Built to Last - Francisco Morales x f!Reader
Pairing: Francisco “Catfish” Morales x f!Reader POV: 2nd person (You/Reader) Rating: General Audience, but my blog is 18+ Summary: Christmas Eve with your boyfriend, single dad Frankie Morales, takes an unexpected turn when his daughter suddenly becomes part of the plan. And it turns out to be exactly what you needed. Word Count: 6.6k Content/Warnings: Dad!Frankie, Single Dad, Girl Dad, Domestic Fluff, Fluff with Feelings, Soft Frankie, Christmas, Puns A/N: This idea has been in my head for just over three years now. I always imagined writing a few different fics about these two, starting with their first Christmas. Naturally, I did things out of order and wrote their second Christmas first (Let It Snow). I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it! Domestic Frankie just hits different.
Masterlist
It’s the day before Christmas, and you’re buzzing with excitement. Holiday music hums in the background as you move around the house, busying yourself with preparations for the annual Miller Christmas Extravaganza. At least, that’s what Benny called it when he extended the invitation, clearly trying to hype you up for your first Christmas gathering with Frankie and his friends.
Not that you needed the encouragement.
You’ve been looking forward to this for weeks: your first Christmas with your still newish boyfriend, Francisco Morales. Kisses under mistletoe, cuddling in front of a brightly lit Christmas tree, long walks in the snow… or, well, sand. You’ve been in Florida less than a year, and Christmas here will be different from what you’re used to. But in your head, it’s already perfect.
The buzz of your phone cuts through the music, snapping you out of the daydream.
“Hello?” you answer, already smiling.
“Hermosa… Hey.”
Frankie’s voice makes you smile before you even realize you are, the earlier quiet of the afternoon suddenly forgotten.
“Frankie,” you sigh happily, leaning against your bedroom dresser. “I was beginning to think the Grinch came by and kidnapped you.”
There’s a soft huff of a laugh on the other end of the line—low and familiar, like he’s smiling even if he’s exhausted. When he speaks, his voice is warm but worn around the edges, the kind of tired that settles deep.
“I’m sorry, baby,” he says gently. “I’ve just… uh…” He trails off, then exhales. “I’ve had a bit of a day.”
The words are careful, like he’s choosing them one at a time.
“Is everything alright?” you ask, the smile fading as you catch the weight in his voice. You straighten slightly, instinctively attentive. “You sound… off.”
There’s a pause at the other end of the line, long enough that you can picture him rubbing a hand over his face.
“Yeah,” he says finally, but it doesn’t sound convincing. “Nothing bad. Just… unexpected.”
Your brow furrows. “Unexpected how?”
He exhales, slow and tired. “I didn’t want anything to put a hitch in our plans, but… Vanessa appeared out of nowhere with Gabriella and all but explicitly told me to take her tonight, and I… well, of course I couldn’t say no. I mean, it’s Christmas Eve.”
“Oh, Frankie,” you coo. “That’s wonderful, isn’t it? I mean, not that Vanessa dropped her with no warning because what the actual fuck, but… I know you’ve been bummed about not being able to see her open presents tomorrow morning. Now you can spend Christmas Eve and Christmas Day with her, right?”
“Yeah, I’m excited,” he replies, the hint of a smile in his voice. “But, uh… Well, this isn’t exactly how we planned our first Christmas together.”
“Plans change,” you say gently. “Especially when kids are involved.”
“I know.” His voice drops, quieter now. “I just don’t want you to feel like you’re being pushed aside. Or like I don’t care.”
The words land heavier than he probably intends. You soften instantly, shifting where you stand, phone pressed closer to your ear as if the extra inch might help. You can hear him breathing on the other end, slow, measured, a little uncertain, like he’s bracing himself for a reaction he’s afraid to deserve.
“Just… Please tell me you’re not mad,” he begs quietly.
“Mad?” You echo it softly, surprised. “No. Why would I be mad?”
Another pause. Longer this time.
“You’ve been waiting for this day for weeks,” he says, voice low. “I know how excited you were. I just… I don’t want you feeling like I ruined it.”
You shift your weight, leaning back against the counter, phone pressed closer to your ear as if that might bridge the distance between you.
“You haven’t ruined anything, Frankie.” You say it gently, steady, like you need him to believe it. “I’ve been waiting for this day, but not because of the party. I don’t care about that. I care about spending the holiday with you. I don’t care how or where, I just want to be with you.”
You pause, the reality of the situation settling in. A small knot tightens in your chest as you add more carefully, “Unless you want time alone with Gabi. I’d understand. I know she comes first.”
There’s no hesitation in his response.
“Nobody comes first, cariño,” he says softly. “It’s not a competition.” The conviction in his voice is unmistakable, stronger, surer. “I want to spend Christmas with both my girls.”
Your breath catches.
“Francisco…,” you murmur, the name slipping out soft and instinctive. Warmth blooms in your chest at the way he says it, like the idea has already taken root in his heart, like he’s picturing it as clearly as you are.
“I was thinking,” he continues, voice easing now, a little lighter, “we could have an easy dinner, make some hot chocolate, and watch Christmas movies cuddled up on the couch.” You can hear the smile in his voice, tentative but hopeful, like he’s offering you a quiet promise rather than a plan.
“That sounds perfect,” you reply, and this time, there’s no hesitation in it at all.
“Then after Gabi goes to bed…,” he trails off, his voice dropping a little, warmer now, threaded with something playful.
You smile to yourself, already picturing it. The quiet house, twinkling lights, wrapping paper spread across the floor. “We can play Santa.”
“Santa?” Frankie repeats, genuinely confused. “Like some kinky roleplay sort of thing?”
You choke on a laugh. “Oh my god, no.” You’re smiling so hard your cheeks hurt. “I meant Santa as in cookies. Stockings. The man who breaks into your house once a year.”
“Oh.” There’s a beat. Then realization hits him like a truck. “Oh—shit. Santa.” His voice drops, panic creeping in. “Fuck, I’m not ready for Santa.”
You can practically hear him spiraling again. “I don’t have anything for a stocking. I don’t even know if I have cookies. Do we have milk? What about carrots? She’s going to ask about the reindeer. She always asks about the reindeer.”
You smile bright, warmth flooding your chest at the sound of him unraveling in the most dad way possible. “It’s okay,” you say gently. “Those things really aren’t necessary.”
“They are,” he insists, the words sharp with worry. “I want her to have the best Christmas. Not something half-assed because her mother didn’t have the damn sense to think about anyone other than herself for once.” He exhales hard, frustration bleeding through. “She needs a stocking filled with candy she shouldn’t even be eating.” His voice starts to tumble over itself. “And the presents… Fuck, she’s going to need more presents. Where the hell am I-”
“Frankie,” you cut in, a quiet laugh threading through your voice. “Breathe. You’re spiraling.”
“I am breathing,” he insists, exhaling hard like he’s trying to prove it. “I just…” He trails off, then steadies himself. “This is important. I want to get it right.”
The way he says it, earnest and worried, already trying so hard, makes something warm and achy bloom in your chest.
“And you will,” you say without hesitation, the certainty in your voice surprising even you.
“Everything will be perfect because she has you, Frankie. That’s what she’s going to remember.” You soften then, gentler. “Not the cookies or the candy.”
You take a quiet breath, grounding yourself as the plan clicks into place. “But listen,” you add, warmth threading through your words, “if you want her to have the best Christmas… this is what we’re going to do.”
“I’m listening…”
You straighten instinctively, already in problem-solving mode. “I’ll stop at the store on my way over and grab stuff to make cookies. Gabi and I can bake while you run around and pick up whatever you think she’ll love.” You smile to yourself, picturing it. “We’ll do something easy for dinner. Pizza. That way we have time to watch Christmas movies and drink hot chocolate until we’re sick.”
You soften your voice for the last part. “Once she’s in bed, we’ll wrap whatever needs wrapping and set everything up nice and magical for the morning.”
A beat passes. Then you ask gently, “What do you think?”
“I…I couldn’t ask you to do all that,” he says quietly, like the words cost him something.
“You don’t have to,” you reply without missing a beat. “I want to.” Your voice softens, memories stirring. “I have so many wonderful memories of Christmas growing up. You’re right. Every kid deserves that.” You hesitate just a second before adding, more carefully, “But if you feel like I’m overstepping… just tell me. I mean it.”
“No.” His answer comes immediately, firm but gentle. “It sounds perfect.” There’s a smile in his voice now, warm, relieved. “You’re amazing. You know that, right?”
You laugh softly. “I’ve been told that once or twice.”
There’s a pause, like neither of you quite wants to hang up yet.
“We should probably get moving,” you finally say. “I don’t know what time anything closes today.”
“Yeah,” he agrees, energy returning to his voice. “Okay. Thank you so much. I’ll see you soon.”
“I’ll see you soon.” You hesitate, then add, “Oh…and Frankie?”
“Yeah?”
“New Christmas pajamas and a book. Wrap them up and give them to her before bed.” You grin. “She’ll love it, and hopefully it’ll lead to a silent night.”
He chuckles quietly on the other end of the line, the warmth in his voice unmistakable now. “Alright. Thanks again. You’re a lifesaver.”
You grin. “Not a lifesaver. Just an elf with a talent for present solutions.”
His laugh comes easier this time, lighter, like the weight on his chest has finally eased.
The call ends, but the smile lingers on your face long after the screen goes dark, your heart full, already halfway to the front door.
----
Christmas music hums softly in the background as you squeeze a careful bead of icing along the edge of a snowman-shaped cookie. You take your time with it, focused, steady, until the line comes out just right. Satisfied, you set it aside and glance over at Gabi.
She’s perched on a stool beside you, tongue wedged between her lips in fierce concentration. At least a dozen cookies already crowd the counter near her, each one delightfully chaotic. Frosting smudges her fingers and cheeks, and she’s wearing nearly as many sprinkles as the cookies themselves, evidence of a job being taken very, very seriously.
“I think you’re getting more frosting on your arm than the cookie, Gabs,” you laugh, watching her hold up a tube of green icing, frosting slowly oozing out the back.
She giggles, completely unbothered. “Yep!”
“Or maybe you’re turning into the Grinch,” you tease.
She gasps dramatically. “I’m not the Grinch!” She sets the tube down, then dips her fingers into the icing before smearing a streak onto your arm. “You’re the Grinch!”
You suck in an exaggerated breath, clutching at your chest. Without a word, you gather a dab of red icing on your fingertip and gently tap it onto her nose. “Well,” you say solemnly, “now you’re Rudolph.”
She bursts into laughter, tipping her head back before grabbing the nearest jar of sprinkles and dumping a generous handful onto her newest masterpiece. Icing smears everywhere—her hands, her sleeves, her cheeks.
You laugh softly, shaking your head. “Wow. You’re all gooey now. Total Gabby Goo.”
She giggles even harder at that, completely unbothered. “This is fun!”
“Yeah,” you agree, watching her with a fond smile. “It really is.”
Somehow, you think you might be having even more fun than she is. Watching her decorate cookies like this, carefree, messy, happy, pulls you straight back into your own childhood, standing at the counter with your mother, stealing frosting and laughing when you got caught.
The thought brings a brief ache to your chest. You wonder, just for a second, if Gabi has ever shared a moment like this with her own mother.
You don’t dwell on it. Instead, you shake the thought away and smile as she reaches for another cookie, the present moment bright and alive right in front of you.
“You think we should try one?” you ask lightly, eyeing the plate of decorated cookie like it might call out to you.
Gabi hesitates, glancing toward the hallway as if Frankie might magically appear. “Daddy says we can’t have dessert before dinner.”
You lower your voice conspiratorially, leaning closer. “Well then, it’s a good thing these aren’t dessert.”
Her eyes narrow, curious. “They’re not?”
“Nope,” you say solemnly. “They’re an appetizer.”
“Appetizer?” She rolls the unfamiliar word around, brows knitting together.
“You know,” you explain gently, tapping the counter, “the food you eat before dinner.”
Her face brightens with understanding, a slow grin spreading across it like she’s cracked a secret code.
“Oooh!” Gabi’s face lights up. She snatches a cookie from the rack and shoves as much of it into her mouth as she can manage. “I like appetizers!”
You laugh, grabbing one for yourself. “Me too.”
Of course, that’s the exact moment the front door opens. You freeze mid-bite, eyes widening as you hear footsteps in the entryway.
“Daddy!” Gabi squeals, hopping down from the stool and bolting toward the door.
“No, no, no,” you choke out, abandoning your half-eaten cookie on the counter as you scramble after her. You catch up just in time, gently but firmly clapping your hands over her eyes as Frankie strides past with several shopping bags swinging from his hands. “No peeking!” you stage-whisper.
“Daddy, did you buy me presents?!” she asks excitedly, still trying to crane her head around your hands.
“I don’t know,” he says easily, eyes dancing as he shifts the bags higher in his hands. “You’ll just have to wait and see.”
Frankie disappears down the hall toward his bedroom, and you finally drop your hands from in front of Gabi’s eyes, laughing softly as she immediately twists around to try and peek anyway. You guide her back toward the kitchen, distracting her with promises of napkins and cookies.
A moment later, Frankie reappears in the hallway, empty-handed. When he spots his daughter, he chuckles and crouches down to her level, thumb gently swiping the streak of red icing from her nose. “You were supposed to decorate the cookies, mija. Not yourself.” He presses a kiss on her forehead, careful so the brim of his ballcap doesn’t bump against her.
Your chest tightens at the sight.
“Art is messy, Daddy,” Gabi says seriously, like she’s explaining something very important.
He hums thoughtfully. “That’s true.” Then he smiles at her. “But you’re sweet enough without all that icing.”
Frankie straightens and steps toward you, pressing a quick, easy kiss to your cheek as he passes, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Pizza should be here any minute,” he says, glancing back at you with a small smile as he reaches up, pulls his ballcap off, and tosses it onto the counter.
“Great,” you say, handing Gabi a napkin as she hops back onto her stool. “We saved you a snowman cookie, but he lost an arm in battle.”
Gabi giggles so hard she snorts. “Can I finish my cookie?”
“After dinner,” Frankie says firmly, though there’s already a smile tugging at his mouth.
“But she said it’s an appetizer,” Gabi adds, pointing at you like she’s presenting evidence in court.
Frankie’s eyebrows lift as he looks over at you, a slow, amused grin spreading across his face.
“An appetizer, huh?” he repeats.
“Yeah,” Gabi insists confidently. “And appetizers come before dinner.”
You lift your hands in surrender, trying, and failing, to keep a straight face. “I mean… she’s not wrong. I don’t make the rules. That’s just culinary science.”
Frankie snorts, shaking his head as he looks between the two of you. “Unbelievable,” he mutters, though the grin on his face gives him away. “You’re both very convincing.”
Gabi’s eyes go wide with hope. “So, can I?”
He hesitates for half a second, just long enough to pretend he still has authority, then sighs dramatically. “Yes, mija. But only this one time.”
Gabi cheers quietly, clutching her cookie like she’s won a championship.
You meet Frankie’s gaze over her head, biting back a smile. There’s something telling in the way he looks at you now, already aware that this will absolutely not be the last time the two of you team up against him.
The tension of the day seems to fade, and before you know it, you’re all gathered around the table.
Dinner is loud and messy in the most wonderful way. Gabi chatters about school, her eyes lighting up as she talks about the Christmas parade they had on their last day before break. Frankie listens with that quiet, gentle focus only he seems capable of, his knee brushing yours under the table every now and again. Little sparks, little reminders that you’re where you’re meant to be.
Once the plates are cleared, you make hot cocoa topped with a ridiculous amount of whipped cream. The three of you pile onto the couch, Gabi wedged comfortably between you and her dad. How the Grinch Stole Christmas starts playing, and Gabi laughs in all her favorite spots, pointing at the screen with sticky fingers still faintly tinted green from frosting.
Halfway through the second movie, her head lolls to the side. First, onto Frankie’s shoulder. Then, slowly, it tips until it rests on your arm instead. Her eyes blink heavier and slower each time.
Frankie catches your gaze over her head, his smile tired in the sweetest way. “Alright, mija,” he whispers, looking down at his daughter. “Bedtime.”
Gabi whines halfheartedly, blinking up at her father. “But… movies…”
“We’ll watch more tomorrow,” Frankie promises, brushing her hair back. “You’re already falling asleep on our arms, sweetheart, and you still need a bath.”
She doesn’t argue again. She just nods, sleep-soft and trusting, letting him gather her into his arms.
You stand as Frankie carries her down the hallway, mouthing, I’ll clean up when he looks back at you one last time. He gives you a grateful little nod before disappearing into the bathroom.
The kitchen is a disaster. Flour dusting the counter, a small drift of sprinkles by the sink, three abandoned icing tubes lying like they died in battle. You hum softly as you tidy it all, rinsing off cookie sheets and loading plates into the dishwasher.
You wipe the counters, straighten the cooling rack, and toss the mountain of used napkins into the trash. The house grows quieter around you, that special kind of peaceful hush that only exists in the warm center of a holiday night. From down the hall, you hear the soft murmur of Frankie’s voice as he talks to Gabi, low and soothing, punctuated by her occasional sleepy mumble. It’s not words you can make out, just the comforting cadence of a father settling his daughter in for bed. A moment he didn’t think he’d get this year.
By the time you finish sweeping up the last of the rogue sprinkles, Frankie steps into the room, soft-footed, shoulders relaxing when he sees you. He rubs a hand over the back of his neck. It’s his tell, the one he does when he’s about to ask something he feels shy about.
“Uh… cariño?” he murmurs. “Gabi wants you to read her bedtime book.”
You pause mid-wipe of your hands on a dish towel. “Me?”
He nods. “She…insisted. Like, genuine tears incoming if I said no.”
Your chest warms. “Are you sure? I don’t want to get in the way or any-”
“It’s not getting in the way,” he says softly. “She loves you. And I… I get why.”
You feel your heart stumble. “Well, if she insists.”
He leads you down the hall, lingering in the doorway as you settle beside Gabi on her bed. She’s already changed into her new Christmas pajamas, the fabric still crisp and bright, and she’s clutching her Christmas Eve present, a new copy of The Night Before Christmas. Her hair is still damp from her bath, curling softly at her temples. She looks impossibly small, impossibly sweet.
You read softly, your voice low and warm, letting the familiar rhythm of the words fill the room. Halfway through, Gabi shifts closer, curling into your side like it’s the most natural place in the world. Her breathing evens out, slow and steady, and by the final lines, her eyelids flutter with effort, her tiny hand fisted in the fabric of your sleeve like an anchor.
“Goodnight, Gabi,” you whisper, careful not to break the fragile calm.
“Night…” she sighs, and she’s gone.
You gently slip away, closing the door with a soft click.
Frankie is already waiting in the hall, leaning against the wall with arms crossed, eyes warm in the dim light.
“She out?” he whispers.
“Completely.”
He lets out a breath of relief, lips tipping into a grin. “Thank you. Really.”
You nudge him playfully as the two of you walk back toward the living room. “Anytime. She’s amazing.”
“She really is,” he says, pride low and warm in his voice.
You both linger there for a second, the quiet of the house settling in. Then you tilt your head, catching his eye, a playful smile curving your mouth.
“So,” you say lightly, catching his eye, “what did you get her for Christmas? Please tell me it wasn’t a baking set.”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “If it was, I’d already be planning the return.”
You laugh, the sound soft in the quiet living room.
“I found a playhouse,” he says, eyes bright now, like he’s been waiting to say it. “One of the big ones.”
Your eyebrows shoot up. “Like… the ones with fifty unlabeled plastic pieces and at least a three-hour emotional commitment?”
He huffs a laugh and nods. “That’s the one.”
You tilt your head, already grinning. “You know you can’t just leave it in the box, right?” you say. “She’s going to open it, scream for about thirty seconds, and then immediately hand you the instructions like it’s your full-time job.”
He lets out a long sigh, rubbing his face. “Yeah… That checks out.” Then his expression shifts, something gentler settling in. “I just… I don’t expect you to spend Christmas Eve on the floor building a playhouse with me,” he adds quietly. “That’s not exactly what you signed up for.”
“Oh, we’re doing this,” you interrupt, already rolling up your sleeves like you’re gearing up for battle. “But if you mansplain a screwdriver to me even once, I’m leaving.”
His laugh is quiet and warm, tugging straight at your ribs. “I’d never,” he promises, holding up a hand in mock surrender.
A few minutes later, the two of you are sneaking the massive box in from his truck, moving slowly and carefully like you’re pulling off a heist. Every step feels too loud, every shift of cardboard a potential disaster.
You ease the box into the center of the living room, both of you breathing a little harder as you set it down. You straighten, brushing your hands on your clothes, and exchange a look that’s equal parts excitement and impending regret.
“This thing weighs more than Santa’s sleigh,” you whisper.
Frankie snorts, reaching for the box cutters. “Let’s hope it doesn’t require reindeer.”
He slices open the box, and immediately a burst of plastic panels springs outward like the toy is trying to escape. You jerk back with a muffled yelp.
Frankie claps a hand over your mouth before you can make another sound, his eyes going wide in mock alarm. The warmth of his palm and the sudden closeness steal your breath.
You both freeze, bodies going utterly still, eyes locked on the dark hallway like you’re fugitives waiting to be discovered. Every sound feels too loud. The hum of the refrigerator, the distant tick of the clock, your own heartbeat thudding in your ears.
The house holds its breath. Silence.
He lowers his hand slowly, whispering, “Why does it feel like we’re doing something illegal?”
You bump his arm. “Oh, please. Santa will be breaking into millions of houses tonight. I think we’re fine.”
With the danger passed, the two of you start unpacking the box piece by piece. There are… a lot. Too many. You eye the growing pile of plastic panels and tiny bags of screws and decide, quietly, that whoever designed this thing clearly hates parents. Possibly children, too.
Frankie lifts one panel, turning it over in his hands with a crooked smile. “This looks like a roof, right?”
“That’s a side piece with a window.”
He squints at it, tilting it back and forth. “You sure?”
“There’s a hole in the middle.”
He pauses, then nods thoughtfully. “A skylight?”
You level him with a flat stare. “Frankie. It’s a window.”
He laughs quietly and raises both hands in surrender, grin widening as he backs off. “Okay, okay. You’re the architect tonight.”
“About time you admitted it.”
You smile despite yourself and reach for the instructions, already bracing for whatever fresh hell awaits on the next page. It’s… hopeless. All pictures. No words. Just a series of cheerful diagrams that wildly overestimate the intelligence and emotional stability of the average adult. There are dozens of identical screws scattered across the floor, all looking equally wrong.
Frankie plops down beside you, his thigh brushing yours as he peers at the booklet. “Okay,” he whispers solemnly, “step one: panel A connects to panel B.”
You gesture helplessly at the chaotic pile of plastic. “Great. Which one is A?”
He frowns. “I don’t know. Maybe they’re labeled?”
You both start flipping pieces over, movements growing more frantic with each turn. Nothing. Not a single letter.
Frankie freezes, staring at the pile like it personally betrayed him. “Who does that?” he whispers, genuinely horrified. “Who makes a toy and doesn’t label anything? Was this thing designed by the Grinch?”
You glance back at the instructions, already questioning every life choice that led you here.
“Possibly. Or someone evil,” you mutter, scanning the floor. “Someone who wants to end marriages. And, uh… other relationships.”
He laughs softly at that, lower this time, quieter, more intimate as he leans a little closer. “We’re stronger than a plastic playhouse,” he murmurs, like he’s trying to convince both of you.
You glance at him, the corner of your mouth lifting. “We’ll see about that,” you reply, grabbing two pieces and trying to line them up. “Hold this.”
Frankie sits beside you, hands steadying the panel you’re wrestling with. Your faces are close, his brows furrowed in concentration, the very tip of his tongue peeking out as he studies the connecting groove.
You smile to yourself. So that’s where Gabi gets it from.
“There,” he murmurs, guiding your hand with his own. “Like this.”
The panel clicks into place with a soft snap, and you both freeze for half a second before looking up at each other, eyes bright, shared victory settling in.
“That’s one piece,” you say proudly.
“Only forty-eight to go,” he whispers solemnly.
You groan under your breath, but he just laughs quietly, the sound warm and unguarded. He reaches for your wrist, thumb brushing gently as he swipes away a smear of green icing you hadn’t noticed.
“You missed a spot,” he murmurs.
You roll your eyes, mostly to hide the flutter in your chest. “Focus, Morales.”
He does…mostly. But the longer you work, the looser things get. The focus gives way to laughter, to stolen glances and unnecessary touches. He bumps your hip on purpose, more than once, or pretends a screw has rolled away just so he can dramatically crawl across the carpet to retrieve it.
Somewhere between teasing and teamwork, things go sideways.
“Ow!”
Frankie goes pale instantly. “Shit. Baby, I’m sorry.” He reaches for you without thinking, panic flashing across his face. “I didn’t see… Are you okay?”
You shake your hand out dramatically, wincing for effect. “You tried to kill me,” you accuse. “On Christmas Eve!”
He lets out a breath, half-laughing, half-horrified. “Okay, to be fair-”
“You almost slayed me!”
He pauses, brow furrowing as he actually thinks about it. There’s a beat, maybe two, where you can practically see the gears turning. Then his mouth twitches.
Frankie presses his lips together, shoulders shaking as he tries not to laugh. “Slayed,” he repeats quietly. “Like… sleigh? Seriously?”
You nod, eyes bright and unapologetic.
That does it. He breaks, quiet laughter spilling out as he shakes his head, one hand coming up to scrub over his face like he’s trying, and failing, to pull himself together. The sound is warm and unguarded, the kind of laugh that feels like it belongs only to moments like this.
After a second, he exhales, still smiling, and gently nudges your knee with his. “You’ll live.”
You flex your fingers theatrically, inspecting them like they’ve narrowly escaped disaster. “Barely.”
He watches you for a beat longer than necessary, concern still lingering in his eyes. “Better?” he asks quietly.
You open your mouth to answer, but before you can, he leans in and presses a quick kiss to your knuckles, like it’s instinct more than intention. It’s light, innocent enough. Still, your breath catches.
He pulls back just as quickly, clearing his throat and shifting his focus back to the scattered pieces on the floor, like the moment never happened. You follow his lead, reaching for the next panel.
Piece by piece, the playhouse starts to resemble… well, something. You’ve got walls, a roof, a tiny door that no longer tries to amputate your fingers. Frankie is installing the plastic flower box outside the window when it happens.
A loud snap echoes through the room as he pushes the panel into place.
Both of you freeze.
You stare at him. He stares back, eyes wide, hand still braced against the playhouse like moving even an inch might set off an alarm.
Slowly, painfully slowly, you both turn your heads toward the hallway. A soft rustle drifts out from the darkness. Fabric shifting. A tiny sigh. Your heart thuds so loudly you’re sure it can be heard down the hall. Then… silence.
Frankie swallows and leans in just enough to whisper, “Did she…?”
You hold your breath, listening harder than you’ve ever listened to anything in your life.
Another second passes.
Then another.
Nothing.
You relax first, shoulders dropping. “I think she just rolled over.”
Frankie exhales like he’s been holding his breath since the snap, one hand coming up to cover his face. “Jesus,” he murmurs. “I thought we were really done for this time.”
You stifle a laugh, clapping a hand over your mouth as you lean closer to him. “We almost got caught by a five-year-old.”
He glances at you, lips twitching despite himself. “She will never go back to sleep if she sees this.”
You both sit there for a beat longer, listening to the quiet house, the playhouse half-finished between you like evidence of a crime narrowly avoided.
“Alright, hermosa,” he says, bracing his hands on his knees as he looks over the mostly assembled playhouse. “Just a couple more pieces and we’re done.”
You glance at what’s left, then back at him, smiling. “Bold of you to assume nothing else is going to go wrong,” you tease, but you drop back down beside him anyway, ready to finish it together.
It takes another twenty minutes. Twenty minutes of whispered curses, quiet laughter, and Frankie accidentally putting one of the roof panels on backwards before pretending he meant to do it “just to test you.” But eventually, miraculously, the final piece clicks into place.
You both stare at the playhouse. A small, plastic monument to teamwork, stress, and thinly veiled sexual tension.
Frankie exhales first, a long breath that sounds like victory. “We did it.”
“We did,” you echo proudly.
He grins at you—wide, boyish, completely unguarded. “And look at that,” he adds lightly, glancing between you and the playhouse. “Still together.”
You laugh, bumping his shoulder. “A true Christmas miracle.”
Frankie stares at it for a second, then nods to himself. “I guess you could say we really… sleighed Christmas.”
The silence that follows is immediate and merciless. You blink. He freezes. Then he squeezes his eyes shut, face crumpling as realization hits.
“I’m so sorry,” he blurts. “I don’t know why I said that. I panicked. It just came out.”
You tilt your head, studying him like you’re trying to decide whether to be offended or impressed. “Frankie,” you say softly, lips twitching, “did you really just steal my pun?”
He lets out a long, defeated groan, dropping his forehead to your shoulder. “I’m never speaking again,” he mutters.
You lean in, voice low. “Good. Because if you try to steal one of my puns again, I might have to rein-deer you in.”
He groans. “That was worse.”
You grin. “On the bright side, she is absolutely going to freak out when she sees this.”
Already, you can picture it: Gabi shrieking with joy, diving inside, calling for Frankie to come play. The image warms your chest in a way that surprises you.
When you turn to tell him, he’s already watching you. Not the playhouse. Not the room. You.
His smile softens, easing into something quieter and more deliberate. It’s the kind of look that isn’t meant for an audience, something private, something just for you. It makes your stomach flutter in a way that feels dangerously close to hope.
“What?” you whisper, unsure and a little breathless under the weight of his gaze.
He shakes his head slowly, like he’s searching for the right words. “Just… thank you.”
You huff a soft laugh, trying to keep it light. “For what? You did half the work.”
“Not for the playhouse.” His voice drops, lower now, warmer, earnest in a way that stills you. “For today. For showing up without hesitation. For stepping in like it was the most natural thing in the world.” He swallows, eyes flicking briefly toward the hallway before returning to you. “For helping me give her a good Christmas. For…just being here. With us.”
The words settle between you, heavy and gentle all at once, and suddenly the playhouse feels like the least important thing in the room.
You try to shrug it off lightly, because the weight of what you feel, of what he feels, scares you in the best possible way. “Frankie, I wanted to be here.”
“I know you did,” he murmurs. “But you didn’t have to be. And you never make it feel like you’re doing me a favor or putting up with anything. You just… fit. With her. With me.”
The fluttering in your stomach deepens into a gentle ache, tender and familiar and a little terrifying in the way things only ever are when they matter this much.
“Frankie…” Your voice comes out softer than you intend, barely more than a breath.
He shifts closer, slow and careful, like he’s afraid of startling you, or breaking the fragile, precious quiet that’s settled between you. His hand comes to rest on your knee, warm and calloused, steady in a way that grounds you instantly. The weight of it isn’t heavy, but it’s certain, anchoring you there with him on the floor, surrounded by half-empty boxes and the glow of Christmas lights.
For a moment, neither of you move. You can feel the heat of him beside you, hear the quiet rhythm of his breathing, sense the unspoken question hovering between you, waiting, patient, asking nothing more than honesty.
“You’re good with her,” he says softly, the words unguarded. “Better than I ever hoped anyone would be.” His gaze flicks toward the hallway, a small, almost disbelieving smile touching his mouth. “Gabi… she loves you.”
Your heart lifts at that, and then sinks just as quickly, the weight of it settling in. “I don’t want to overstep,” you say quietly. “I never want to make things harder for you.”
“You’re not,” he answers immediately. “You never have.” His thumb traces a slow, soothing arc against your knee, grounding and steady. “You make her feel safe. Happy.” He hesitates, breath catching for just a second. “And I…” He swallows. “I feel that way with you, too.”
It’s the honesty in his voice that undoes you. The vulnerability. The trust he’s placing so carefully in your hands.
You reach for him slowly, giving him every chance to pull away, and rest your hand over his. “Frankie… I love being here with you,” you say softly. Then, quieter still, “Both of you.”
His breath stutters, like the words knocked the air from his lungs. For a moment, he just looks at you, really looks at you, like it’s settling somewhere deep in his chest. His thumb stills, then tightens just slightly against your skin.
“I love you,” he says quietly. Not rushed. Not grand. Just certain, like it’s been waiting for the right moment to be said.
Your heart swells, suddenly too big for your ribs, emotion pressing tight behind your eyes.
He leans in slowly, careful, until his forehead rests just barely against yours. His hand slips into your hair, fingers threading gently through it, grounding and tender all at once. His breath is warm and uneven as he pauses there, a silent question, an offering rather than an assumption.
You lift your hand to his face, thumb brushing along his jaw, feeling the familiar rasp of his scruff beneath your fingertips. The touch steadies you.
“I love you too, Francisco,” you whisper back, the words settling easily into place, like they’ve always belonged there.
Finally, you close the last inch between you. The kiss is slow and warm, tasting faintly of hot cocoa and exhaustion and something deeper. Something that’s been building all night. His hand slides to cradle your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek while his other arm curls around your waist, pulling you in gently.
You melt into him, letting the quiet of the house wrap around you both. The twinkling lights of the Christmas tree wash the room in soft gold, catching in his eyes when he finally pulls back just enough to look at you.
“You’re trouble,” he whispers, the words fond rather than accusing.
You smile, slow and satisfied. “You love it.”
“Yeah,” he admits, brushing his nose against yours. “I really do.”
You curl into his side, fitting there like it’s always been yours, his arm coming around your shoulders easily. Together, you look at the playhouse, the little roof, the tiny door, the crooked flower box he stubbornly refuses to reattach.
“It’s perfect,” you whisper.
“So are you,” he murmurs, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of your head.
You sit there for a long, quiet moment, breathing each other in while the Christmas lights flicker softly around you. Exhaustion settles in, warm, earned, and comforting.
After a beat, you tilt your head back to look at him, squinting slightly, a thoughtful smile tugging at your mouth.
“Frankie?”
“Yeah, hermosa?”
You nod toward the playhouse. “How the hell are we supposed to get that thing into the backyard?”
He follows your gaze, staring at it for a long second. Blinks once. Then he lets out a soft groan, forehead dropping to your shoulder. “That’s a problem for future us.”
You laugh softly, curling closer to him as the tree lights glow on. “Future us,” you repeat. “I like the sound of that.”
