t start something you can’t finish.”
The warning only makes warmth coil lower in your stomach.
“And what if I want to finish it?” you whisper.
His eyes lift to yours then.
Dark. Starving.
You feel the exact moment something inside him snaps.
His hand tangles tightly into your hair before he kisses you again, harder this time, messy and consuming. Your back arches against the altar as his tongue slips into your mouth and steals the breath from your lungs. The church suddenly feels too warm, too small, filled with the sound of breathing and desperate sounds neither of you bother hiding anymore.
“Father—”
“Jud,” he interrupts against your mouth immediately, almost angry with it. “Please. Just Jud.”
The plea hits deeper than it should.
“Jud,” you whisper obediently, and he groans like the sound alone could ruin him forever.
His hand slides beneath your dress, fingertips dragging up the inside of your thigh until your body trembles around him. He feels it instantly. Every reaction. Every tiny shiver.
“So sensitive,” he murmurs, dazed by it.
Your breath catches as his fingers press between your thighs over soaked fabric and his head drops forward with a low curse.
“Jesus Christ,” he whispers hoarsely. “You’re already—”
You whimper softly when he rubs slow pressure there, your grip tightening around him instinctively. His hips buck once into your hand before he catches himself, chest heaving beneath the loosened collar of his shirt.
The sight of him undone like this makes your entire body ache.
“You have any idea,” he breathes against your lips, “how many nights I’ve prayed this away?”
Your heart stutters. “And did it work?”
A humorless laugh leaves him. “No.”
Then his fingers slip beneath your underwear and you nearly lose your mind right there against the altar.
Your mouth falls open soundlessly as he touches you properly for the first time, rough fingertips finding heat and softness and every place that makes your knees weaken instantly. He watches your face the entire time like devotion, like worship, like he’s memorizing every expression you make for confession later.
“Beautiful,” he whispers again, almost disbelieving. “You’re so beautiful.”
Your hand leaves him only long enough to fumble with the buttons of his shirt, desperate for more skin, more warmth. You shove the fabric off his shoulders clumsily and he helps impatiently, breathing hard when your palms slide over his bare chest.
Then suddenly he lifts you effortlessly onto the altar.
You gasp as the cold marble kisses your thighs.
“Jud—”
“I know,” he says immediately, voice wrecked. “I know where we are.”
But he doesn’t stop.
His large hands spread your thighs wider, his stare fixed between them with open hunger now, reverence twisted into something dangerous. You can barely breathe under the intensity of it.
“You still want this?” he asks roughly.
“Yes.”
“Tell me.”
“Yes,” you plead instantly. “Please.”
Something feral flashes across his face.
He steps between your legs again, one hand wrapping around himself while the other grips your thigh to ground himself. Your pulse pounds violently as he lines himself up slowly, both of you shaking now from sheer anticipation.
The tip of him drags through your slickness once and his head falls back with a groan so deep it echoes through the empty church.
“God forgive me…”
And then—
You wake with a violent gasp.
Darkness.
Your bedroom ceiling.
Your chest heaves painfully as you bolt upright in bed, tangled in sheets damp with sweat. For a second you genuinely don’t know where you are. Your heart is hammering so hard it almost hurts.
The dream still clings to your skin like heat. You press a shaky hand over your face. Embarrassed.
“Oh my God…”
As you move your head just slightly, you catch the beginning of dawn outside of your window; pale blue starting to bleed into the sky.
And somewhere far away, church bells begin to ring.
Thanks for reading 🩶
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tags (tell me if you wanna out or in!) @rhapsodyofdarkness @judasjud @rosetintmworld @likedovesinthewnd @ch3rrybl0ssomtree @poetrypoesblehhh @sidelit @knives-out-boy @soealt @explorerof-theunknown @post-apocalyptic-rebel-leader @strawberrymochi07 @peelfreshapple @sea-eyed-dream @roryheartz @prxncess-gestirn @doomprincesswrld @dumb-blondeee
tags: friends to???, (mutual) pining, idiots in love, fluff, hurt/comfort, protective!Frankie
summary: The only thing worse than a terrible first date is realizing you'd rather have spent the evening with your best friend.
word count: ~ 1,6k
read on ao3 ⟡
It had been a horrible date.
You should’ve known the second the guy, Mark, only talked about crypto and how his parents had inherited money from some fucking oil empire. It became painfully obvious within the first ten minutes that he'd never had to worry about paying rent for his absurdly overpriced downtown apartment with its skyline view.
Unlike you.
Some months you stretched every single penny until it practically begged for mercy, just to make sure you made it to the next paycheck without surviving on instant noodles. There was no trust fund waiting in the wings. No wealthy parents. No safety net.
So it was safe to say your realities couldn't have been more different.
You tried to be polite, carrying the conversation where you could, but when he started talking about tennis lessons and the private coach he'd hired to improve his serve, your mind quietly checked out.
Instead, it wandered somewhere infinitely more familiar.
To Frankie.
You could picture him so vividly it almost hurt. His strong arm draped over the back of your chair, rolling those warm brown eyes so dramatically they'd practically disappear into his skull while muttering something about rich dudes being all talk and no action.
"Bet I could beat him at arm wrestling."
You'd ugly-snort into laughter, hiding your face against the broad shoulder straining beneath his well-worn denim shirt.
Frankie would grin. That crooked, impossibly boyish grin you loved so much. The one that somehow made you forget the man pushing forty. The one that softened the hard edges years of war, grief, and bad decisions had carved into him.
With terrifying clarity, it hit you just how much you missed him. He'd been away for weeks on another flying contract, and his absence had lodged itself somewhere uncomfortable between your ribs.
While Mark rambled on about God knew what, you reached for your phone beneath the table. Your last message still sat there.
You: Text me when you're back on homeland. Take care. ❤️
—
At least Mark paid.
Outside the restaurant, you exchanged an awkward hug before climbing into your ancient Honda Civic.
The second the driver's door shut, you sent him a polite text thanking him for the evening, telling him you didn't think you were compatible and blocked his number.
With a tired sigh, you pulled onto the road. Taylor Swift filled the car as The Prophecy echoed through the speakers. You really didn't know how you kept picking the wrong men. None of them ever sparked the kindling you kept hoping for. Most of them only managed to light every warning sign imaginable.
Your thoughts drifted aimlessly until your car answered with a horrible metallic groan.
"...No."
A plume of white smoke burst from beneath the hood.
"No, no, no—"
The engine sputtered violently as you barely managed to wrestle the Civic onto the gravel shoulder before it gave one final, pitiful cough and died.
"Shit!"
Your palm slammed against the steering wheel before the horn blared into the empty night and your head fell back against the seat.
Perfect.
It was pitch black. Nothing but distant city lights behind you. No road signs. No passing traffic. No anything.
Your eyes drifted toward the dashboard.
11:57 p.m.
Great.
Tow services weren't exactly eager to rescue people in the middle of nowhere after midnight. Even if they were you couldn't afford one. Your mind raced through every person you could possibly call when your phone suddenly lit up.
Francisco 💙 calling...
A laugh escaped you before you even answered.
"Heyyy, preciosa."
God, you'd missed that voice.
"How are you doing?"
Despite everything, you smiled. The real smile. The one that only ever seemed to belong to him.
"Hi, how was your flight back?"
He exhaled dramatically. "Had some turbulence. Sucked. But I landed in one piece, so..."
"Thank God."
A comfortable silence settled between you.
Then—
"You home?"
You shook your head before remembering he couldn't see it. "No, sir."
A sheepish pause. "Actually... I was on a date."
"...A date?" His voice flattened immediately. "With who?"
"His name's Mark. Rich crypto guy."
A sharp inhale crackled through the speaker. "Damn."
You couldn't help laughing.
"One of those again?"
"Don't get me started. It was horrible. You would've hated him. He even smelled expensive."
Frankie let out a low whistle. "One of those, huh? I really gotta start questioning your taste in men, preciosa."
You snorted. "Fair."
Silence lingered another moment.
"I..." You sighed. "Actually, my car broke down on the way home. I'm stranded."
Another beat.
"...You are what?"
"My Honda died somewhere off Highway 65."
"I managed to get onto the shoulder, but it just…quit."
"You in the car?"
"Yeah. But it won't start. And there's no point in calling a tow truck now."
"Why the hell would you call a tow truck?"
His answer came so quickly it almost overlapped yours.
"You call me."
"You literally just got home, Frankie."
"So what ?"
You heard keys jangling. A door opening. His footsteps already moving.
"Send me your location."
"Frankie...it's almost midnight."
"Exactly. And you're sitting alone on the side of a highway. I'll come get you and tomorrow morning Will and I'll come back for your Honda."
"No, it's okay. I don't want to cause any—"
"—unpleasantness?" Frankie actually scoffed. "The only unpleasant thing right now is you sitting alone in the dark."
His voice changed, dropped lower. Got firmer. It was his military tone. The one that left absolutely no room for negotiation.
"Send.Me.Your.Location."
You sank farther into your seat. "...Okay."
Your phone had, naturally, chosen tonight to hover at one percent. You hurriedly shared your location. The screen blinked once and then the call died.
"...Fuck."
The silence that followed somehow felt louder than before.
—
Without the distraction of your phone, the minutes crawled by. You tried not to think about every horror movie you'd ever seen that started with a broken-down car. Nervously, you nibbled at your thumb until finally a pair of familiar headlights cut through the darkness.
The engine had barely fallen silent before Frankie climbed out of his old truck—Betsy, as he lovingly called her.
With far more flourish than necessary, your car door swung open, letting in the cold night air. He leaned one arm against the frame, pointing at you.
"You okay?"
You nodded, only for your eyes to unexpectedly fill with tears of relief that blurred your vision.
"Did somebody stop?"
You shook your head. Only then did he visibly exhale.
"Dios mío... you scared me."
You let out a watery laugh. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"
He immediately shook his head. "None of that."
His voice softened. "C'mon. Let's get you warm, hm?"
He helped you out of your car, walked around to grab your bag from the passenger seat and slung it over his shoulder with zero fucks given before tossing it onto the backseat of his truck.
Without really thinking, you folded into him while he held the passenger door open for you.
He was warm. Smelling faintly of sweat, gasoline, and the aftershave he always wore. His arms came around you without hesitation, secure and intimate, before he pressed a kiss into your hair. Your heart squeezed painfully inside your chest at that.
"Thank you," you could only murmur against his broad chest, the words muffled by his Henley.
"For what exactly?"
"For rescuing me. For..." You smiled to yourself. "Being you. For everything, I guess."
He huffed a quiet laugh. "You're gonna have to be a little more specific than that."
You only shook your head against him, letting his warmth seep into every part of you.
It was the first time all day, honestly, the first time since he'd left that you felt completely at ease.
"Missed you," you admitted.
You felt him smile against your hair. "That so?"
"Mhm."
A beat passed.
"Missed you too."
His arms tightened just a little, and you could've sworn his heartbeat picked up beneath your cheek.
—
Once you were settled in Betsy and the heater had begun chasing the chill from your bones, Frankie handed you a charging cable.
"So your phone doesn't die on me again."
Then a bottle of water, of course. Frankie the caretaker.
"I brought you something from the trip," he said after a few miles, eyes never leaving the road. "It's in the glove compartment."
You blinked at him. "You... brought me something?"
He shrugged.
"My birthday isn't until summer."
"Oh, I know."
Another shrug. "But I saw it and thought of you."
You smiled despite yourself before opening the compartment. A small bracelet slipped into your palm, decorated with tiny shells and beautiful blue stones that caught the dashboard lights. It was gorgeous.
"Frankie..."
You immediately fastened it around your wrist.
"I love it."
"Really?"
He finally glanced over for half a second.
"I wasn't sure. But the lady in the shop said it'd make a nice gift for someone special."
You looked up. "Someone special?"
He groaned. "Oh, please. Don't start."
A grin tugged at your lips. "Sorry, sorry. I'll behave."
He snorted, shaking his head as he looked back at the road.
You absentmindedly turned the bracelet around your wrist with your thumb, watching the little blue stones catch the passing streetlights.
He'd seen it. Thought of you. Bought it without needing a reason or an occasion.
Your date hadn't even remembered that you didn’t like coffee. Frankie had crossed half the county in the middle of the night and somehow still found the time to bring you home a piece of the ocean.
tags: mutual pining, dual POV, flirting, banter, slow burn, get to know eachother, meet-cute via dating app, insecurities, soft!Frankie, all the fluff (seriously it’s so cute it may give you cavities), emotional healing, singledad!Frankie, mention of drug usage (in the past), no physical description of reader apart from wavy hair and a fuller figure, some bad jokes, body image issues, awkward but cute Frankie 𓂃⋆.˚
summary: You swiped right on a man in a baseball cap and somehow found the kind of warmth you stopped believing in.
𓂃⋆.˚ author's note: I woke up with this idea earlier this week and got completely possessed by it ever since. I had such a blast writing these two, and I’m pretty sure this won’t be the last time we meet them. There’s still so much left to tell. Happy Frankie Friday, my loves! 🤍
word count: 9,4 k (don't ask me any questions)
𓂃⋆.˚ read on ao3 𓂃⋆.˚
fat - you ; italics - Frankie
Your best friend had insisted—borderline bullied—you into making a dating profile after almost two years of being single.
It wasn’t that you hadn’t tried. You went on dates; they just never led anywhere. If the guy even showed up, it usually ended the same way: ghosted, breadcrumbed, or fed the classic “It’s not you, it’s me” (when it was clearly them still tangled up with their ex). If things made it past a second date, they got physical too fast and faded even faster.
There was always one thing they had in common: they wanted the curves in the dark, not in daylight. And after your last breakup, you’d learned the lesson early, that some men loved the fantasy of softness but never the reality of it.
You’d spent years fighting your body, trying to shrink yourself into someone else’s comfort zone. Diet after diet. Skipping meals because thinness was trendy when you were a teen. You were always “the bigger friend,” even though, looking back, you never really were. People just made you feel like it, front row seat: your own grandmother, who once pinched your stomach when you sat down and said, “Careful it doesn’t get any more.”
And it stuck. Lodged somewhere deep, whispering through adolescence, through early adulthood: don’t take up too much space.
But now, finally, you were learning to make peace with yourself. You’d figured out what clothes made you feel good, learned how to accentuate the parts you actually liked. You didn’t give a damn about the number on the clothing tags anymore. You wouldn’t call it self-love, but you were neutral, calm even. You could stand in front of the mirror without tearing yourself apart, trace the curve of your waist with your eyes, see softness without punishment. For the first time in your life, your reflection didn’t feel like an enemy.
And maybe that was enough.
Well, until now apparently. Your best friend told you about this app where women have to usually take the first step. You were a little hesitant at first, but ultimately you’ve downloaded it. And now there you were—staring at a blank profile that asked you to describe yourself in 300 characters or less. How do you sum up years of learning to coexist with your own reflection into something flirty and clickable? You settled for honesty. A little humor. Something like “Too old for games, too soft for casual. But I make a mean chocolate cake.”
You picked three pictures of yourself.
The first was one of your favorites: taken at the beach, hair wild in the wind, no makeup, just you. Laughing, carefree, the sunset painting everything in soft orange light. You looked like someone who still believed good things could happen.
The second was from your high school friend’s wedding, a rare occasion where you actually wore a dress. Green and low enough to show a hint of cleavage, but still soft and elegant. You were smiling at your reflection in the mirror, curls pinned in a half up-do that somehow stayed perfect all night. You remembered how comfortable you’d felt that day.
The third was your favorite in a different way. You in the kitchen, wearing that ridiculous strawberry-print apron, flour dusting the counter, mid-stir with a wooden spoon. It wasn’t flattering or staged, but it was real. You, in your element. Doing something that made you feel at peace.
After finishing setting up your profile, you scrolled through the usual parade of gym selfies, truck poses, and men holding fish until you almost deleted the app altogether.
Until you saw him.
A Standard Oil baseball cap was the first thing you’ve noticed. A soft smile that didn’t look forced. A little scruff, brown eyes that looked like they’d seen too much and still managed to stay kind. You didn’t know what it was exactly, but something about him felt... safe. Like maybe you wouldn’t have to explain yourself too much to entertain a fantasy most men felt more comfortable with than the real you.
Francisco, 38
📍Within 10 km 🚁 Helicopter pilot | ☕ Coffee addict | 👧 Dad to the coolest 5-year-old
You stared at the screen a little too long before whispering under your breath, “What’s the worst that could happen?”
So you swiped right, not expecting much. You lingered a little longer on his profile, curious to see if your first impression actually matched the rest. To your surprise it did. Even though everything about it was simple, almost understated, something about him held your attention.
The first picture was him in that Standard Oil cap again, and you couldn’t help but wonder: did he own several of the same one, or was it the cap? The kind he wore everywhere, every day? (A little gross, honestly, if it was the latter.) He was sitting in the driver’s seat of a truck, sunlight catching the sharp line of his jaw. Unmistakably handsome. Lethal even, if you looked too long.
Then a candid — his, you assumed, daughter perched on his shoulders at the park, her laughter frozen midair while he wore that small, quiet smile that somehow said more than words ever could. A real warmth radiating from the picture. One that shot you right in the heart. You wondered what happened to the mother of his child. Did they split, or was it something more tragic?
A blurry concert shot followed, probably taken by one of his friends. The lighting was awful, but it didn’t matter. He was laughing, beer in hand, and there was something so alive about it that you found yourself smiling too.
The last one was a hiking trail selfie. No grin this time, just those serious brown eyes and the beard that was starting to show more salt than pepper. He looked steady, solid and real. That wasn’t the profile of a man who tried too hard, and you liked that. Amid the endless parade of self-proclaimed alpha males, he was the kind of man you’d never have dared to hit on out in the wild. But behind a screen, you felt braver. So you waited, sat, queued an episode of your favorite show, and—
Ping.
The sound of the notification ringed in your ears. You told yourself you didn’t want to get your hopes up too high, that it would be the interesting pilot from earlier. But your heart jumped nonetheless and sure enough….
It’s a match! Looks like you and Francisco Morales are equally curious 👀
Oh fuck.
You opened the app with a little more excitement than was probably decent and stared at the blinking cursor on the screen.
It was your move.
Don’t be too eager, you told yourself.
Be funny, but not too much or you’ll sound goofy. How much flirting is too much flirting? Can I tell him how handsome I think he is in the first message? What if he swiped right accidentally? What if your first message is not catchy enough?
Okay, deep breath. Just type something. It’s gonna be fine. Your thumbs hovered over the keyboard for a full minute before your brain finally threw you a line that wasn’t completely tragic.
Alright, serious question, you typed, do you actually own other hats, or is that Standard Oil cap your emotional support item?
You hit send before you could overthink it, then immediately regretted it.
Oh God. That was too much, wasn’t it? You should’ve gone with something normal. Hey, nice to meet you. Or You have a really cute smile. Not… whatever that was.
You locked your phone, tossed it on the couch, and swore to yourself you wouldn’t check it for at least ten minutes. But then another ding came up and you reached for it faster than you’d realized. It was a message. From him.
Depends who’s asking. If it’s a hat critic, I’m pleading innocent. If it’s someone giving me a hard time on a dating app, I’ll allow it.
You smiled, surprised at how fast he replied.
Okay, not bad. A little funny, a little guarded, like he didn’t try too hard but cared enough to respond quickly.
So it is your emotional support hat, then?
Maybe. Would it be so bad if it was?
Nah, we all need something to hold onto. For some it’s a hat, others have some stuffed animals, others have rings.
Rings? Is that your thing?
Yeah, I play with them when I’m nervous. I mostly wear five. One of them is a moonstone on my right index finger. Always. If you see me without them something’s terribly wrong.
Same with my hat, mostly at least. Now I need to see a pic of the ring.
[Attached photo of your hand] I have ugly, chubby hands. No comment please.
I like your hands. They look soft, capable. And the ring is unique, looks vintage?
It is! You have a good eye, Francisco.
Oh God, no one calls me that. Frankie’s enough.
Okay Frankie :) But I like your name. It’s not an American name. Is it Spanish?
Sí. ¿Hablas español?
You caught yourself grinning at your phone, wide and unguarded. The conversation flowed so naturally and effortlessly, it made it feel like it was its own language between you. You hadn’t felt that in a long time, least of all with a man you’d just met online.
Sorry to inform you, but my Spanish is absolutely horrible. You’d probably lose me at Sí and Gracias.
Damn, and here I was about to switch the whole chat to Spanish.
Lo siento.
Está bien. At least you’d be polite while lost.
Exactly. I’d wander off with good manners.
Good to know. Guess I’ll stick to English then. Also, bonus, I could curse you and you wouldn’t even know ;)
Yeah, you could tell me how horrendous my hair is and it would still sound like a love ballad.
Probably. I wouldn’t do that tho, only speaking a language you understand too, promise :)
After that, you texted the whole evening. He told you about his job as a pilot—you learned quickly that he flew helicopters, mostly medevac flights now. You told him about your job at a small clothing store in the local mall. It wasn’t your dream job, but it paid the bills and came with its own kind of charm. You liked the regulars, the ones who stopped by just to chat and left without buying anything. By the end of the night, he sent his number, claiming the app’s notifications were driving him crazy. So you switched to iMessage instead.
The switch to iMessage made everything easier. Faster. More natural.
By the second day, it became a habit. A little ping during your lunch break, another when you got home, one before bed.
Frankie sent photos sometimes — a blurry sunset out of his cockpit window, Marisol’s new dinosaur sticker collection, a coffee cup with “Emergency fuel” scribbled on it in sharpie.
You teased him about his hat again one evening after work.
You: So, be honest. Are you balding under that cap? 👨🦲
Frankie: Wow. Straight for the jugular I see.
You: I mean… you do wear it a lot.
Frankie: I do not have a bald spot, thank you very much.
You: That sounds suspiciously like something a bald man would say 🧐
Frankie: Hold on. Evidence incoming.
A few seconds later, your phone buzzed again — Image attachment.
He was in what looked like his bathroom, fresh out of the shower. A mirror selfie, something you usually cringed a little about. His hair was dark, thick, and sticking out in every direction. It looked soft enough to run your hands through, and for a few seconds, you caught yourself daydreaming about how those strands might feel between your fingers. A few damp strands clung to his temple. He wore a faded grey t-shirt that barely survived over his biceps, the cotton stretched tight where he held his phone. He looked a little tired, maybe even shy about the photo, but it didn’t matter. He was beautiful.
You: Okay, you win 😳 No bald spot.
Frankie: Told you 😉
You: You look… uh, normal.
Frankie: Normal?
You: I mean, in a good way. Like, very… hairy.
Frankie: You’re really bad at this, you know that? But God help me, adorable too.
You: Shut up 😅
You spent an embarrassing amount of time staring at that photo after he stopped replying for the night. He was just so real. A little scruffy, a little imperfect and somehow that made him even hotter. Which only made the creeping thought worse: what would a man like him want with someone like you?
For the next few days, you tried to push it aside. It didn’t help that he kept texting. Random little messages over the day that made you smile at your phone like an idiot. You no longer felt the need to make yourself rare, the way you’d once been told would make you wanted. With him, it was enough to simply be.
Frankie: ¡Buenos días! Hope today’s nice to you 😚
You: So far, it’s tolerable.
Frankie: That’s the spirit. Want me to send coffee through the screen? ☕️
You: Please. Make it two actually.
Later that week, you found yourself staring at his name lighting up your screen again. It was late, and you were too tired to filter yourself this time.
You: Do you ever feel like you’re not someone people look at that way?
Frankie: That way?
You: Like… the kind of person someone actually wants. Not just “nice” or “funny” or “good to talk to.” The kind of person people want.
Frankie: Yeah, prob more times than I’d admit.
You stared at the typing dots for a moment, and then another message came through.
Frankie: But if it helps, I’ve been talking to someone lately who completely messes with that belief.
You: Oh yeah? Who’s the lucky one?
Frankie: She’s got a thing for rings. Pretends she’s mean but she’s actually just soft.
You: You’re ridiculous 🫣
Frankie: Maybe. But I mean it.
You didn’t know what to say after that. Your chest felt tight in the best possible way.
You: You’re… really good at this whole texting thing, you know.
Frankie: Trying my best.
You: You… saw my pic, right? And the one or two I’ve sent you. I’m not thin and I don’t… Let’s just say, I can’t believe you’re still texting me.
Frankie: Why wouldn’t I still text you?
You stared at the message longer than you meant to, your thumb hesitantly hovering above the keyboard. It would be easier to brush it off, throw in a joke, pretend you hadn’t meant it. But you were tired of pretending.
You: Because most guys don’t. Not after the “real” pictures. They like the right angles, the filters, the version that fits their fantasy. But when it comes down to all of me, they usually change their mind. Fast. Or worse, only use me in the bedroom. Lights out.
You hesitated, watching the typing dots appear, disappear, appear again.
Frankie: Then they’re idiots.
You waited. You didn’t know what else to expect. A polite you deserve better, maybe. Something generic and careful. But then another message came through and your breath caught.
Frankie: You’re beautiful. Not the kind that needs filters or a hundred takes to look right. Just… the kind that sticks in your head. And I’m gonna be honest, excuse me if that’s too much, but you’re fucking hot too.
You stared at the words, half smiling, half wanting to cry. No one had ever said that like it was a simple truth. No hesitation. No hidden “but.”
You: You don’t even know me.
Frankie: I know enough to see you. The way you talk. The way you look at things. The way you make me laugh when I don’t expect to. That’s not surface-level stuff. And the rest? I’ve seen every pic you’ve sent, looked at them multiple times too. You don’t have to hide any part of yourself from me.
A lump rose in your throat, uninvited tears stinging your eyes. You shook your head, a quiet laugh slipping out through the ache. Who was this man?
You: You say that so easily.
Frankie: It’s not easy, but it’s honest.
He sent another message a few seconds later:
Frankie: Look, I don’t want to be another guy who makes you feel like you have to prove you’re worth wanting. You already are. In broad daylight too. I just hope I get the chance to show you that.
You sat there, phone lighting up your face in the dark, heart thudding like it was trying to tell you something you weren’t ready to believe. You’d been told nice things before, but never like this. Never with this kind of quiet certainty.
You typed back, hands trembling a little.
You: You’re kind of ruining all my trust issues right now, you know that?
Frankie: Good. About time someone did.
Frankie thought he knew what love was. He’d seen it in his parents, the way his mom tucked a hand into his dad’s back pocket like it belonged there. He’d seen it in the brotherhood of the army, in the unspoken loyalty that bound men together under fire. Hell, he’d even seen it in all the chick flicks his exes made him sit through, rolling his eyes but secretly studying.
But reality had been different for him. Love always felt like something he was chasing but could never quite catch. More like a myth, a creature you heard stories about but never really found.
He’d been in love once or twice. The first time was back in high school, with the girl who was too cool for him, the one always smoking by the bleachers. He’d been a lanky kid then, shy to the bone, too tongue-tied to ask her out—so he watched from the sidelines as his best friend ended up with her instead. It gutted him in ways he didn’t understand at the time. Even years later, he sometimes caught himself thinking about her, like a phantom bruise he couldn’t stop pressing.
The second time was with his ex. You’d think, if he told the story, that he’d talk about her. About knowing she was “the one” he’d have kids with. But that wasn’t the truth. The truth was, the real love story of his life was his daughter Marisol. Nothing, no one, compared to the way the world shifted the moment he looked into a pair of dark brown eyes that mirrored his own. That was the new gravity he orbited around.
They’d met when they were both at their lowest—two people trying to stay afloat in the same storm. When she got pregnant, it was already too late for an abortion, and she’d made it clear she wasn’t ready to be a mom. They spent most of the pregnancy in rehab. Frankie was clawing his way toward clean, holding onto the idea of being there for his daughter, while she was still fighting her demons. With little success. Marisol was born early, small, and shaking—withdrawal already written into her first breaths. And when things between them inevitably fell apart, he mourned. Not her, not even the relationship, but the version of himself who believed he could fix it all. Still, he knew one thing wouldn’t ever change: his love for his child. That was permanent. Untouchable.
So he got custody of Marisol and tried everything in his power to stay afloat—to give her a good life, even without her mom in the picture. He moved back in with his parents for a while, swallowing his pride until he was steady on his feet again. He fought to get his flying license reinstated, found a job flexible enough to let him be part of Marisol’s life the way she deserved. None of it would’ve been possible without his parents’ help.
Things between him and his dad hadn’t always been easy. His father was the quiet, stern type—the kind of man who measured love in acts, not words. After Frankie’s discharge and the mess that followed, there’d been distance, disappointment that neither of them quite knew how to fix. But when Marisol was born, something shifted. His father had held her once and that was all it took. The old hardness in his expression cracked, replaced by a look Frankie had never seen before. It didn’t erase the years between them, but it built something new on top of them.
His mother, meanwhile, had always been his anchor. The way she cradled Marisol, humming the same Spanish lullabies she used to sing to him, made something deep in his chest ache in the best way.
He spent countless sleepless nights in the rocking chair with Marisol pressed against his chest, skin to skin because he’d read somewhere it helped with bonding. His mother always seemed to know what Marisol needed before he did—a kind of witchcraft that left him humbled and in awe. She never scolded, never made him feel like he was failing. Just guided him, patient and steady, with the kind of gentleness only a mother could muster.
Every time he tried to thank her—truly thank her—for holding them both together when he barely could, she just brushed him off. She’d press a kiss to his hair while Marisol slept in her arms and whisper, “That’s what mothers do, cariño mío.” And that was that.
When Marisol turned one, his parents insisted on throwing her a birthday party—cake, balloons, the whole Morales clan, even distant cousins Frankie barely remembered. His dad built a tiny swing in the backyard, his mom baked enough food to feed the neighborhood. Frankie watched her pass Marisol from one pair of arms to the next, everyone cooing and laughing, and for the first time in a long while, the air around him didn’t feel heavy.
His best friend and brother in everything but blood Santi became Marisol’s godfather and never once wavered. He’d show up with groceries, with toys, with bad jokes at two in the morning when the baby wouldn’t sleep. The other guys helped too—each in their own way—dropping by between their own families and struggles, making sure Frankie never felt completely alone in it.
By the time Marisol was three, he’d moved into a small house of his own, close to his parents. He learned to juggle work and kindergarten drop-offs, bedtime stories and flight schedules. It wasn’t easy, but it worked. And every night, no matter how late he came home, he’d still go into her room, press a kiss into her messy curls—lighter than his, but just as wild—and think that maybe, finally, he’d done something right.
Life got busy after that—joyfully, exhaustingly busy. Between work and raising a tiny human, there wasn’t much room left for anything else. Least of all dating. Frankie didn’t feel lonely, but his friends nudged him towards dating, most of all Benny, so he found himself downloading the app he met you on only a few weeks ago.
He stopped believing in fairytales for a long time already. Stopped chasing myths. He told himself love wasn’t real, not the way movies or songs painted it at least. And most importantly, no partner meant no one to be close enough to see the shadows he carried. No one asked him to set them down, because by God, he had a lot of those.
This all changed with your first message. You weren’t like the rest—he learned that quickly. You were witty, funny, attentive in a way that made it hard for him to keep his walls up. And for the first time in years, he just let it happen. He found himself smiling whenever your name lit up his screen, waiting for those little glimpses of your day in texts or random photos you sent. He even started listening to the songs you shared—pop songs he usually rolled his eyes at—and made a playlist with all of them, adding a few of his own so he could send it back.
Somewhere along the way, you became part of his routine without him meaning to. Between making Marisol’s breakfast, dropping her off at kindergarten, and flying, he spent every spare minute texting you.
When you opened up about your insecurities one evening, his blood boiled. How could anyone treat you like that? Because of what, your body? That was absurd to him. He adored your curves. Sometimes—if he was honest, more than sometimes—he caught himself daydreaming about how soft you must feel beneath his calloused hands. He imagined what it would be like to hold you, to pull you in, to feel you pressed against him. And he couldn’t, for the life of him, understand how anyone had ever failed to see how beautiful you were when he couldn’t stop thinking about you.
You: I was thinking 🤔
Frankie: Dangerous.
You: What if we had a call before meeting? Just to, you know, check the vibes first. Also, tbh. I’m really curious about what you sound like 👀
Frankie: Sounds like a good plan. Would tonight work, or is that too spontaneous for you?
You: Nah, it’s fine. (Only shitting my pants a little 😬)
Frankie: It’s just me.
You: “Just”? Did you take a look in the mirror recently, pilot boy? 😏
Frankie: Barely.
Frankie: Is it okay if I call you after I put my daughter to bed?
You: Yeah, no problem. I’ll be waiting ☺️
He stared at his phone for a full minute before hitting call, heart hammering like a war drum. Dios mío, it was just a fucking phone call. So why the hell was he this nervous? His thoughts started spiraling before he could stop them. Was it too early to already feel drawn to you? Maybe you’d changed your mind. Maybe this was stupid altogether.
Then the line clicked, and your soft voice came through, a little breathless, but somehow exactly how he’d imagined.
“Hey,” you said.
“Hey,” he replied, surprised at how rough his own voice sounded. He cleared his throat, tried for casualness. “So… we’re really doing this, huh?”
You laughed, a small, nervous sound that eased something in his chest. “Guess we are.”
The first few minutes were harmless enough: talk about work, about your cat, he learned was named Merlin. About how the app kept glitching on you and that you didn’t open it in days. That actually made his pulse kick up a little — that quiet, impossible hope rising that maybe you enjoyed talking to him just as much as he did with you. He found himself smiling more than he had in days during your conversation, answering questions he didn’t usually bother with, letting you tease him for saying ma’am without realizing it.
And then you asked about Marisol. Not the quick, polite kind of question, you sounded genuinely curious. He hesitated, thumb running along the edge of his mug he balanced on his thigh, while he was sitting on his sofa. Most people got uncomfortable when he mentioned his kid, especially once they realized he was raising her alone. How many times did conversations die down because of him being a dad. There was always that flicker of oh, that quiet distance that followed. He didn’t want that with you, but he also didn’t wanna hide the most important part of his life.
“She’s five,” he said finally. “Kind of runs my life.”
“That’s a good thing, though, right?”
“Yeah,” he said, smiling. “Best thing, actually.”
He could’ve left it there. Should’ve, maybe. But something about the warmth in your voice made him want to say more.
“Her mom and I… we met when we weren’t in a good place,” he heard himself say. “Both trying to get clean, both screwing it up more often than not. Then she got pregnant. It was… complicated. Too late for an abortion, and she wasn’t ready to be a mom. We spent most of the pregnancy in rehab.”
He went quiet for a second, waiting for the usual awkward pause, the soft oh, but it didn’t come.
“You don’t have to tell me more,” you said gently. “Only if you want to.”
Frankie let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “It’s okay. I just… sometimes it feels like too much for early small talk, you know?”
“I don’t think it’s too much,” you said. “It’s your story.”
That disarmed him more than anything else could’ve.
“Marisol was born early,” he continued, quieter now. “She had withdrawal symptoms. It was bad for a while. I got clean right before she came, but her mom couldn’t. I stayed. Took custody. Moved back in with my folks until I could figure it out.”
He paused, rubbing a hand over his face. “Sorry, that’s not exactly light conversation.”
“It’s honest,” you said softly. “I’d rather have that than shallow small talk.”
Something about the way you said it — no pity, no discomfort — made his chest tighten.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “Me too.”
After that, the conversation eased into lighter things: music, your favorite shows, the cat who apparently ran your apartment the same way Marisol ruled his place. He could still hear the smile in your voice, still feel that quiet calm that always seemed to settle over him when you spoke.
By the time you said goodnight, his cheeks ached from smiling, a feeling so unfamiliar it almost startled him. Long after the call ended, he just sat there staring at his phone, the house silent except for the low hum of the fridge and the ticking clock on the wall. It had felt easy with you, almost too easy, and that terrified him. Easy meant real. Easy meant he could lose it. For the first time in a long while, he let himself imagine what it would be like if he didn’t. Maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t ruin the first good thing that ever came his way since Marisol was born.
The next morning came faster than he would’ve liked. He overslept by only five minutes, but it was enough to throw the whole routine off. He moved through the motions with practiced precision — a remnant of his time in the Army — but without coffee, his patience ran thinner than usual.
Marisol was fussing in her car seat on the way to drop-off, and not even her favorite songs could settle her. Her little internal clock was as mussed as he felt. Usually, his little sun was a pro at goodbyes, but not today. Today she clung to him with tear-streaked cheeks and shaky hands, whispering don’t go, Daddy, and every word lodged like a stone in his chest while the clock kept ticking and a flight schedule waited for him.
He took a slow breath, reminding himself that snapping would only make it worse. So he crouched down, murmured softly until her cries quieted, and didn’t leave until her teacher managed to coax her away without more tears.
When he finally made it back to the car, he let out a long exhale and ran a hand through his hair before shoving it back under the cap without much thought. One glance in the rearview mirror caught the sight of his reflection. Tired eyes, scruffy beard, the old cap tilted a little too far forward and it made him chuckle quietly.
Your voice echoed in his head, teasing him about his “emotional support hat,” and for the first time that morning, a real smile tugged at his lips. Exhaustion and all, the thought of you managed to cut through it. That’s when it hit him: he was far more gone than he was ready to admit. And most importantly, he needed to finally meet you in person.
The whole drive to the hangar, he mulled over what to text you. Every idea sounded wrong. Either too eager, too casual, or too something. He didn’t want to come off desperate. Not pushy either. But he wanted you to know how much it mattered. How much you mattered, even if you didn’t know it yet.
By the time he parked, he still hadn’t typed a single word. His thumb hovered over the screen, the cursor blinking like it was mocking him. Finally, he sighed, muttered a quiet screw it, and started typing.
He hesitated, reread it twice, then hit send before he could change his mind.
He slipped the phone back into his pocket, the screen still glowing for a second before it went dark. Too soon to stare at it. Too soon to care this much. But he did anyway.
By the time he reached the hangar, the morning rush had fully kicked in. The metallic scent of fuel, the hum of engines warming, the rhythmic clatter of tools. Usually it centered him, anchored him into something he was used to. Today, it only made his thoughts louder.
He ran through the pre-flight checks with mechanical precision, clipboard in one hand, coffee finally in the other. Every task was muscle memory: inspecting rotor blades, checking hydraulics, logging the flight plan but his brain wasn’t staying put. It was somewhere else entirely, replaying that blinking message screen over and over again.
He’d checked his phone twice before the engine even started. Just once to make sure he hadn’t missed the notification sound. And once more to see if he’d even really hit sent.
Jesus Morales, he muttered under his breath, shaking his head. He was a grown man, a pilot for God’s sake, not some teenager waiting for a crush to text back. Still, the anticipation sat heavy in his chest, tangled with something that felt uncomfortably close to hope.
He slipped the phone into the front pocket of his flight jacket before temptation could win again. The hum of the rotor blades picked up, wind cutting through the open hangar doors, and for a moment he let himself get lost in the sound — steady, familiar, safe.
You were nervous. More than you’d ever admit. Probably more than you’d ever been for a first date before.
You’d agreed to meet Frankie at a little Italian restaurant on the outskirts of town — a fair halfway point for both of you. He’d chosen the place, and when you’d teased him about whether he took all his dates there, he’d said, “I haven’t been on a first date in years.”
Your heart had sunk a little at that. How? You couldn’t wrap your head around it. In your book, this man was everything a woman could want. He listened. He remembered small details. He reassured you when you were spiraling.
Yes, you knew he was a single dad. You’d never dated someone who was a parent before, and you found yourself thinking about that a lot. Not because you were scared of his daughter — not even about being part of her life if things worked out — but because you respected it. You respected what it meant to be responsible for a whole human being besides yourself. It was terrifying and impressive in equal measure.
A man being a dad meant he put someone else’s needs first. It meant he was careful about who he let into his little bubble — rightfully so. You thought about your own mom after your dad died, how quickly she let new people into your home, how she never stopped to ask how you felt about it. Even as a teenager, it had been hard to see someone else sitting at the table where your dad used to be.
Frankie wasn’t like that. He was cautious about what he shared, but never secretive. Every small glimpse he offered into his life with Marisol felt like being trusted with something rare and precious. You liked every bit of it.
Maybe that’s why you’d been standing in front of your full-length mirror, changing outfits for the third time already. You didn’t want to overdo it — he said the place was laid back — but you wanted to feel good in your skin. Which was, as always, a balancing act.
A dress felt too much, too formal, almost like a costume. Maybe a skort. Yeah. With tights, your favorite ankle boots, and a soft shirt. Comfortable, no wardrobe malfunctions, still cute. You pulled on the black skort, smoothed the fabric, then reached for your green corset-style top that always made you feel a little more like yourself. You found it after rummaging through the closet that definitely needed a cleanout, and when you put it on, you smiled. It fit just right — showing off your curves without screaming for attention. You looked at your reflection, tilted your head. Not bad. Not perfect. But you.
You moved on to your hair. Luckily, wash day had been kind. Your waves fell just right, so you only had to touch up a few pieces with the curling iron.
Makeup, though was different these days. You didn’t do heavy makeup anymore. You didn’t feel like hiding. Just a little blush to bring color back to your cheeks, brushing your brows into shape, a swipe of concealer to soften the shadows under your eyes — the ones that came from too many late nights and too little sleep. A touch of brown mascara, and that was it. You looked at yourself in the mirror and thought, yeah. that’s me.
You smiled, whispered under your breath, “You’ve got this.” Then you grabbed your bag, locked the door, and called an Uber.
The whole drive, your fingers couldn’t stay still. You fidgeted with the moonstone ring on your right index finger, the same one Frankie had pointed out weeks ago in one of your first conversations. Vintage, he’d said, and your heart had skipped a beat at how easily he noticed the small things.
You smiled to yourself at the memory, staring out the window as the city rolled by. Please let him be as charming as he is over text, you thought.
When you arrived, you were almost ten minutes early. Not a problem, you told yourself. Better early than late. The air had that soft, in-between chill of early evening, and the jean jacket you’d thrown on was just enough to keep you warm.
You paused by the menu posted outside the little Italian place, pretending to study it even though you weren’t really reading the words. The prices were decent, the choices solid. For a moment, that old, familiar thought flickered — maybe you should order something light, something that wouldn’t make you feel guilty later. But you pushed it away just as fast. You hadn’t eaten lunch, and you’d promised yourself you wouldn’t keep apologizing for having an appetite. You’d get whatever you wanted.
You checked your vintage Casio watch. 7:00 PM. Right on time.
You looked around the small parking lot — quiet except for the sound of cars passing by on the main road. No sign of him yet. You glanced down at your phone. No new messages.
Mhm. Weird.
You started pacing a little, more to burn off nerves than anything. The minutes stretched. 7:03. 7:07. You told yourself not to overthink it, but your brain didn’t listen. Maybe he’d gotten here, seen you from afar, and decided to leave. Maybe the photos you’d sent hadn’t prepared him for real-life you. The thought stung, even though you tried to shake it off.
No, that didn’t fit him. Frankie wasn’t that type. You knew that. You’d felt it in every conversation, every kind word, every late-night message. He wasn’t the kind of man who disappeared.
Still, as the minutes passed, your stomach started to sink. You opened your phone again, thumb hovering over his chat, debating whether to text him first, when it suddenly lit up.
Incoming call.
Your breath hitched.
“Frankie?” you said, trying to sound calm.
He sounded out of breath, his voice a mix of nerves and warmth. “Hey, hey… I’m so sorry. I’m on my way, I swear. The babysitter cancelled on me last minute, and I had to drive Marisol to my parents’ place. Which, uh, is exactly the opposite direction of the restaurant.”
You could hear the faint hum of the car engine, the turn signal clicking in the background. He really was driving.
“Frankie, it’s okay,” you said quickly, your heart easing at the sound of him.
“I feel terrible,” he rushed out. “I didn’t even have time to text you before I got her packed up. She didn’t wanna let go tonight, and then my dad started asking questions, and—” he let out a shaky laugh. “Anyway, I’m trying to hurry. I promise I’ll be there soon.”
You smiled despite yourself. He sounded exactly like he had the night of your call — flustered, genuine, that kind of nervousness that wasn’t careless but caring.
“Don’t rush,” you said softly. “I’ll wait.”
“You sure? I can understand if—”
“Frankie.” You cut him off gently. “It’s fine. Drive safe.”
He exhaled, the sound rough but relieved. “You’re kind of the best, you know that?”
You laughed under your breath. “You haven’t even seen me in person yet.”
“I already know,” he said quietly.
The call ended, leaving you smiling down at your screen like an idiot in the fading light.
You decided to wait inside. The little restaurant smelled like baked bread and roasted garlic, all warmth and quiet chatter. You picked a small table near the window, ordered a glass of water you barely touched, and tried to look casual while checking your phone for the fifth time in ten minutes.
When the bell above the door finally chimed, you glanced up out of habit—and froze.
He stepped inside, ushered in by a gust of cool evening air, and your brain short-circuited for half a second. No hat. No hat! His dark hair was slightly mussed from the drive, curling at the ends, and somehow that made him even more handsome.
Your grin spread before you could stop it. The closer he got, the harder it was to hide.
He scanned the room once, eyes landing on you—and you watched the tension in his shoulders ease, his mouth curving into that soft, familiar smile you’d seen a hundred times in photos but never in person.
By the time he reached your table, you could barely breathe. He was breathtaking. The salt-and-pepper scruff framing his jaw, the little laugh lines near his eyes, the warmth that radiated off him even in the low restaurant light.
“Hey,” he said, voice low, a little nervous.
“Hey,” you echoed, smiling so wide it almost hurt.
For a moment, you just looked at each other—two people who’d already shared a hundred tiny moments, suddenly face-to-face.
“Uh,” he started, rubbing the back of his neck, that shy little gesture you already adored. “Is it okay if I—can I hug you?”
You nodded, not trusting your voice.
He stepped closer, arms slipping around you in a way that felt effortless, like it was something he’d done a thousand times before. His body was warm against yours, solid but gentle, holding you firm without crushing you. You felt his breath near your ear, steadying himself just as your heart started hammering against your ribs.
He smelled faintly of soap and some aftershave, maybe a hint of coffee still lingering, and for a second, you let yourself melt into it. Into him.
When you pulled back, your cheeks were flushed, and his hand lingered for a heartbeat longer at your arm before he dropped it, smiling a little sheepishly.
“Sorry,” he said quietly. “Didn’t mean to make that awkward.”
“It wasn’t,” you said, laughing under your breath. “You’re a really good hugger.”
That earned you his real smile, the one that reached his eyes and made your stomach flip.
“Yeah?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
He chuckled, finally relaxing a little. “Good start then.”
You both sat down, still grinning in that awkward, I-can’t-believe-you’re-actually-real way. The menus were already on the table, though neither of you looked at them for more than a second. Frankie kept glancing up at you, then back down at his hands, like he wasn’t sure where to rest his gaze. You couldn’t blame him—you were doing the exact same thing.
“So,” you said, breaking the silence first, “no hat, huh?”
He laughed softly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, figured I’d, uh, let my hair breathe tonight.”
“Good call,” you teased. “I was starting to think it was permanently attached to your head.”
“That’s fair,” he said, smiling down at the table. “I did almost bring it. Old habits die hard.”
“I’m glad you didn’t,” you admitted, smiling at him over the rim of your glass. “Would’ve been a shame to hide that hair after the iconic after shower selfie reveal.”
He groaned, head tipping back. “You’re never gonna let me live that down, are you?”
“Not a chance.”
That earned you another quiet but genuine laugh, and it felt like the room lightened with it. The waitress came over, giving you both a chance to regroup. You ordered your food, trying not to second-guess every choice, and once she walked away, the silence settled again. Not uncomfortable, but tender in its own way.
Frankie leaned his elbows on the table, his hands loosely folded. “You look really nice,” he said suddenly, almost like it slipped out before he could stop it.
You felt heat rise to your cheeks. “Thank you,” you said softly. “You clean up pretty well yourself.”
He chuckled, glancing down. “Tried my best. Marisol picked my shirt.”
You blinked. “She did?”
“Yeah. Said the blue one made me look less tired.” His smile softened as he said it, a little proud, a little shy. “Can’t argue with a five-year-old fashion expert.”
“That’s adorable,” you said, smiling without meaning to. “She sounds like a handful.”
“Oh, she is,” he said with a laugh. “But she’s… she’s everything. Smart, funny. Knows how to manipulate me already, which is honestly a little terrifying.”
You giggled, resting your chin on your hand. “You sound like a good dad.”
He looked at you for a second, caught off guard by the sincerity in your tone. “I’m trying,” he said finally. “Most days, I think she’s the one raising me.”
There was a beat of quiet. Then, softly, you said, “You really love her, huh?”
He nodded, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. “More than anything.”
Something about the way he said it—calm, without hesitation—made your chest tighten. You could see it, the softness in his eyes when he talked about her. It wasn’t performative. It was just real.
“So,” he said after a moment, trying to lighten the air again. “Does this pass your vibe check so far?”
You smiled, tilting your head. “Hmm… food hasn’t arrived yet. Jury’s still out.”
He feigned a dramatic sigh, pressing a hand to his chest. “Tough crowd.”
“You’ll survive,” you teased.
And when he laughed again—low, warm, genuine—you realized the nervousness had started to fade. It wasn’t gone completely, but it didn’t feel so heavy anymore. It felt like you were both slowly remembering how to breathe around each other.
The food arrived just as the conversation started to flow. Two steaming plates, the smell of garlic and herbs curling up between you. He’d ordered pasta with seafood; you went for something cheesy and comforting, the kind of meal you wouldn’t have let yourself enjoy a few years ago.
“God, that smells amazing,” he said, leaning forward a little.
“It does,” you agreed. “If I end up finishing all of it, please don’t judge me.”
He looked up, eyes soft. “Only if you judge me back.”
You grinned. “Deal.”
The first few bites were quiet, not awkward quiet, just that easy kind of silence that happens when food’s too good to interrupt. Every now and then, your knees brushed under the table. Each time it happened, both of you froze for a second, smiled shyly, and kept talking like nothing happened.
“So,” you said, swirling your fork, “be honest, are all pilots secretly adrenaline junkies, or are you the chill exception?”
He laughed, shaking his head. “Used to be. Not anymore. These days I prefer things that don’t require me to risk my neck or any other parts of my body.”
You tilted your head. “Like?”
He smiled. “Coffee. Naps. Trying to keep my kid from drawing on the walls. I’m basically an eighty-year-old man trapped in a helicopter pilot’s body.”
You snorted. “Oh no, you’re one of those guys who calls nine p.m. ‘late,’ aren’t you?”
“Absolutely,” he said, laughing. “Unless you count being up at three because Marisol had a nightmare. Then I’m technically nocturnal.”
“That’s different. Parenting doesn’t count.”
“Still feels like it should be mentioned,” he said with a mock sigh, twirling his fork. “I’ve got more gray hairs than my dad now.”
“Maybe it’s the hat,” you teased, and he grinned at the callback.
“Probably is. Hides my suffering.”
You smiled so wide your cheeks hurt again. You hadn’t expected it to be this easy. To feel this natural and it was almost too good to be true.
After dinner, you both lingered, neither of you quite ready to move. He told you about his favorite spots to fly over, how sunsets looked different from the cockpit. You told him about your dream of maybe opening your own little size inclusive boutique one day, something cozy and personal. He listened, chin propped in one hand, eyes steady on you like he was filing every word away for later.
When the waitress came to ask about dessert, he looked at you first. “You want to share something?”
You hesitated, then nodded. “Tiramisu?”
He smiled. “Perfect choice.”
You both laughed when you realized you were using the same spoon, shoulders brushing lightly across the small table. At one point, you made the mistake of glancing up and meeting his eyes mid-laugh and the air between you changed. Softer. Slower. Like something finally settling into place.
“Frankie,” you said, half-whisper, half-laugh, trying to break the tension.
“Yeah?”
“You’ve got coffee on your lip.”
He wiped it quickly with the pad of his thumb, a little flustered. “Better?”
You smiled. “Yeah.”
His breath caught for a second, and the way he looked at you made your stomach flip. You both went quiet again after that. Not because there was nothing to say, but because it felt like saying anything might break whatever was hanging between you.
He cleared his throat, glanced at his watch, and then back at you. “You, uh… want me to walk you out?”
You nodded. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
As you stepped outside, the air had cooled, that faint edge of autumn lingering between breaths. The smell of petrichor still clung to the night — you must’ve missed a rain shower while you were inside. Your boots pattered softly against the damp concrete as you followed him toward his truck.
“Can I drive you home?” he asked, tentative but hopeful.
You blinked, surprised for a moment, then nodded. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
He walked around to the passenger side and opened the door for you. No one had ever done that before, and it caught you so off guard you couldn’t help teasing him.
“An old-school gentleman, huh? Maybe you really are eighty.”
He huffed a quiet laugh, rolling his eyes as he closed your door before circling around to his side.
Inside, the truck smelled like him — coffee, something faintly sweet you couldn’t quite place. It was unmistakably a dad’s car: a few toys scattered on the floor, crumbs in the cup holder, a jacket half-folded in the backseat. You shifted, and the seat gave a sudden squeak. Looking down, your eyes widened in horror.
“Oh no,” you gasped, reaching under you to pull out a pink, sparkly pony with wings. “I think I just sat on—”
“—Glittersparkle,” he said solemnly. “Marisol would’ve cried for three days straight.”
Your jaw dropped. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry!”
He turned toward you, dead serious for two whole seconds before the grin cracked through. “I’m kidding. You’re fine. Pretty sure these things are immortal anyway.”
You laughed, handing him the toy, which looked comically small in his calloused hand. He tossed it casually into the backseat, still grinning.
“You don’t like Glittersparkle, do you?” you teased.
“I’m convinced she cursed my bloodline first,” he said, starting the engine. “Seatbelt, please.”
“Ay, sir,” you replied with mock seriousness.
He glanced your way, cheeks coloring just the tiniest bit but he was smiling again, that quiet, shy kind of smile that made your chest ache.
The drive started in a soft kind of silence. Not uncomfortable, more like both of you were still processing that you’d actually done it. That the person who’d been living in your phone for weeks was sitting less than two feet away.
Rain tapped gently on the windshield now as he pulled out of the parking lot, wipers swaying lazily back and forth. The city lights slipped across his face in fleeting stripes of gold and shadow. He was beautiful, there was no denying that. The pictures hadn’t done him justice, not even close. You didn’t mean to stare, but it was hard not to when a man like him was sitting right beside you. Because of you. Talking, smiling, laughing like he wanted to be there. And that was the part that floored you most. Someone this marvelous was still looking at you like you belonged in the same frame.
He glanced your way when a familiar song played through the speakers, one you’d sent him days ago, you recognized quickly.
“You’re still listening to it,” you said, your voice light but touched with surprise.
He shrugged, one hand steady on the wheel before he upped the volume with the other. “Kinda grew on me.”
You smiled, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Guess I’m corrupting your playlists now.”
“Could be worse things,” he said softly.
Every so often, your eyes met — just quick little glances when the traffic lights painted the cabin in amber. You caught him looking once, and he didn’t even pretend to look away and your heart did somersaults.
When he pulled up in front of your building, he put the truck in park but didn’t move right away. The engine hummed low between you, clicking into cool.
“This was…” he started, then let out a small laugh, shaking his head. “I don’t even know what to call it. Nice doesn’t feel like enough.”
You turned to face him fully. “It really doesn’t.”
His hand rested on the steering wheel for a moment longer before he turned toward you, hesitating. There was that nervous flicker in his eyes again, like he was trying to find the right words.
“Can I—” he stopped, cleared his throat, tried again, quieter this time. “Can I kiss you, would that be okay?”
Your chest tightened. You didn’t even trust your voice, so you just nodded to give him permission.
He leaned in slowly, giving you every chance to pull away. His palm found your cheek, warm and steady, thumb tracing the edge of your jaw before he tilted forward. When your lips met, it felt like tiny fireworks — soft, unexpected, impossible to ignore. You laughed quietly into it when your teeth bumped, and he did too, the sound low and breathless between you.
When he finally drew back, he didn’t go far. His forehead rested against yours, breath mingling in the quiet. His thumb slid gently up, brushing behind your ear in a touch so tender it made your heart ache.
“Worth the wait,” he murmured, eyes still closed.
You smiled, biting your bottom lip. “Yeah,” you whispered. “Definitely worth it.”
He helped you out of the truck after that, waited until you were safely at the door before giving a small wave. You stood there for a moment, watching his taillights fade down the street, the ghost of his hand still warm on your cheek, the ghost of the kiss still lingering on your lips.
When you slipped inside your apartment, your reflection in the hallway mirror was flushed, eyes brighter than they’d been in a long while. Lovesick, almost. You laughed softly at yourself in the mirror, shaking your head. Who would’ve thought that the insecure little girl you used to be would one day meet a man whose intentions were clear from the start? That for once, you didn’t need to smaller yourself to fit somewhere.
You were exactly where you deserved to be. Not hidden, not shrinking. Just beside him, in the soft safety of the light.
tags: dry humping, bulge appreciation, porn without plot, Frankie is a bit mouthy, unprotected PinV
word count: ~ 990
Happy Frankie Friday. Have this little treat for it 🤭
The couch is too small for this. Or maybe it’s just too small for both of you.
Frankie’s slouched low, cap tipped back, jeans rough under your bare thighs. His hands are heavy on your hips—steady, but twitching, like he’s fighting the urge to take over.
You roll against him, slow at first, feeling the thick line of him trapped under denim. The fabric catches on you just right, and you bite your lip, trying not to let the sound slip.
His breath stutters. “Mierda…” The word’s gravel in his throat, heat in your spine, making you burn up with need.
You keep moving, hips drawing lazy, deliberate circles, your hands braced on his chest. His shirt’s warm from his skin beneath, rising and falling faster now.
“Baby,” he warns or maybe pleads. The brim of his cap shadows his eyes, but you catch the way they darken when you grind a little harder, the damp starting to seep through your underwear onto his jeans.
His grip tightens. You can feel him swelling against the denim, the seam pressing into you until your thighs tremble.
Then you both feel it. The small wet spot blooming on his jeans where you’ve been riding him. His jaw locks, a sharp inhale dragging through his teeth.
“Jesus Christ…” His voice is low, wrecked. One hand slides to the back of your neck, pulling you in until your forehead rests against his, breaths mingling. “You’re gonna drive me insane doing that.”
But you just smile wicked and roll your hips again.
In this moment the last thread of Frankie’s restraint snaps.
One second you’re in control—his girl, straddling him, making him straining against his jeans—and the next his hands are everywhere.
He surges forward, one palm splayed across your lower back, dragging you flush against him as his mouth finds your throat. His breath is hot, lips moving in desperate, open-mouthed kisses that leave heat blooming across your skin.
“You think I’m just gonna sit here and let you do that to me?” His voice is thick, almost ragged, like it’s costing him something to form words instead of just growl into you.
You gasp when his hips push up hard, grinding you down onto him, denim against the thin cotton of your panties, the friction almost obscene now. The wet spot you left on his jeans spreads, catching with every movement, making his cock twitch eagerly under you.
“Feel that?” he murmurs against your ear, thrusting slow. “That’s what you do to me.”
Your fingers fist in the front of his shirt, knuckles white, because his pace is nothing like your teasing circles—this is needy. Every snap of his hips drags a sound out of you you can’t swallow down, so you moan. Let the pleasure take over.
He groans in response to it, the sound shaking through his chest into yours. “Nena if I don’t get you out of these clothes in the next thirty seconds…”
You smile against his jaw, breathless. “Then don’t.”
That’s all it takes—his hands are already on your waistband, dragging it down.
Frankie’s mouth crashes onto yours—hot, needy, claiming. The kiss is all teeth and tongue and low, guttural sounds he’s not bothering to hide anymore. His hands are everywhere at once, shoving your shirt up, skimming your ribs, cupping the swell of your breasts until you arch into him.
“You don’t know what you just asked for,” he groans into your mouth. You barely get a breath before the cool air hits your damp skin.
His warm, thick and calloused fingers find you immediately and he curses when he feels how wet you are. “Joder… all from riding me like that?” He strokes along your entrance once, slow, like he’s savoring it, then faster, circling your clit with just enough pressure to make your breath catch and your fingers curl in his shirt.
You’re still straddling him, knees bracketing his hips, and when he slides two fingers inside you, the angle is perfect—deep, curling up until your head tips back. He watches every second, eyes dark and hungry.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, fucking his fingers into you, thumb pressing tight circles above. “Dripping all over me and I haven’t even—” His free hand is already working on his belt, impatience winning over.
The sound of the buckle is loud in the small space, and then his jeans are open, his cock springing free—thick, flushed, the tip already slick. He barely gets his jeans out of the way before he’s lining himself up, both of you still half-dressed.
He guides you to sink onto him in one slow, devastating push. His head falls back against the couch cushion, a broken fuck punching out of his lungs. His hands clamp to your hips, holding you there like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.
“Ride me,” he rasps. “The way you did before—no, harder—fuck, nena—yeah, just like that,” he encourages you.
The wet slap of skin-on-skin fills the room as you start to move, bouncing on him, every drag making your thighs shake. He’s muttering under his breath, a stream of Spanish curses and filthy praise, his hands guiding your rhythm until you’re both teetering on the edge.
When you come, it’s with your forehead against his, nails digging into his shoulders, his name falling from your mouth like you’ve forgotten anything else. Frankie grunts, pulls you tight against him, and spills into you with a shudder that leaves him gasping.
For a moment, neither of you move. His arms stay heavy around you, heartbeat thudding under your cheek like it’s trying to catch up. Then he huffs a low, rough laugh, pressing a kiss to your temple.
“You good?” he asks, voice so hoarse it sounds like it barely survived.
You nod, nuzzling into his neck with a little grin. “Better than good.”
His smile curves against your skin, tender but still laced with heat. “Yeah… me too. But don’t think I’m done with you yet.”
And you don’t know if you should be terrified or thrilled.
In which our favorite priest baptizes a baby for the first time.
The crying starts instantly—sharp, outraged, tiny lungs giving it everything.
Jud winces like the sound hit him personally.
It’s his first baptism and of course the baby hates him.
“Oh—hey, hey… no, no, I’m sorry,” he murmurs right away, voice softening into something warm and careful as he adjusts the baby in his arms. Like maybe if he just holds them right, this will all go better. He leans in a little, brows pinched, like he can apologize his way out of this.
There’s a flicker of uncertainty in him—just for a second—before he remembers what he’s supposed to do. The words. The motions. He keeps them steady, even if everything else about him feels a little less so.
He makes a small face—barely there, just a gentle scrunch, a quiet little 'hey' under his breath and for a second it works.
The crying falters. Jud’s whole face lights up, eyes widening just a little. “There you go,” he coos, soft, almost disbelieving like he didn’t expect to win that one.
But then the tiny face falls and the baby wails again. Louder, almost betrayed.
Jud looks devastated.
“Oh—no, no. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he breathes, the words slipping out before he can stop them, like he’s genuinely apologizing to a full-grown person. He glances up at the mother, a little helpless, a little embarrassed. “I think they hate me.”
She just laughs softly. “They don’t, I promise.”
He nods but he doesn’t really believe her.
So he keeps going. Gentle, careful. Doing everything right—every word where it should be, every motion precise—but softer now, quieter. Like he’s trying to make up for it in the spaces between.
Under his breath, there are still those little apologies. A soft 'I know' A quiet 'almost done'. His thumb brushes lightly over the baby’s temple, like he’s asking permission every time.
Eventually it’s done.
The crying has softened into little hiccups, the kind that lingers, like the baby is still a bit offended but too tired to keep arguing.
He adjusts his grip one last time and then hands the infant back to their mother like he doesn’t quite trust himself to rush it.
“Here you go,” he murmurs, softer now. Almost shy.
He nods at her, once. “Thank you. For—” he gestures vaguely, a little awkward. “Being patient.”
She smiles at him like none of this was a big deal. He still looks like it was.
Jud’s shoulders finally drop a fraction.
“Hey,” he says softly, almost under his breath, offering the smallest, most tentative little wave with two fingers, like he’s not sure if babies understand goodbyes, but he wants to give one anyway.
“Sorry about the water again.”
Thanks for reading 🩶
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tags (tell me if you wanna out or in!) @rhapsodyofdarkness @judasjud @rosetintmworld @likedovesinthewnd @ch3rrybl0ssomtree @poetrypoesblehhh @sidelit @knives-out-boy @soealt @explorerof-theunknown @post-apocalyptic-rebel-leader @strawberrymochi07 @peelfreshapple @sea-eyed-dream @roryheartz @prxncess-gestirn @doomprincesswrld @dumb-blondeee
ᯓ★ tags: love triangle, mutual pining, emotional infidelity, Patrick is a bastard in this (sorry not sorry), pre-priesthood, a fistfight, twin dynamic, slow burn, angst, hurt/comfort, soft smut, quiet intimacy
summary: Patrick filled every room. Jud made space in the quiet. Somewhere between them, you learned what love actually sounds like.
word count: ~ 10,6 k
read on ao3 ᯓ★
Patrick is mid-story when you realize you’ve stopped listening.
He’s good at this. Always has been. Voice warm, animated, hands moving as he talks, pulling people in like gravity works a little harder around him. When you first met him, it felt intoxicating — like being chosen by the brightest thing in the room.
Back then, the way he took up space thrilled you. The way he pulled you close in public. The way his confidence bled into the bedroom — all heat and urgency and hands that didn’t hesitate. It felt like being wanted in bold letters. You craved this kind of attention. But what you quickly realized was that you mistook intensity for depth.
Now, sitting at the table with your friends, you watch him interrupt you for the third time.
“No, no,” he says, laughing lightly, touching your knee like it’s affectionate. “That’s not how it happened. She always exaggerates.”
It’s harmless on the surface. Playful. The kind of thing couples do. Your friends smile, one of them chuckles, agrees even.
You open your mouth to clarify — not even to contradict him, just to finish your thought — but he keeps going, reshaping the story with you sitting right there.
He squeezes your knee again. Not hard. Just firm enough to anchor you in place.
“She gets so serious about these things,” he adds, like he’s letting them in on a secret. “I tell her she needs to relax.”
The table hums with easy agreement.
And you laugh too. Because what else are you supposed to do? Correct him? Make it awkward? Prove his point?
You catch your reflection in the dark window behind him — smiling, nodding, shrinking just slightly at the edges. Too far away from who you usually are.
It’s not cruel, that’s the problem. It’s small. Repetitive. Dismissive in ways that don’t leave bruises, just a kind of quiet erosion.
Across the table someone asks you a question, and Patrick answers before you can.
Again.
Slowly you realize something that settles heavy in your chest: The fire that once made you feel alive now just feels loud. And you are so, so tired of burning for someone who doesn’t notice the smoke.
*****
The night drags on. By the time your friends start peeling off and the music turns from loud to irritating, you’re exhausted in a way that has nothing to do with the hour.
Patrick checks his phone and frowns. “Car’s still in the shop,” he mutters. “I’ll call him.”
You swirl the melted ice in your glass. “Call who?”
“My brother. He should be around.”
You look up. “Your brother?”
“Yeah.”
He shrugs like you asked if he has a charger.
“You have a brother?” You let out a small laugh because clearly this is a joke. Surely you would know that.
Patrick gives you a look. “Yeah. He’s my twin, actually.”
The word lands strangely.
Twin.
“You have a twin brother,” you repeat.
“Yeah,” he says again, amused now. “Identical.”
Identical.
And he grins like this is charming. Like it’s a fun fact he just remembered to share. You think about the months you’ve known him. The stories about high school, about girls, about fights, about Cabo and almost getting arrested and professors who hated him. You’ve memorized his childhood in pieces. Not once has he mentioned someone who shares his face.
“That’s kind of a big detail, Patrick.”
“It’s not that deep,” he says easily. “We’re not glued at the hip. We just share a face.”
Just share a face.
Headlights sweep across the windows.
“That’s him, come on.”
Outside, the car idles at the curb. Dark, unassuming. When the driver’s door opens, the first thing you notice is the quiet.
He steps out and for a second your brain stutters. Same height. Same build. Same dark hair. Same sharp line of jaw.
Same fucking face.
But where Patrick moves like he owns the pavement, his brother moves like he’s aware of it. Grounded. Controlled. There’s no performance in him.
The resemblance is striking, almost unsettling. You’ve spent months memorizing Patrick’s features, tracing them with your eyes and hands, and now there’s someone standing in front of you who looks identical and he just… never thought to mention it?
His eyes flick to Patrick first, then to you. Assessing, or maybe just tired. It was late after all. His eyes don’t skim over you, they settle. He’s looking at you with quiet curiosity.
Patrick claps him on the shoulder. “Took you long enough.”
“Sorry, traffic,” he says.
His voice is lower. Rougher. Softer in a way that doesn’t beg for attention.
Patrick gestures lazily. “This is—” he says your name like it’s an afterthought. “My girlfriend.”
The word feels thin.
His brother nods once. “Hi.”
No smirk, no commentary. No comment about finally meeting the infamous girl Patrick stayed long enough with to almost make it look serious.
Patrick is already sliding into the passenger seat when he calls over his shoulder, “Get in.”
You blink. But before you can reach for the back door, his brother is already there, opening it for you like it’s instinct. You murmur a thank you and climb in.
The car smells clean. Looks clean. Nothing like Patrick’s chaotic interior. As the engine hums and you pull away from the curb, you lean forward between the seats.
“So… how come Patrick never told me about you?”
“Jud,” he says gently, catching your eyes in the rearview mirror. His eyes look slightly different than Patrick’s, less sharp green, more muted blue in this light. “And I was gone for a while.”
“Gone?” you ask.
Patrick exhales loudly. “Don’t make it a thing.”
Jud doesn’t look annoyed. He just keeps his eyes on the road.
“I was behind bars for a bit,” he says simply. No self-pity. No drama. “Trying to do better now.”
The words are steady. Matter-of-fact. Your chest tightens nonetheless.
Patrick shifts in his seat. “He’s on his redemption arc,” he says, half-joking, half-dismissive. Jud glances at him briefly. Not offended, just calm.
“Our golden boy always liked the spotlight,” Jud says lightly.
Patrick scoffs. “Please.”
You can feel it now — the undercurrent. Not explosive. Not loud. Just years of comparison packed into small sentences.
You look at Jud in the mirror again. He doesn’t look ashamed, just careful.
The rest of the drive is quieter. Patrick scrolls on his phone. Occasionally throws out a comment about the bar, about someone who annoyed him.
Jud listens.
When you reach Patrick’s place, Jud parks neatly at the curb.
Your boyfriend is out of the car first, already walking toward the building without looking back.
You step out slower.
“Thanks for the ride,” you say.
Jud meets your eyes properly this time as he looks over his shoulder. “Of course.”
There’s a quiet, shared understanding of noticing when you leave the car. And for the first time all night, you were looked at like you weren’t shrinking.
*****
Patrick’s apartment is warm when you step inside.
He’s already talking again as he kicks off his shoes and pulls you into him like the night didn’t just press something uncomfortable into your ribs. Like he didn’t hide a whole fucking sibling for months.
He kisses you before you can respond.
He’s always been like this. Physical first, heat before reflection.
You used to love that about him.
His hands are confident. Certain. He knows your body well enough to move without hesitation, to press you back against the door, to lift you like it’s instinct. The fire is still there, it always is. Immediate and all consuming.
You respond the way you always do, because this part still works.
His mouth at your neck. His breath warm against your skin. The urgency that once felt intoxicating.
You let yourself fall into it and for a while, it’s easy. The noise fades, the dismissal in the bar disappears. The uncomfortable conversations blur at the edges.
There’s only heat. Familiar pressure. The rhythm of shared passion.
You close your eyes.
And for one split second —
Uninvited.
A different pair of eyes.
Not hungry, not claiming. Just steady. Looking at you in the rearview mirror like you were something to be careful with.
Your breath stutters. It’s so fast you almost miss it and Patrick mistakes the hitch in your breathing for something else. Smiles against your skin like he’s proud of it. Like he won, again.
You open your eyes quickly, grounding yourself, nails digging into his back.
This is your boyfriend, the man you chose.
You cling to him a little tighter. Almost defiant. But somewhere beneath the heat, beneath the urgency, beneath the practiced way your bodies fit — there’s a thin, unfamiliar crack running through the moment.
And once you’ve seen a crack, you can’t pretend the glass is seamless anymore.
*****
Days turn into weeks without much happening. Patrick’s off at some local tournament, chasing the win as always.
It’s Friday night and you agreed to stay at his place while he’s gone, since your own roommate decided your flat is the perfect place to turn into a practice room for their electric guitar. Even your best noise-cancelling headphones don’t do much, so you’re more than thankful for the silence in Patrick’s place.
The first thing you do is open all the windows and start tidying up. Patrick’s a goddamn mess. You do some laundry, wipe the counters, wash the dishes. Anything to turn his place from a man cave into something livable. You’re standing there with your hands on your hips, loose strands of hair escaping your ponytail and a swear under your breath, looking out over the city when you hear a car door close outside.
You don’t pay much attention, probably just one of the neighbors. But a few seconds later the doorbell rings and you startle. You walk over and look through the spyhole.
Your heart stops.
It’s Jud.
Despite your better judgment — and with more flourish than necessary — you open the door.
“Patrick’s not here,” you say automatically, almost defensive.
Jud looks at you like he’s seen a ghost. Slowly he blinks, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Oh. I didn’t know. Is he gone for long?”
You shrug. “Depends how long he lasts in the rounds.”
“I see.”
Silence stretches between you.
“I was just in the neighborhood,” he says after a moment, “and found something in my car that I think might be yours.”
You frown as he reaches into his jeans pocket and pulls out an earring. The silver moon — the pair to the star you’re always wearing.
You reach up to touch your left ear. Sure enough, it’s gone.
“Oh. I didn’t even notice.”
“Thank you,” you say, taking the earring from his hand. It’s a small, fleeting contact, but it might as well be electricity.
Jud lets go immediately, like he noticed it too.
“You’re welcome.”
He rocks back slightly on his heels, hands slipping into his pockets. “You taking care of his dying plants while he’s gone?”
Your mouth lifts. “Bold of you to assume he even has plants. Honestly, I’m amazed this man is still alive at this point.”
Jud’s mouth twists — just a little — but it’s enough to make your heart skip again.
“I’m here because my roommate turned our place into a garage band,” you add. “Without the garage. And it’s fucking loud. So I’m hiding here instead.”
“Oh. Not a fan of rock music?”
You lift a brow and cross your arms. “I am a fan of rock music. All kinds of it. If it’s good. Not what they’re doing. Sounds like nails on a chalkboard.”
That finally makes Jud laugh — a quiet cackle as he shakes his head in something dangerously close to fond amusement.
You realize it’s the first time you’ve seen him relax.
“That’s cruel, honestly.”
A beat passes before he clears his throat. “Guess I should go then.”
He’s already turning before you really think it through.
“Actually,” you say quickly, “I was about to order some Chinese. I wouldn’t mind some company.”
Jud stops like you’ve pulled a string. He lifts his head, eyes narrowing slightly as he studies your face.
“I don’t know if I’m good company.”
That lands somewhere tender.
“I’m sure you are,” you say softly. “You don’t have to talk much. We can also just sit. It’s up to you.”
Jud drags a hand over his mouth and the light stubble along his chin.
“Okay,” he says slowly. “I think I can stay. If that’s alright with you.”
“More than,” you say, stepping aside and opening the door wider to let him in.
The food arrives faster than expected.
You spread the little cartons out along the narrow kitchen counter that passes for a dining space in Patrick’s apartment. There’s no proper table, just two bar stools tucked under the island like an afterthought.
You slide one of them toward Jud.
“Hope you like fried rice,” you say, opening a container. “Patrick mostly survives on takeout anyway.”
Jud pulls the other stool out and sits, long legs folding in carefully. The space between you isn’t large, but it doesn’t feel cramped.
“Works for me,” he says.
You hand him a pair of chopsticks and take your own seat. The city glows faintly through the windows behind him, reflecting softly off the counter.
For a few moments you just eat. The quiet isn’t awkward. It’s the kind that settles naturally between two people who don’t feel the need to fill every second with words. Your shoulders drop without you really noticing.
You pick at your noodles, then glance up. “You know, I actually like quiet nights,” you say after a moment. “Even if some people think that’s boring.”
Jud looks up from his food. “Doesn’t sound boring to me.”
The words are simple, but something in your chest shifts slightly like a door cracking open somewhere you hadn’t noticed before. You find yourself leaning a little more comfortably against the counter.
“When Patrick’s around,” you add slowly, “everything is so loud. I can barely hear my own thoughts sometimes.”
Jud spears a piece of fried chicken with his chopsticks and pops it into his mouth. He chews thoughtfully, like he’s actually considering your words instead of waiting for his turn to speak.
“He’s always been… a lot,” he says finally.
You huff out a small laugh. “That’s one way to put it.”
Jud’s mouth lifts faintly at the corner, but he doesn’t look defensive. If anything, there’s something almost familiar in the way he says it.
“You two were always like that?” you ask. “Opposites, I mean.”
He rolls the chopsticks between his fingers for a second. “Not exactly opposites,” he says. “Just different volumes.”
You tilt your head.
“Our parents liked Patrick’s volume more,” he adds, almost lightly. “Teachers too. Coaches. People tend to notice whoever talks the loudest.”
The comment is matter-of-fact, not bitter.
“Did that bother you?” you ask.
Jud shrugs one shoulder. “I got used to it.”
He picks up his carton again. “Patrick’s good at being the center of a room. Always has been.”
There’s no resentment in his voice. Just observation. You study him quietly for a moment. It’s strange hearing someone describe Patrick this way. Like you’re suddenly seeing the same man through a completely different lens.
“And you?” you ask.
Jud pauses before answering.
“I didn’t mind the quiet.”
He says it so simply that you believe him. For a moment the only sound in the kitchen is the soft clink of chopsticks against cardboard containers and the distant hum of the city outside the windows.
You reach for your drink and take a small sip, as you catch Jud glancing at the carton in front of you, then back at your face.
“You don’t like the mushrooms,” he says.
You blink. “What?”
He nods toward your takeout box. “You’ve been pushing them to the side since we started eating.”
You look down. There’s indeed a small pile of mushrooms collecting in the corner of the carton. A laugh slips out of you before you can stop it.
“I didn’t even realize I was doing that. But yeah, I hate them. The texture is so gross.”
Jud shrugs, like it wasn’t anything worth mentioning.
“Habit, probably. And I get it.”
You shake your head, still smiling slightly. “Patrick’s known me for months and I’m pretty sure he still thinks I like mushrooms.”
Jud’s mouth twitches faintly. “He probably never noticed.”
The comment isn’t cruel, just honest. But for some reason, that lands heavier than it should. You push the mushrooms a little further aside and glance up at him again.
It’s strange, you think. How someone you just met properly a few weeks ago can notice the quiet things.
After a while, you finish eating. You’re still laughing about some ridiculously adorable anecdote Jud told you about him and Patrick. He then proceeds to gather the empty takeout boxes and drops them into a trash bag.
He turns to take it out as you both linger for a second by the door. You lean against the frame with your shoulder.
“Thank you for the company,” you say with a small smile.
Jud glances over his shoulder, mirroring it just slightly before he nods. “No, thank you.”
When you close the door behind him, the apartment feels quiet again. And you realize, with terrifying clarity, you didn’t miss the noise.
*****
In the days that follow, it somehow becomes easy.
Not planned. Not intentional. It just… happens.
Jud stops by once to drop off a bag of groceries Patrick apparently asked him to grab and then forgot to mention. Once he simply knocked because he was ‘in the neighborhood again’.
Each time you end up talking. Sometimes only for ten minutes in the kitchen while the kettle heats up. Sometimes longer, leaning against the counter while the city hums quietly outside the windows.
There’s nothing secretive about it.
You don’t hide it. Jud doesn’t linger in ways that feel inappropriate. If anything, he seems almost careful about it — always standing a little closer to the door than necessary, like he’s aware of boundaries you haven’t even named.
But the conversations come easily, easier than they should. There’s this peace you feel whenever you’re with him and that is definitely new.
One night you end up on the fire escape.
The air is cooler than it has been all week, the kind of late-evening breeze that makes the city feel softer around the edges. You sit side by side on the metal steps, your shoulders almost touching but not quite.
Below you, traffic moves in slow ribbons of light. Jud rests his forearms on his knees, looking out over the street. You haven’t been talking for a while and that was precisely why you enjoyed his company so much, he gave you room to just exist, without expecting you to perform some role.
You clear your throat. “Can I ask you something?”
Jud glances over. “You can.”
You hesitate for a second, suddenly unsure how delicate the question should be.
“When we first met,” you say carefully, “you mentioned… being gone for a while.”
Jud doesn’t look surprised. He just nods once, like he expected the question eventually.
“Yeah.”
You shift slightly on the step, pulling one knee closer to your chest. “What happened?”
He watches the street for a moment before answering.
“A drug deal went wrong,” he says simply. “Got involved with the wrong people. Thought I was smarter than I actually was.”
There’s no self-pity in the words. Just quiet acceptance.
“I ended up doing time for it.”
You let that settle for a second.
“That must’ve been…” You search for the right word and fail. “…a lot.”
“It was,” Jud says.
He scratches lightly at his jaw before continuing, then he’s rubbing his thumb in his palm, a gesture you noticed him doing a lot when he was lost in some corner of his mind.
“But it also gave me a lot of time to think.”
You tilt your head slightly, waiting.
“I started volunteering with the prison chaplain while I was there,” he says. “At first just to get out of my cell for a few hours.”
His mouth lifts faintly. “Turns out talking to people who’d hit rock bottom makes you look at your own life a little differently.”
You study him quietly. “So now you’re… becoming a priest?”
Jud nods once. “Working on it.”
You blink. “Wow,” you say before you can stop yourself. “That’s a full three-sixty.”
A small smile appears at the corner of his mouth at that and you mirror it without knowing why.
“I didn’t know you were religious.”
“I wasn’t,” he says.
He pauses for a moment, searching for the right words. “It’s a little more complicated than that.”
You lean in slightly, resting your elbow on your knee. “How so?”
Jud looks out at the cityscape again. “It gives me something steady,” he says finally. “A purpose. A way to do some good for once.”
He exhales slowly. “And it helps with the guilt.”
The honesty of that lands quietly between you. You don’t rush to fill the space. For a moment you just sit there beside him, listening to the distant hum of traffic and the faint rattle of the fire escape beneath your feet. You’re closer than you’ve been all evening, shoulders brushing faintly now.
“You don’t seem like someone who’s running away from something,” you say softly.
Jud glances at you from the corner of his eye. “Maybe not running,” he says. “Just trying to walk in the right direction.”
Something in your chest tightens a little at that. You’re about to say something else when your phone suddenly vibrates in your pocket. The sound cuts through the quiet like a bubble popping.
You pull it out and glance at the screen.
Incoming call Patrick…
You hesitate. Jud’s eyes flick down to the phone, then back to your face. Neither of you says anything but there’s something strange in the moment — not guilt exactly, not tension, but some sort of awareness that wasn’t there a second ago.
You stand, brushing your hands against your jeans.
“I should take this.”
Jud nods. “Of course.”
You linger for half a heartbeat longer than necessary before stepping back through the window into the apartment. When you answer the call, you can still feel Jud’s gaze lingering on your back.
You slide the window shut behind you and press the phone to your ear.
“Hey.”
Patrick’s voice bursts through the line, bright and warm and completely unaware of the quiet he just interrupted.
“There she is,” he says. “Did you miss me, babe?”
You lean against the kitchen counter, exhaling sharply.
“I’m fine,” you say.
“Fine?” Patrick laughs lightly. “That’s it? I’ve been gone almost two weeks and all I get is fine?”
You rub your forehead with your free hand. “I didn’t realize this was a test.”
“Relax,” he says. “I’m kidding.”
There’s a pause before he launches into a story about the tournament. His last round, about some guy who ‘played like a complete idiot’, about how the crowd reacted when he pulled off a shot he’s clearly still proud of.
You make the right sounds in the right places.
“Mhm.”
“Yeah?”
“No way.”
Your eyes drift toward the window. Out on the fire escape, Jud is still sitting on the metal steps, elbows resting loosely on his knees, looking out over the street.
Patrick’s voice fills your ear. “And then this guy has the nerve to tell me I got lucky. Can you believe that?”
“Sounds shocking,” you murmur.
“You’re distracted,” Patrick says immediately.
You straighten slightly. “I’m not.”
“Yeah, you are,” he replies. “What’s going on over there? Throwing a party without me?”
Your gaze flicks back to the window again. Jud shifts slightly, glancing toward the glass like he can feel you looking. For a charged second your eyes meet through the reflection.
You look away first.
“No party,” you say.
Patrick hums thoughtfully on the other end of the line.
“Well,” he says, his tone turning playful again, “you better be behaving while I’m gone.”
You let out a quiet breath. “I’m literally sitting in your apartment, Patrick.”
“Good,” he says easily. “Miss you though.”
The words land softer than his stories did.
“Yeah,” you say after a second. “I know.”
Outside, Jud finally stands, brushing his hands over his jeans as if he’s about to leave.
Patrick’s voice cuts back in. “I’ll be back in a few days. Then I’ll remind you how much you missed me.”
The grin in his voice is obvious and you catch yourself rolling your eyes at that.
You glance toward the window one last time, but Jud is already gone.
Your chest tightens faintly.
“Safe travels,” you say.
Patrick laughs again. “You’re terrible at flirting, you know that?”
You huff. “Goodnight, Patrick.”
“Goodnight, babe.”
You hang up before he can add anything else.
*****
Two weeks later Patrick is back in the city, and he makes sure everyone knows it. He won the tournament and he’s still riding the high of it, talking louder than usual, laughing a little sharper, basking in every congratulations that comes his way.
You haven’t seen him since he returned. And frighteningly enough, you hadn’t missed him much either. Still, tonight you try. You put some effort in. The dress you know he likes. A little makeup. You even wrestle your usually wild waves into something resembling order.
When you step into Patrick’s apartment, the noise hits you all at once. Bass thrums through the walls, voices collide in the air, strangers shout over the music like they’ve known each other for years. The place is packed with people you don’t recognize and, frankly, have no interest in getting to know.
You push your way through the crowd, scanning the room and hear him before you see him. Patrick’s laugh cuts through everything else. He’s in the center of the living room, surrounded by a cluster of people hanging on every word. When his eyes land on you, something in his expression softens for just a second.
There you are.
He moves toward you, pulling you into his side like it’s instinct. “Look who finally made it,” he says, grinning.
For a moment, it almost feels like it used to, but then his eyes travel slowly over you.
“Damn,” he adds loudly enough for the people around him to hear. “Finally showing what you’ve got, huh?”
The laughter that follows is immediate and something in your chest snaps tight.
You know Patrick well enough to recognize the signs — the shine in his eyes, the restless edge in his movements. This isn’t just alcohol. There’s something sharper in his system tonight, something that takes the worst parts of him and turns up the volume.
You step out of his arm before he can pull you closer again.
“I need some air,” you say.
He barely notices, already turning back to the group and launching into another story like the emotional weather didn’t change at all.
The hallway outside is blissfully quiet and you exhale a shaky breath, before your hand hovers over your phone for a second until you finally hit the call button.
Jud answers almost immediately. “Hey.”
You swallow. “Can you come pick me up? I can’t drive, I had a drink or two.”
There’s no hesitation on his side. “I’m on my way.”
Jud arrives twenty minutes later. The shift in the room as he does is immediate. Patrick notices him right away, his grin sharpens.
“You called him?” Patrick asks, loud enough for half the room to hear. The word ‘him’ sounds like it tastes bitter on his tongue.
You fold your arms across your chest. “I couldn’t drive.”
Patrick laughs, glancing around like the whole thing is some kind of joke meant for the audience.
“Oh yeah?” he says. “What did you call him for? For picking you up or for a shoulder to cry on about me?”
A few people snicker. Jud stands a few feet away, calm but alert, like he’s already bracing for impact. His arms are folded as well, stance steady, eyes darkened, shoulders squared.
“I’m just here to take her home, Pat,” he says evenly.
Patrick’s smile fades. “Oh wait,” he says suddenly, snapping his fingers like something just occurred to him. “I get it now.”
His gaze flicks between the two of you.
“You banged her while I was away, didn’t you?”
The room goes terrifyingly still and Jud’s eyes are already burning.
“I would never do that to either of you.”
Patrick scoffs. “Oh please,” he snaps, shaking his head. “You’re always acting so noble, like you’re better than the rest of us.”
He steps closer, voice dropping. “When we both know exactly who you are.”
Before you can even make sense of it, Jud moves. The punch lands clean across Patrick’s jaw. Gasps ripple through the room as Patrick stumbles backward into the kitchen island. For a split second everyone just watches.
Then Patrick lunges back. The twins crash into each other in a blur of fists and shouts.
Patrick fights dirty, swinging wild, grabbing, shoving his brother. Jud moves differently — controlled, measured, blocking and striking with frightening precision.
A glass shatters somewhere, collateral damage of their anger. Someone shouts for them to stop. Patrick manages to drive Jud back against the wall, but Jud plants his foot and sends him crashing onto the floor. He looms over him, ready to swing again, when someone finally grabs him and pulls him back. Patrick spits blood onto the floor, his eyes blazing with fury.
He is seething, his whole body shaking with humiliation. Jud is breathing hard, his lip split open, a bruise already blooming ugly across his cheek. That’s when you finally step forward.
The look you give them both could freeze a lake. You ultimately turn to Jud, hand resting loosely against his shoulder, blocking his view on Patrick.
“Let’s go.”
Patrick’s voice explodes behind you. A mix of hurt pride and something even sharper.
“If you leave with him, we’re over!”
You pause at the door, glancing back over your shoulder. “We both know, it’s been over long before tonight,” and then you leave.
*****
As you reach Jud’s car he winces, one hand pressing briefly against his side. You extend your hand toward him, palm up.
He looks at you, puzzled, one eyebrow lifting.
“Your car key,” you clarify.
He shakes his head immediately. “I can drive.”
You shoot him a look. “You’re barely standing upright, Jud.”
For a split second you can see him weighing his options. “But you had a drink.”
“I’m fine,” you say. “I promise I won’t crash your car.”
Jud sighs, reaching into his jeans pocket before placing the key in your hand.
“Turns out watching my boyf—” you stop yourself, correcting quickly, “ex-boyfriend fistfight his twin brother strangely sobered me up.”
He lets out a quiet, defeated huff of laughter before sinking carefully into the passenger seat.
******
The drive to your place is quiet.
The radio hums softly in the background while streetlights slide over the windshield in slow intervals. Jud spends the whole ride looking out the window, jaw tight, one hand resting lightly against his ribs.
When the familiar streets of your neighborhood finally appear, you pull up in front of your building and kill the engine. You quickly step out and walk around to open Jud’s door. His head is tipped back against the headrest, body slumped heavily into the seat.
You lean one arm against the open car door. “You okay?”
Jud stays still for a moment before lifting his head just enough to look at you. His eyes look tired, defeated, the storm-blue color muted in the dim light.
“Do I look like I’m okay?”
Your mouth twitches slightly. “You look like you just fist-fought your twin brother.”
He exhales long and slow. “Not funny.”
“I wasn’t trying to be.”
A small pause. “C’mon,” you say gently. “Let’s get you upstairs so I can look at those battle scars.”
Jud braces his hands on his knees before pushing himself upright like the movement costs him. You close the car door and lock it, then the two of you make your way inside and up the elevator.
Only when the doors slide open on your floor does it occur to you that Jud has never been here before. Under normal circumstances that realization might have made you more nervous. Tonight, after everything that happened, it barely registers.
Still, when you unlock the door and step inside, the awareness lingers faintly.
Your apartment greets you with the soft glow of fairy lights in the living room. You flip on the small kitchen light and gesture toward one of the bar stools by the counter.
“Sit.”
Jud obeys without argument.
You head quickly to the bathroom and return with the first aid kit. When you reach the kitchen, you step between his knees, the closeness suddenly feels more noticeable than it should. You tilt his chin slightly with careful fingers so you can look at the cut on his lip.
The split is small but angry.
“Hold still,” you murmur.
You soak a cotton pad with disinfectant and press it gently against the cut and Jud hisses under his breath.
“Sorry,” you say softly, though you don’t pull away.
Up close you notice details you hadn’t before — the clean curve of his mouth, the sharp line of his cupid’s bow. You catch yourself staring a second too long before refocusing on the task, but Jud doesn’t comment. His hands rest on his thighs, palms flat, respectful even in the close proximity.
“Why’d you do it?” you ask quietly after a moment.
Jud exhales through his nose.
“He called me a lot of things tonight,” he says. “Most of them I could’ve ignored.”
You finish cleaning the cut and step away long enough to grab an ice pack from the freezer.
“But?” you prompt.
After you wrapped a kitchen towel around the pack, you press it gently against his cheek. He flinches slightly at the sudden cold.
“But he made it sound like I’d take advantage of you,” Jud says, voice low. “Like I’d do that to him.”
Your hand stays steady against the ice pack.
“I couldn’t let that stand.”
For a moment neither of you speaks, then Jud’s hand lifts. His fingers close over yours where you’re holding the ice against his cheek.
Not rough. Just firm. The contact stills you instantly. His eyes lift to meet yours, pinning you in place. And there’s a new kind of intensity to them you haven’t seen before.
The air between you shifts into something quiet but charged as you finally say, your voice small, “Patrick says a lot of things when he’s high.”
Jud searches your eyes. “He’s an asshole.”
You hold his gaze. “Not always.”
“No,” he says, a corner of his mouth twitching faintly despite the split lip. “But pretty consistent recently.”
You huff out a small breath, the tension loosening for half a second.
Then it settles back in again. You’re still standing between his knees, one hand resting lightly against his cheek where the ice pack presses into the forming bruise. His hand is still over yours, large and warm even through the cold sensation.
Neither of you moves.
“Tonight wasn’t about you,” Jud says quietly after a moment. “He’s been waiting for a reason to swing at me since we were teenagers. Honestly surprised it didn’t happen sooner.”
Your breath catches slightly. “And you gave him one.”
His eyes soften, just a little. “No,” he says. “He gave himself one.”
Your throat feels suddenly tight. You’re very aware of how close you both are now. The warmth of his breath. The faint scent of soap and something metallic from the dried blood at his lip.
Jud’s hand slips from yours and for a second you think the moment is ending. Instead his fingers settle lightly at your hip. Your breath hitches at the contact. It isn’t possessive, if anything, it feels careful. Like he’s giving you time to pull away, but you don’t.
Your eyes drop before you can stop yourself. To his mouth, again. The air crackles with an invisible undercurrent.
“This is a terrible idea,” you say softly.
Jud nods once, his own eyes now fixed on your lips. “I know.”
But he doesn’t move away. Instead he shifts forward just slightly, close enough that his breath brushes your lips and without either of you really deciding to, you bend down a little to meet him. The ice pack slips from your hand and hits the floor with a dull thud the second his lips meet yours.
The kiss is immediate and electric, like something that’s been building quietly for weeks finally finding a way out. Your hands tangle instinctively in his hair. Jud inhales sharply against your mouth and then his arms are around you, pulling you closer with surprising strength for someone who just got out of a fight.
You let out a small squeak of protest as he lifts you easily into his lap.
“Jud—” You laugh breathlessly against his mouth. “I’m too heavy—”
One hand steadies firmly at your hip, while the other slides gently to the back of your neck, thumb brushing just below your ear.
“You’re not,” he murmurs against your lips.
When he kisses you again, slower this time, the whole room feels like it’s holding its breath.
You straddle him now, your feet barely brushing the floor. The kiss deepens naturally, your head tilting to give him better access as your mouths move together, learning each other in a way that feels both new and strangely familiar.
God, he’s a good kisser.
The hand that had been resting on your hip slides lower, fingers spreading over your ass as if he can’t quite believe you’re really here. He pulls you closer, guiding you instinctively, like the small space between your bodies suddenly feels unbearable.
You respond without thinking, shifting against him, seeking the friction and something that grounds the dizzying rush of it all.
His breath catches.
Jud’s lips leave yours only to trail slowly along your jaw before moving down the side of your throat. You tilt your head automatically, giving him space, and the soft sound that escapes you feels embarrassingly needy in the quiet apartment.
Every place his mouth touches burns.
“Jud—” you gasp softly, hand tightening in his hair. He hums against your skin in answer, one hand sliding up your back, the other steady at your hip again, guiding you without pressure, like he’s memorizing the way you move.
For a few seconds the world shrinks down to warmth and your pants and the quiet sound of both of you trying to breathe through the intensity of it.
Then suddenly he stops, completely. His hands still touch you gently but his forehead drops forward until it rests against your collarbone. His breathing is uneven, warm against your skin.
For a moment you don’t understand what changed. His fingers bunch the fabric of your dress at your sides as he exhales.
“We can’t—” he says, voice rough. He swallows, shaking his head faintly. “No. We shouldn’t.”
The words land like cold water. You blink, taken aback, still trying to catch your breath yourself. Your arms come around him almost automatically, hands sliding up into his hair again as you hold him there, fingers threading gently through the dark strands.
It takes both of you a moment to come back down from the edge of whatever that was.
Jud stays where he is, head bowed against you, breathing slowly now, and you run your fingers lightly through his hair, grounding both of you in the quiet that slowly returns to the room.
“Did I do something wrong?” you ask quietly, almost ashamed.
His head lifts immediately from your collarbone. His lips are kiss-bitten, brows furrowed in confusion.
“God, no,” he says quickly. “It’s just…”
“Just what?”
“I don’t want to take advantage of this moment.”
The words sit heavy between you. For a second you nod, like you understand. Like you agree. But the warmth of him is still wrapped around you, the echo of that kiss still buzzing in your veins, and suddenly the closeness feels unbearable.
You slip off his lap without much ceremony. Your feet hit the floor softly, but the space that opens between you feels enormous.
Jud notices immediately. “Hey—”
You shake your head, arms crossing loosely over your stomach as if to hold something in place.
“I get it,” you say, though your voice comes out thinner than you intended. The ice pack is still on the floor where it fell, already starting to melt and you bend down to pick it up, only to have something to do that conceals the feeling of rejection.
Jud stands too quickly, wincing as the movement pulls at his ribs.
“Damn it,” he mutters under his breath.
You don’t look at him immediately.
“That’s not—” he starts, then stops, like he’s searching for the right words and none of them feel big enough.
“It’s not because I don’t want this.”
That makes you look up, his voice is quiet but certain. He rubs the back of his neck. As he meets your eyes, something conflicted flickering there.
“I do,” he admits. “Probably more than I should.”
Your chest tightens.
“But tonight—” he continues, gesturing vaguely toward the door, toward the ghost of the fight still hanging in the air, “you just broke up with my brother. We’re both half out of our heads.”
Despite yourself, a breath of a laugh slips out. He huffs softly at that in response.
“I don’t want the first time to be like this,” he says. “I’d hate myself for it tomorrow.”
Silence settles again, not the easy kind this time you grew used to when being around him. The heavy kind.
Jud grabs his jacket from the back of the stool, movements a little clumsy now that the adrenaline has worn off.
“I should go,” he says finally.
The words land like something small breaking and you nod even though part of you wants to stop him.
“Okay.”
He hesitates by the door, glancing back once like he might say something else. Instead he just gives you a small, tired smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Get some sleep,” he murmurs.
Then he steps into the hallway, the door closes behind him with a soft click but the sound echoes through the apartment anyway.
For a long moment you just stand there in the quiet. You press your hand against your lips without thinking, they still feel warm. Still taste faintly of antiseptic and him and somehow that makes the silence ache even more.
*****
The next few days the moment in your kitchen replays behind your eyelids with torturous persistence. You nitpick every second of it, turning it over and over in your mind like something fragile you’re afraid you might have broken without noticing. You ask yourself if you misread anything. If he regrets it. If you should feel more guilty about almost fucking your ex’s twin brother.
You don’t.
Mostly, you feel stood up.
And the worst part—the most inconvenient part—is that you want more. The kiss set you on fire and the heat of it refuses to fade. Days later the desire still burns somewhere under your skin, simmering low and stubborn.
Not that things with Patrick in that regard had ever been bad. Quite the opposite. He was—unsurprisingly—very good in bed.
But Jud…
Jud had held back.
Restraint seemed to live in his bones, but you had felt it anyway. Or at least you thought you had. The quiet intensity beneath it. The way his hands had been sure without ever demanding. The way something dangerously close to reverence had surfaced as his mouth moved across your skin.
You wonder if he’s thinking about it too. If he feels it too—that slow simmering want that hums like a distant calling.
But there’s no way to know.
Your phone stays silent.
No messages. No calls.
And you have never chased anyone or anything in your life, no matter how much you wanted them.
By Thursday the quiet is starting to grate.
You stop by Patrick’s apartment to grab the last of your things. The elevator doors slide open and you’re just stepping into the hallway when you hear his voice.
Angry. Unmistakably.
“I told you to stay the fuck away—”
Another voice answers, quieter.
“Pat, I just wanted to talk. I didn’t—”
Patrick scoffs loudly. “Don’t play the moral apostle. I don’t care what you want—”
You round the corner and both men turn toward you at the same time. Patrick’s expression twists immediately into something that looks an awful lot like hatred.
“You have to be kidding me,” he spits.
Jud just looks at you. Not annoyed. Not angry. More like you weren’t supposed to see this.
Patrick barrels on before either of you can say anything. “You know what? Take your girlfriend’s stuff and leave. I don’t wanna see you or her ass around here ever again.”
Then he grabs a handful of things from the entry table—clothes, your charger, a book—and throws them straight at Jud’s chest. Jud tries to catch them but he’s a beat too slow. Your things scatter across the hallway floor. The force of it makes him stumble half a step back.
The front door slams shut immediately afterward.
You step forward without a word and start gathering your things from the floor. Jud crouches beside you automatically, picking up the book and the charger.
For a moment neither of you speaks.
“Well,” he murmurs finally, “that went great, I think.”
You huff something dangerously close to a laugh. “If he could curse us, he would,” you say dryly. “Honestly I had expected my underwear to be thrown out the window, so that’s a slight upgrade.”
You quickly shove the pair of lace panties into your bag.
Jud clears his throat before standing and handing you the rest of your things.
“I’m sorry.”
You look up at him. “For what?”
“This,” he says simply, gesturing vaguely toward the door behind you. He doesn’t elaborate.
A beat passes.
“I can drive you home if you want,” he adds quietly.
You nod before you even realize you’ve decided.
The car ride starts in silence.
Jud’s car looks slightly more chaotic than you remember. There’s the faint smell of motor oil and old coffee somewhere. Your bag rests in your lap while the city drifts past outside the windows.
For a long while neither of you says anything, then Jud exhales softly.
“About the other night,” he says.
Your fingers tighten slightly on the strap of your bag.
“I don’t want you thinking my distance meant lack of interest.”
Your heart does something inconvenient inside your chest.
“I figured,” you say carefully.
He glances at you briefly before returning his attention to the road. “Did you?”
“Not really,” you admit.
A faint huff of a laugh escapes him at that.
When he pulls up in front of your building, neither of you moves right away. The engine ticks quietly as it cools.
You sit there just breathing in sync before Jud suddenly leans back and reaches into the backseat, rummaging around for a moment before pulling something forward.
It’s small.
Wood.
He holds it out to you and you take it, turning it carefully in your hands.
It’s a little duck carved from pale wood. The surface is smooth but you can still see the faint lines where the knife shaped it. The wings are suggested with soft curves along the sides and the head tilts slightly forward, like it’s about to waddle somewhere important.
The craftsmanship is simple but thoughtful.
“Did you make this?” you ask quietly.
Jud nods. “Yeah. Helped keep my mind busy.”
You study it more closely, your thumb brushing over the carved feathers.
“It’s really beautiful,” you say honestly. “You’re talented, Jud. Maybe your real calling is carpentry.”
He huffs a quiet laugh that fills the small space of the car. “I don’t know about that.”
You hand the duck back but he doesn’t take it.
“I want you to have it.”
You blink. “Why?”
His answer comes after a pause. “So you don’t forget me.”
Your stomach drops.
“Forget you?” you say slowly. “How could I—”
You stop.
“…wait. Why would I forget you?”
Jud’s gaze drops briefly to the steering wheel before lifting again.
“I’m leaving.”
Your throat goes dry.
“What?”
“I got accepted into another program,” he says quietly. “Upstate. Seminary placement.”
The words settle heavy between you.
“It starts next week.”
Your chest tightens painfully.
“You’re leaving next week?” you repeat.
Jud nods once.
“Pat already knew from our parents,” he adds. “But I wanted to tell him personally tonight.”
Silence swells in the car. You stare down at the little wooden duck still resting in your hands.
“I thought…” you start, then stop because you’re not even sure what you thought.
Jud watches you carefully.
“This was never supposed to get complicated,” he says softly. “I was going to keep my distance. Do the right thing.”
Your voice comes out thin. “And the other night?”
His jaw tightens slightly. “The other night proved I’m not as good at that as I thought.”
The car feels smaller suddenly. Almost suffocating.
Jud’s voice is quieter now. “I wanted you to have something,” he says. “Before I go.”
The words land like a slow bruise spreading under your skin and you carefully place the duck into your bag.
“I think I—” you inhale, steadying yourself before finishing, “I think I’m going to miss you.”
“Don’t say that, we barely—”
“Barely what?” you cut in softly. “Knew each other? Didn’t feel like that for me.”
The words hang between you, fragile and undeniable. Jud looks like he’s about to argue, then stops. His jaw shifts slightly, like he’s biting back whatever he planned to say.
Ultimately you reach for the door handle. The small movement feels heavier than it should.
“I should go upstairs,” you murmur.
Jud nods, though something in his expression tightens further.
Your fingers rest on the handle but you don’t open the door. Something inside you refuses to let the moment end that quietly. You turn back toward him instead.
“I guess this is… goodbye then,” you say softly.
He nods once, still staring out the windshield. “Yeah.”
You lean across the console, close enough to feel the warmth coming off him. It’s supposed to be simple, just a goodbye. You press a soft kiss to his cheek.
“Take care of yourself, Jud.”
For a second it seems like that will be it but then his hand moves. It slips into your hair like it belongs there, fingers threading through the strands at the back of your head before you can even process what’s happening.
And suddenly he’s pulling you closer.
His mouth finds yours and the kiss is immediate and consuming. It steals the air right out of your lungs. Your hand braces instinctively against his chest as he deepens it, his other hand coming up to cup your jaw.
There’s nothing careful about it this time. Nothing restrained. Just heat and urgency and something aching beneath it all.
For a moment the whole world narrows down to the warmth of his mouth, the way his fingers tighten gently in your hair, the quiet sound of your breath catching between kisses. When he finally pulls back, it’s only a fraction to rest his forehead briefly against yours in the dim light of the car. Both of you breathing a little too hard.
“Yeah,” he murmurs softly, voice rough. “This is going to make leaving a lot harder.”
“Don’t leave,” you plead, your voice softer than you intended.
Jud’s thumb traces gently behind your ear, a quiet, grounding gesture.
“I have to,” he answers, though he hasn’t moved away. Your breaths still mingle in the small space between you.
“Not tonight.”
His brows furrow and he leans back just enough to look at you properly, searching your face like he needs to be absolutely certain.
“Is this what you want?”
You nod, your hand curling into the front of his shirt. Jud exhales shakily, something in his expression shifting like the last thread of restraint snapping loose. He reaches down and unbuckles his seatbelt.
You do the same.
The car doors open almost in unison.
The night air feels cooler now, but his hand finds the small of your back immediately, guiding you toward the building with quiet certainty. The touch is steady, protective, and it sends another ripple of warmth through you.
Neither of you says anything as you step into the elevator or as the doors slide shut with a soft hum.
For a second you both look at your reflections in the mirror across the wall. Your hair is slightly messy, your lips swollen from kissing. Jud’s split lip is still visible, the bruise on his cheek darkening under the harsh elevator light. Evidence of both— something ending and beginning at the same time.
Then he steps closer. His hands settle on your waist, warm and solid. His face dips to your neck, nuzzling gently as his lips brush your skin in fleeting, barely-there touches that still manage to set every nerve ending in your body alight.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs quietly.
The words land warm against your skin.
“I don’t want you to ever forget that.”
He lifts his head just enough to meet your eyes in the mirror. Your heart does a full sprint in your chest. There’s something about the quiet conviction in his voice that rattles you more than any compliment ever has.
The elevator dings as the doors slide open.
You barely make it inside your apartment before you’re kissing again.
The same dim fairy lights glow in the living room, exactly as they had a few nights ago, but everything feels different now. The air feels thicker, charged.
You can barely catch your breath between kisses, both of you moving like gravity itself has shifted. Your hands slide under the shirt he’s wearing, palms pressing against the warmth of his skin, feeling the firm lines of muscle beneath your fingers.
Jud inhales sharply. His hands slip beneath your shirt in return, large palms warm against your back. With practiced ease his fingers find the clasp of your bra and release it before you even realize what he’s doing. The loosened straps slide from your shoulders. One of his hands moves to the space between your shoulder blades, holding you close.
You don’t think much about it before you jump into his arms. A small laugh escapes you as he catches you easily, instinctively, like he’d expected it. His arms wrap securely around you while your legs hook around his waist. Still kissing, still half-laughing into each other’s mouths, he starts moving down the hallway almost blindly, guided more by memory of your apartment than sight.
You can feel his frantic heartbeat under your palms that mirrors yours perfectly. The bedroom door appears in the dim light just as his lips trail briefly along your jaw, both of you still completely lost in each other.
He holds you securely with one arm while his other hand fumbles blindly for the door handle. It takes him a second, fingers missing the latch the first time, but eventually the door gives and he nudges it open with his shoulder.
The bedroom is dim, only the soft orange glow of the streetlamp outside spilling through the curtains.
A few steps in and he starts to lower you gently toward the bed. Instead, you pull him down with you. You both land on your sides in a tangle of limbs and breathless laughter that dissolves immediately into another kiss. Your leg hooks automatically over his hip, anchoring him close while your hand slides to the back of his neck, fingers threading into his hair as the kiss deepens.
The urgency between you returns all at once.
Clothes disappear quickly, peeled away with impatience, but even through it Jud remains careful with you. Every newly revealed inch of skin earns the brush of his fingers, his touch slow and reverent despite the heat burning between you.
You gasp softly when his hand trails down your side and he looks at you like he still can’t quite believe this is real. Like he’s been given something sacred he never expected to touch.
Like you are something he might kneel for.
As he finally hovers over you, careful not to put his full weight on you, his arms brace on either side of your head. His lips find your forehead first, then your temple, your cheek, the line of your jaw. Your breath shivers when his mouth moves lower, down your neck, then to the soft curve of your chest.
You arch instinctively, fingers tightening in his hair.
“Jud—”
He pauses just long enough to look up at you, lips parted.
“This okay?” he asks, breath rough.
“Yes.”
The word comes out without hesitation and whatever careful distance he tried to keep earlier melts away after that. When he settles between your legs, the closeness is intoxicating. With nothing separating you, the contact steals the air from your lungs.
You pull him back into a kiss. He groans softly against your mouth.
Your legs wrap around his hips, drawing him closer and you feel the faint tremor in his body. He’s shaking a little, like he’s holding himself together by sheer will.
Your hands cradle his face, thumbs brushing gently over the bruise on his cheek.
“It’s alright, Jud.”
His eyes soften at that, like you just gave him permission he didn’t know he needed. His hand moves between your bodies, finding the place where the tension in you has been building for days. The soft sound that escapes you makes his breath hitch. He moves carefully at first, patient and precise, until the rhythm between you becomes something shared.
Then finally he shifts, lining up with you. When he pushes forward, the sound that leaves both of you is the same. His head drops into the crook of your neck as your arms wrap tighter around him.
“God help me, you feel—”
The sentence dissolves into a breath as he begins to move. Everything about it feels intense, overwhelming in the best way. The days of tension, the restraint, the unspoken things all unravel between you at once granting clarity.
Your nails drag lightly over his back, encouraging him while soft sounds slip from your lips against his ear. He responds instinctively, the pace building as the rhythm between you becomes something neither of you can control anymore.
It doesn’t take long. Not with everything that’s been building. His focus stays on you even as he chases his own release, his touch guiding you there with quiet determination. When the wave finally breaks through you, your hands clutch at his shoulders.
Jud makes a helpless sound against your temple. Something that might be a breathless laugh, or a prayer, or both. He follows moments later, the tension leaving his body in a shudder that makes him press impossibly closer for a second.
And then—
Stillness.
The room settles into quiet again, broken only by the sound of both of you catching your breath.
Jud shifts slightly so his head rests over your heart. Your fingers drift automatically into his hair, combing gently through the dark strands as you press a soft kiss there.
Nothing about the moment feels awkward, just full.
Like something inevitable finally happened.
Jud stays the night. You fall asleep with him half draped over you, the steady weight of him grounding in a way that feels unfamiliar but right. At some point during the night he shifts, pulling the blanket higher over both of you.
You don’t remember falling asleep, but you do remember the quiet. And the warmth of him beside you, seeping slowly into places you thought had gone cold a long time ago.
Early morning slips into the room slowly, the sun barely starts to rise. You barely register the movement beside you when Jud carefully sits up. The mattress dips softly as he shifts, trying not to wake you.
For a moment he just looks at you, his eyes so soft and full of feeling it makes your throat tighten. A moment later he leans down and presses a gentle kiss into your hair.
“Thank you,” he murmurs quietly.
The words reach you even through the haze of sleep. Your chest tightens unexpectedly, a sudden sting behind your ribs that feels dangerously close to tears.
Your gaze drifts toward the nightstand, because you can’t bring yourself to watch him leave. The small wooden duck sits there in the soft morning light.
You let out a small, wet laugh at that.
A sound that feels a little too close to heartbreak.
*****
The apartment is quiet after, your whole life is. After breaking up with Patrick and Jud leaving the city.
Your phone never rings.
No messages appear.
And somehow you understand, without needing confirmation, that this is how it ends.
Not cruelly.
Not dramatically.
Just… finished.
Maybe that’s for the best. Maybe some things are meant to stay almosts.
Almost love. Almost timing. Almost the right life.
Still, the memory lingers.
The warmth of him. The quiet shared understanding. And the way he looked at you like you were something steady in a world that had always been loud.
The ache fades eventually, or at least it softens.
Life moves forward the way it always does. You leave the apartment. Then the neighborhood. Eventually the whole city. The weight of the failed relationship and the almost that followed feels too heavy to keep carrying through the same streets.
A few years pass like that. Not entirely unpleasant nor overly exciting. Just a going with the flow.
Some days you forget entirely, other days you don’t.
One afternoon you wander into a church off state. You’re not particularly religious. Never have been. But the building is beautiful—high ceilings, old stained glass that scatters colors across the wooden pews like spilled paint.
And it’s quiet. That’s what you really came for.
You sit near the middle, letting the stillness settle around you. The faint smell of candle wax and old wood hangs in the air. Sunlight filters through the windows in soft golden patches.
For a while you just sit there.
Just breathing, thinking about nothing particularly.
Then the air shifts beside you. You feel it before you can name it. The same warmth from all the years back.
“Can I?”
The voice is gentle. Familiar in a way that makes something deep in your chest tighten.
For a second you don’t move. Time does something strange in that moment and slowly you look up and there he is.
Jud.
Older now. The years have softened the sharpness of his face, but his eyes are exactly the same—steady, storm-blue and warm all at once. Around his throat sits the thin white band of a priest’s collar.
For a moment everything goes still, then your mouth lifts in a small, private smile.
“You made it,” you say softly.
Jud mirrors your smile, something calm and familiar settling in his expression.
“Barely.”
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-`♡´- tags: sweaty!Frankie, slightly bratty!reader, dirty thoughts, almost public indecency
summary: Frankie refuses to make you feel like you're too heavy to carry.
word count: ~ 780
a/n: Hello from the other side! Please don't take this post too seriously, I didn't either while writing. But since today is our favorite pilot's day, what better way to celebrate him than some over-the-top gym fantasy? Enjoy my feral gremlins. <3
“You think you’re too heavy for me?” he asks like you just said something blasphemous in front of God himself.
It started as a throwaway comment. Half-teasing, half self-conscious, murmured into his shoulder late at night while lying on top of him. Something about squishing him. You barely remember saying it.
But he remembers.
And now, you’re in the gym.
Frankie doesn’t usually bring people here. This is his quiet place. His rhythm. His control. But today he’s got something to prove.
You’re perched on the edge of a bench, water bottle in hand, still unsure how exactly you let him drag you along. And then you watch him start to load the barbell. One plate. Then another. And another.
“Frankie…”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“That’s a lot of weight.”
“I know what I’m doing.”
He adjusts the bench. Rolls his sleeves up. Sits under the bar like he’s preparing for war. You can feel the shift in the air—the quiet snap in his focus, the sharp set of his jaw. And suddenly he’s someone else. Not just your Frankie. But someone determined and beautiful.
And then—
Thrust.
The bar rattles. His arms flex, shirt clinging to every ridge of his chest and shoulders. Sweat already blooming down his spine. His hips snap up with startling power and precision.
“One.”
Another. And another. He’s gritting his teeth now, jaw tight, breath rough through his nose, veins like lightning across his forearms and neck.
Your thighs press together involuntarily.
“This,” he bites out through clenched teeth, lifting again, “is baby weight.”
Thrust.
“You’re not heavy.”
Thrust.
“You’re mine.”
Thrust.
“And I could lift you all damn day.”
By the time he racks the bar, chest heaving, sweat beading on his brow, curls damp and clinging to his temple you’re only able to stare. There’s no hiding it. Jaw slack. Breath shallow. Brain running on one loop:
Hip thrusts. Thighs. Frankie. Sweat. Frankie. Moans maybe. Frankie.
He wipes his face with the edge of his shirt, exposing the trail of hair under his navel, and glances at you with a slow, knowing smile. Damn what a sight.
“Still worried, cariño?”
You’re not. You’re burning. You don’t even remember your own name at this point.
You follow him into the locker room like a woman possessed. Your bag? Who cares. Your water bottle? Gone. All you see is the way the sweat glistens on his neck, the curve of his back, the pull of his shorts over his thighs—God.
And the second the door closes, he’s on you. His hands on your waist, your back hitting the wall, his mouth at your neck, your jaw, the hollow beneath your ear. He’s warm and flushed and wrecked and wild.
“You were staring,” he mutters, voice low, dark. “You think I didn’t notice?”
“I wasn’t—” you gasp, already losing the thread of logic, “okay, maybe I was.”
“Stacked that weight just so you’d see. So you’d stop saying dumb shit like that. You still think I can’t handle you?”
You don’t even answer. You can’t. You just nod, or shake your head—he’s too close, his fingers slipping beneath the waistband of your leggings—
And then—
SLAM.
The locker room door creaks open.
A guy walks in, towel around his neck, earbuds in. Freezes. Blinks. Realizes. Backs out slowly.
Frankie goes still. Forehead against your shoulder. Breathing like he’s been shot. You’re trembling meanwhile. Dizzy with adrenaline. Frustrated. Feral for this unfairly attractive and sweaty man.
Frankie pulls back, cheeks flushed, curls damp and sticking to his forehead, lips parted like he’s seconds from saying something he’ll regret.
You try to lean in again but he stops you with a soft, wrecked growl:
“No, not here.”
And then—
He lifts you. Throws you over his shoulder, effortlessly, like you weigh nothing.
“Frankie—!” You squeak.
“Shut up. You started this.”
You’re laughing, flustered, your heart punching against your ribs as he stalks through the gym like a man who’s about to commit a crime.
People stare. Someone whistles. Frankie doesn’t care.
He doesn’t break stride until he opens the car door like it offended him personally.
The car ride is quiet. Except for your breathing. And the death grip he’s got on your thigh. The muscle twitching in his jaw. The white-knuckle hold on the steering wheel. Every red light feels like a punishment. You really need to bite back a laugh.
He doesn’t play music. Doesn’t speak, doesn’t even blink. Just takes the fastest route home like a man on a mission.
When he finally slams the gear into park, he turns to you—eyes dark, voice low:
“Upstairs. Now. And don’t bother taking off those leggings. I’ll do it with my teeth.”
