#pedro pascal cc

[holbrk]

if not puppy dawg eye'd, why so puppy dawg eye'd shaped?

[berryispunk]

⊹ ࣪ ˖ Read over on ao3 too ⊹ ࣪ ˖

pairing: younger!Frankie Morales x f!reader

⋆｡°·☁︎ tags: all the angst, yearning, one-night-stand turned love story, younger!Frankie, protected PinV, vague mention of drug abuse, military past mention, the one that got away, two different timelines, early 2000s aesthetic, dual POV

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

⋆｡°·☁︎ authors note: I started Watching the Weather with a simple image: two strangers grounded by a storm. But somehow it turned into a story about everything that keeps us grounded, and everything that makes us run. It’s about how timing can be both a gift and a curse, about the people who leave pieces of themselves behind in you, and the versions of them you keep carrying through the years. I wanted it to feel like a memory you can’t stop revisiting, even when it hurts.

🌧 the soundtrack to watching the weather 🌧

word count: 10,6k

Hi, 

I don’t really know why I’m writing this like I’m some tragic war hero stationed halfway across the world, but… here we are. I hate writing, and my handwriting’s a crime against paper, so consider this fair warning.

I passed a little café today and thought of you — they sell matcha. Still don’t get why you love it; it tastes like straight-up grass. But I’d drink one with you anyway, just to watch you laugh at me for hating it.

I think I

Hope the weather where you are isn’t stormy. Mine kind of is.

All my love,

— F.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

Oh my tragic war hero,

How I missed your writing in all those lonely nights when my bed was cold and the wind kept trying to blow me away.

Jesus, that sounded bad even in my head, anyway.

I like letters, and you writing one felt like a small win. I hope you’re okay. Don’t know when you’ll get this, but I hope it makes you smile a little, cause it makes the sun shine even on rainy days. 

P.S. You’ve got no taste whatsoever, but what did I expect from a man who’s been wearing the same hat for a decade?

All love,

— X

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

[Postcard front: a cartoon flamingo wearing sunglasses that says “Greetings from Florida!”]

Hey you,

I read your letter three times. Don’t laugh. I just wanted to make sure I didn’t miss anything between the lines.

You really had to start with “my tragic war hero,” huh? I actually laughed out loud. Some old lady on the street  gave me a look like I’d lost it. So, thanks for that I guess.

The nights here are cold too. Not in the weather sense — it’s Florida, it never gets that cold — but you know what I mean. Your letter helped. Felt like someone turned the light on for a minute.

And for the record, the hat’s vintage. There’s a difference. 

— F.

P.s. Bought this postcard because it was the ugliest one on the rack. Figured you’d appreciate that

You weren’t supposed to be here at all, but life is cruel and nothing ever goes as planned in your version of the world. So you sit at Gate 23 in Albuquerque International and sweat. Your tank top clings to your skin, same as the denim shorts glued to your thighs. You were supposed to be in France, not stuck somewhere in New Mexico.

Your notebook, dog-eared and soft around the edges, rests on your lap, but your pen hasn’t moved in five minutes—you’re too busy getting lost in the melancholy of “Fix You” by Coldplay. It makes you ache in the places that still feel hollow after your last relationship ended.

Not that you miss that douche for cheating on you, but memories are harder to drown when they’re attached to songs and smells. You bite the inside of your cheek, annoyed that you still carry his T-shirt around, pretending it’s because it’s soft. It still smells faintly like him, and that makes your heart tighten. You need to toss it out.

Your gaze drifts across the terminal, the blue plastic chair beneath you fusing to your skin, sticking painfully every time you think about standing. They said your connection was delayed two hours, and the flickering red letters on the board kept stuttering against the dull hum of the airport. Nothing changes.

Airports always feel like liminal spaces, where you’re not meant to stay in too long, or you risk getting lost in the suspension of them.

That’s when you notice him.

Movement across from you as he takes a seat. He doesn’t stand out at first. Just another traveler in a sea of them: worn jacket, duffel at his feet, a man waiting for the next thing to start. But something about him doesn’t fit the restless rhythm of the others.

He sits too straight. Not the posture of someone passing time, but of someone who doesn’t know how to rest. The sleeves of his jacket are pushed up, revealing tanned forearms marked by faint, healed scars. A pair of dog tags flash briefly when he bends to pick up his coffee, then vanish beneath his shirt again like a secret. A soldier.

His eyes catch you off guard when they meet yours. It’s just a flicker, a heartbeat, but it rattles something inside you. Brown—warm, soul-deep, glinting in the pale orange desert sun. Distant, maybe, if you look long enough. He seems caught somewhere outside this airport.

He’s holding a book—The Stand, spine cracked, corners soft, a folded boarding pass marking his place. He looks like he’s been staring at the same page for a long time.

You shouldn’t have said anything, but the silence between flight announcements starts to buzz, and before you can stop yourself, words tumble out.

“Good book?”

His head lifts, eyebrows tucked beneath the navy cap he’s wearing. “Standard Oil” stitched across the front on a green and red patch. He frowns for a moment, and you think he didn’t hear you. Then his mouth twitches, like he’s not used to smiling but remembers how.

“Supposed to be,” he says. His voice is low, gravelly, like he hasn’t used it much lately. “Haven’t made it past the halfway point.”

You nod toward the cover. “That’s the one with the plague, right? Kind of grim for airport reading.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, thumb brushing the cracked spine. “Yeah. Guess I didn’t think that one through.”

“You planning to finish it?”

He glances down at the page, where his thumb rests between, then back up. “Probably not.”

“Want me to save you the trouble?” you quip, a little smile tugging at your lips. 

He raises an eyebrow as the corner of his mouth lifts. “You’re gonna spoil Stephen King for me? Isn’t that an unwritten law you’re violating right now? ”

“Someone should,” you say, shrugging your shoulders. “Everyone dies, by the way.”

He closes the book with a soft thud and sets it on the chair beside him. “So,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest, shoulders stretching against the worn fabric of his jacket, “now that you’ve spoiled that for me… what do we do now?”

You grin. “You could start by reading literally anything without mass death in it.”

He huffs, eyes flicking to the floor. “Not much of a reader, if I’m honest. Just figured it’d make me look less like some guy sitting alone at an airport.”

“You mean the brooding soldier look isn’t working for you?”

His mouth twitches in an almost-smile. “Didn’t know it was that obvious.”

“Dog tags tend to give it away,” you tease, nodding toward his collar. He instinctively tucks them deeper beneath his shirt, cheeks coloring slightly under the fluorescents. 

He looks like he wants to ask something, but instead clears his throat. “You, uh—heading somewhere nice?”

“Was,” you say, pulling a face. “France, eventually.”

“France,” he repeats, like he’s tasting the word. “That’s one hell of a trip.”

“Mh-mm.” You twist your pen between your fingers. “Supposed to be a connection flight. Now I’m just connected to this chair.”

Before he can respond, the overhead speakers crackle. 

Attention, passengers on Flight 4321 to Chicago—due to severe weather conditions, this flight has been cancelled. Please see the service desk for rebooking options.

You groan, tossing your head back against the seat. “You have to be kidding me.”

He runs a hand over his face. “Same here.”

“Wait—your flight too?”

He nods, eyes closing briefly in defeat, one shoulder lifting. “Looks like it.”

You glance around at the growing line of tired, frustrated travelers and then back at him. “Well,” you sigh, standing, “I’m not spending the night in this fluorescent nightmare. You heading to one of the airport motels?”

“Guess so. If they’ve got rooms left.”

You tilt your chin toward the sliding doors, shouldering your bag and tilt your head toward him. “Then we might as well share the shuttle. Last thing I need is waiting another hour for a spot.”

He blinks, like he didn’t expect that. “You sure? I mean—yeah, okay. That makes sense.”

You grin. “Relax, soldier. I’m not proposing marriage. Just a ride.”

He laughs softly, the sound rough around the edges, and gathers his duffel. “Fair warning — I don’t talk much in small spaces.”

“Lucky for you, I do.”

He falls into step beside you, quiet at first, then glancing over.

“You always this trusting of strangers?”

“Only the ones with bad taste in books,” you say.

That earns another small smile, one that stays a second longer this time. “You don’t even know me,” he murmurs. “What if I’m some psycho killer pretending to be a soldier?”

You shrug. “I know you’ve got a book you’ll never finish and the worst poker face I’ve ever seen. You’re way too awkward to be a psycho killer,” you add, hands lifted in mock surrender. “No offense. So, coming or not?”

He blinks, caught somewhere between disbelief and amusement, and the faintest smile tugs at his mouth. “None taken,” he says, grabbing his duffel and slinging it higher over his shoulder. The motion makes his jacket ride up, the worn fabric stretching across his back, revealing a fleeting sliver of skin. Dark hair disappears beneath the belt of his jeans and for a suspended second you swallow harder than you should. 

You catch the way his ears flush when he adds, “Guess I’d better make sure you don’t end up in some sketchy motel.”

“Oh, right,” you tease, “the chivalrous stranger routine. Real smooth.”

He huffs a laugh. “Just trying to make sure you don’t get murdered by someone else awkward.”

The automatic doors slide open, and the dry desert air hits you. It’s warm, heavy, tinged with jet fuel and dust and the late sun hangs low, everything bathed in orange. 

Outside, you both stop at the curb, the heat rising off the concrete, sweat still clinging to your back. In the distance, thunder rumbles low and patient, like it’s waiting for something.

The next shuttle rattles to a halt. He looks at you once, like he’s checking you’re still there. 

You nod toward the door as it opens. “After you, Morales.”

His brows lift beneath the brim of his cap, caught off guard. “Did I tell you my name?”

You grin. “It’s on your duffel, idiot.”

He shakes his head, muttering something under his breath, but the corner of his mouth curves again as he steps into the shuttle.

The bus drops you off at a sun-bleached motel just off the highway, the kind that looks like it’s been standing there since forever, buzzing under the same tired neon sign. Saguaro Inn. On the way here, he told you his name is Francisco, but everyone calls him Frankie. Catfish, too, since he joined the army, though he didn’t elaborate on why.

The storm’s still sitting on the horizon, a bruised line of clouds crawling in from the west. The air hums with that strange electricity that comes right before rain, heavy and charged. Lightning flashes somewhere far off, turning the desert sky violet for a heartbeat. You can taste it in the air: dust, metal, the faint sweetness of ozone. When the first drops finally fall, they hit the pavement like warm coins, quick and heavy, promising more to come.

Inside, the lobby smells like old carpet and cigarette smoke. A woman sits behind the counter. Her hair is the color of steel, lipstick a deep red that matches her nails. There’s a cigarette burning between her fingers, smoke curling lazily toward a ceiling fan that barely stirs the air.

“Evenin’,” she rasps, eyeing you both over the rim of her glasses. “What can I do for you two?”

Frankie steps forward first, awkwardly clearing his throat. “Uh, two rooms if you’ve got them.”

The woman taps at her keyboard with slow, deliberate clicks. A beat passes. Then another. She exhales through her nose. “You’re late to the party, sweetheart. Only got one left. Queen bed, no roll-aways. Storm’s had folks pouring in all night.”

Frankie blinks, like the words need time to land. “Right. Okay, then, uh—”

You catch the way his shoulders tense, like he’s already planning to give up the bed, to sleep on the lobby floor if he has to. Before he can finish, you step in.

“We’ll take it.”

He turns, brow furrowed beneath his cap. “You sure? I can—”

“It’s one night, Frankie. I’ll survive. You don’t snore, right?”

The woman chuckles, her voice rough and low. “If you two start fighting over the blanket, take it outside. Room twelve. End of the hall.”

Frankie mutters a soft “thanks,” still looking like he’s not sure how he got here, and follows you back into the storm-tinged night.

Rain hits the awning above in sharp, warm bursts now. He glances sideways at you, water already clinging to the brim of his cap. “You really don’t think this is weird?”

You grin, stepping around a puddle and grin. “It’s only weird if you make it weird, soldier.”

He shakes his head, smiling despite himself, and trails after you toward the glowing number twelve, thunder rolling softly somewhere behind you like it holds secrets you don’t know. 

The room is underwhelming at best, smelling faintly of dust and old smoke. Everything looks stuck somewhere in the 80s. From the wallpaper peeling at the corner to the curtain print sun-bleached into ghosts of color.

“Charming,” you laugh, setting your bag on the lone chair by the desk.

Frankie steps further inside, eyes sweeping the room before landing back on you. He rubs the back of his neck. “At least there’s a bed. I can—uh—sleep on the floor if you don’t feel comfortable sharing.” He nods toward the bed that’s definitely not a queen.

You shake your head. “Don’t be ridiculous, Frankie. It’s fine.”

He hesitates, then drops his duffel at the far end of the mattress and sits down. The frame squeaks under his weight, his head snapping up when it does, and you can’t help laughing. You flop onto the bed beside him, arms outstretched, staring at the stained ceiling.

“Not the most comfortable bed ever,” you sigh, “but it’ll do.”

“Luxury compared to the ones on deployment,” he says quietly. “Believe me.”

You tilt your head toward him. He’s fidgeting with his hands, thumb rubbing over a calloused palm. “Where were you?”

“Afghanistan,” he says after a pause, the word landing heavy between you. His shoulders drop, like he’s set something down he didn’t mean to.

You wait gently for him to continue.

He exhales through his nose. “Air Force. Flew helicopters mostly. Resupply, evac… whatever needed doing. I got lucky, never caught a bullet. But the missions were long. Visibility was crap most of the time.” His gaze drifts to the window, where lightning flashes behind the curtain. “You see things. Stuff that sticks, even when you make it home.”

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The rain outside grows steadier, soft against the glass.

You shift slightly, your voice quiet. “Guess that’s why you read Stephen King now. You already know the endings.”

That earns the faintest smile from him, small and tired, but real.

Gently, he falls back onto the bed too—feet still on the ground, head almost touching yours as he stares up at the ceiling.

It’s silent for a long moment, but it isn’t uncomfortable. You wonder if that’s just the effect he has on you, or if you’re both simply too tired from life to fill the quiet with unnecessary chatter.

“I’m taking a gap year,” you say eventually. “I wanted to see some of the world before I really decide what to do for the rest of my life. Planned to see Europe, meet new people. Lately, I haven’t been lucky with the ones I trusted my heart with. But in the end…” You sigh, fingers fidgeting with the ring you always wear—the last thing you inherited from your grandma before she passed. “It’s just running away with prettier scenery.”

A beat passes before he speaks. “Sometimes running’s the only way to move.”

You tilt your head, smiling faintly. “You sound like you’d know.”

He doesn’t answer, just gives a small shrug you feel more than see, eyes fixed on the rain streaking down the window.

A while later, you’ve both changed into something to sleep in—him still in the same t-shirt and black boxers, you in your favorite nightgown with the celestial print. You’re under the blanket, a careful stretch of space between you, Frankie rigid and motionless beside you. The ceiling hums with the dying buzz of the AC, doing absolutely nothing to help.

“Can’t sleep?” he finally breaks the silence, clearing his throat.

“Not really,” you murmur. “Feels like I’m being grilled alive. If you’re lucky, you can get some ribs in the morning.”

He snorts—a sound so soft and unexpected it’s almost adorable.

“Yeah,” he says, “opening the window won’t change much. Air out there’s probably worse. Feels like it’s pressing down on your skin.” A pause. “Reminds me of the desert.”

You turn your head slightly, voice drowsy. “Where were you headed before the flight got cancelled?”

“Florida,” he says. “Home…if you can still call it that.”

You nod, even though he can’t see it. “You friends with the alligators?”

He chuckles, low and deep, and the sound stirs more than just your mouth lifting. Because now you’re painfully aware of how close he is, how little you’re both wearing, and how the space between you barely exists.

It dawns on you how reckless it is lying here with a man you barely know, trusting him enough to fall asleep beside him. But then you remember his eyes: how kind they looked even in the harsh airport light and you can’t imagine him being anything but gentle.

Still, you know those hands, big and rough, have held more than softness. Weapons, maybe. Survival itself. He’s a contradiction: calm and careful, forged by something cruel, yet still somehow tender. You find yourself daydreaming what these hands may feel like if they touch you, but you shake the thought off quickly, reminding yourself that you just met. 

The thunder hits like an explosion—sharp, close, rattling the thin motel walls. You jolt, breath catching in your throat. For a second you don’t even know where you are; just the crack of sound, the flash behind your eyes, the racing pulse.

“Hey,” Frankie murmurs. The mattress shifts and then he’s there, his hand steady on your shoulder. “It’s okay. Just thunder.”

You nod, but it comes unsteady. The storm’s right above you now, rain hammering violently against the window, lightning spilling ghost-white across the ceiling.

He doesn’t move away. The air between you feels molten, every breath charged with the same electricity rolling through the sky outside. You can smell him—soap, skin, a trace of something earthy that doesn’t belong to the room but to him.

He shifts, careful, turning to face you in the dark. The movement is slow enough that you could stop him if you wanted to but you don’t. You don’t want to.

His hand slides up hesitantly, rough fingertips tracing the curve of your cheek before cupping it fully, thumb brushing along your jaw. “You okay?” he asks, voice low, gravel softened by something else entirely now.

You nod again, smaller this time. “Yeah. Just… startled, I guess.”

He hesitates, breath catching somewhere between you, and you stiffen—not out of fear, but anticipation. Something tells you he feels it too, that electric undercurrent. “Is it okay if I kiss you?,” he whispers. You’re barely able to nod. 

The next flash of lightning paints everything in silver, and for that suspended heartbeat you see his face clearly: the furrow in his brow, the worry in his eyes, the way his mouth parts.

You don’t speak, just lean into his touch—the barest tilt of your chin against his palm—and close your eyes.

He exhales, something like relief breaking through, and the storm outside rumbles on, steady and wild, as the space between you finally disappears when your lips meet, perfectly timed with the crack of thunder.

His hands find you under the blanket — not greedy, just curious — palms sliding over your waist before settling there, firm and certain. With overwhelming strength, he tugs you closer, and your breath hitches as your fingers instinctively tangle in the nape of his neck.

He answers with a low sound, deep in his chest, something close to a growl and it makes heat coil low in your belly.

You’re still lying on your sides, faces inches apart, mouths searching, tasting. You hook one leg over his hip, drawing him in even closer. His hand slides down to the soft curve of your ass, fingers splaying, anchoring you against him and God, you feel all of him, hard and pressing into the inside of your thigh.

You gasp into the kiss, needy and breathless, and he swallows the sound like it’s the only thing he’s ever been hungry for.

The kiss turns messy fast — all lips and breath and hunger that’s been buried under politeness since the moment you saw him.

Frankie groans into your mouth, low and broken, like he’s been holding his breath for hours. His hand grips tighter at your ass, pulling you flush against him, and there’s nothing slow about it now. You rock your hips against him without thinking, just chasing the pressure, and he chokes on a sound that vibrates against your lips.

“Fuck,” he mutters, like it slipped out before he could stop it, forehead pressing to yours. His hair is damp under your fingers, the storm outside nothing compared to the one between your bodies. His chest heaving against yours.

Your nightgown rides up as his hands push under it, palms skating up your thighs, your hips, your ribs. No hesitation now, no asking. You don’t want slow. Not tonight, not with him.

He kisses you again, harder this time, teeth dragging against your bottom lip, and you whimper into it, fingers fisting in his shirt like you’re trying to tear it off.

“Tell me you want this,” he breathes, voice rough and wrecked as he kisses down your neck, “tell me now or I won’t stop—”

“I want it,” you whisper, already breathless, already undone. “I want you.”

And that’s all it takes.

He moves without doubt, effortlessly rolling you onto your back, caging you in with strong arms braced on either side of your head. His hips settle between your thighs, and the thin cotton of both your underwear does little to hide just how much you want this, or how hard he already is.

He rolls his hips once, slow and deliberate, testing, and your hands fly to his shoulders, nails digging into the muscle beneath his shirt as your back arches off the mattress.

Clothes follow quickly—tugged, pushed, peeled away—landing in forgotten heaps on the motel carpet.

And then you’re bare beneath him, the next flash of lightning throwing his face into sharp relief. He pauses. Just for a moment, just long enough to see you.

It’s not hesitation. It’s reverence. Like he needs to burn this into memory. Your skin, your breath, the way your body curves toward his like it was always meant to.

“You’re beautiful…” he breathes, the words barely more than a rasp.

Your breath catches, eyes locking with his as you feel the heat in your face. Not because he said it, people have said it before. But because he means it. You can hear it in his voice, feel it somehow. 

He kisses you like he means to ruin you. Like he’s starving and you’re the first thing that’s tasted real in years. His hands are everywhere, urgent but not greedy. On your waist, your thighs, your breasts, like he’s trying to memorize every inch before it’s gone.

You wrap your legs around his hips, and he moans into your mouth when he grinds against you. Just enough friction to make you gasp and clutch at him, hips meeting his in a search of more.

His mouth trails down your throat, along your collarbone, across your chest—lips, tongue, teeth, worship. His stubble leaves your skin pink and buzzing.

Then he pushes back up, guiding himself with one hand, the other steady on your thigh, ready to press into you but you stop him, breathless. The last bit of reason talking.

“Wait—do you have a condom?”

He stills instantly, blinking down at you like the question momentarily knocked the air out of his lungs.

“Oh—shit. Yeah. Yeah, I do,” he stammers, cheeks flushing even in the low light, like he’s embarrassed for not already thinking of it. “I—I think. In my duffel.”

You smile, still catching your breath, as he pulls back and climbs off the bed, reaching for the bag near the wall. The muscles in his back shift with every movement, strong and steady, and God, even in this moment, he looks good. Broad shoulders, trim waist, that ridiculously cute ass you hadn't let yourself stare at until now.

“Don’t laugh,” he mutters, rummaging through the front pocket. “I packed them… just in case. Didn’t think I’d actually—uh. Need them.”

Your laugh’s soft, breathy, and dizzy with adrenaline. “I’m not laughing.”

He ultimately finds one, triumphant, and tosses the packet onto the bed before crawling back toward you, gaze darker now, full of something heated.

“You really sure?” he asks again, quieter now, like he needs to hear it one last time.

You reach for him to pull him back down. “So sure.”

He tears the foil open with fumbling fingers, muttering something under his breath that sounds like “fuckin’ hell,” cheeks already flushed. He rolls it on carefully, jaw locked tight, breath ragged and not from nerves alone.

He wants this too much. You can see it in the tension in his arms, in the way his throat works as he swallows hard, like his body’s already too close.

When he settles between your thighs, he steadies himself with one hand, the other guiding himself to your entrance.

“This okay?” he breathes.

“Frankie,” you whisper, hips tilting toward him, “yes.”

The moment he pushes in, it’s like time suspends. You both gasp in different tones but the same breathless urgency.

He’s thick, thicker than you’re used to, the stretch dizzying. As he begins to move it’s slow, so goddamn slow, like he’s trying not to fall apart.

You clutch at his shoulders, nails dragging down the broad planes of his back, your legs wrapping around him as he sinks deeper, inch by inch.

His breath hitches against your neck. “Dios—” he chokes, “you feel like…” He doesn’t finish the sentence. Maybe he can’t.

He starts to move, hips rolling into you with slow, dragging thrusts that make your thighs tremble. The rhythm builds gradually and when you arch into him, hips meeting his with a spent whimper, he picks up the pace.

Every movement is heavy with want. His mouth finds yours again, desperate now, down your neck and hollow of your throat.

He’s whispering reverent, filthy things against your skin. When you gasp his name and clench around him, he breaks. Hips slamming into yours as rhythm gives way to instinct.

You meet him stroke for stroke, chasing it with him, every sound, every gasp a shared confession. You don’t know what this will mean in the morning, but right now it feels like everything you can think of. Like all paths you’ve taken have led you exactly here. 

When you finally come, it’s like freefalling. The intensity of it life-altering and he follows with a broken moan, burying himself deep, body shaking with the force of it.

Afterward, when the rest of the world slowly drifts back into focus, he doesn’t move right away. Just lowers his forehead to your shoulder, breath stuttering against your skin. His chest rises hard against yours, and then a long, trembling exhale leaves him. It’s followed by the softest kiss, pressed reverent to your bare shoulder.

“You okay?” he murmurs.

All you can manage is a slow nod, still breathless, still unraveling. Like the storm outside, you're only just starting to settle in the afterglow. 

[Postcard: a watercolor of the Eiffel Tower under a pale blue sky, corners already bent from the travel.]

Bonjour, soldier.

I made it to Paris in one piece. The city really does smell like croissants, diesel, and too many cigarettes. It’s loud and beautiful and a little lonely (don’t tell anyone I said that) 

They say every street here leads somewhere worth seeing. I still keep catching myself looking up whenever the sky rumbles, though. Reminds me of something. 

Hope Florida’s less stormy these days (in every sense).

Try not to laugh too hard at the tourists next time you see some; I’m one of them now.

— X

P.s. I saw a guy in a hat just like yours today.  Almost said hi.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

Hey,

I didn’t think I’d actually write, but you said you’d be mad if I didn’t, and I can’t have that on my conscience.

Florida’s the same—humid, loud, full of people pretending not to notice the sky cracking open every afternoon during summer. Every time it rains, I think about that night in Albuquerque. Not just the storm part. The quiet after. The way it felt like everything stopped moving for a minute.

I keep telling myself it was nothing. Just two people stranded in the same place at the same time. But sometimes I wake up thinking I hear the thunder again, and I remember the sound you made right before it.

You said you wanted to see the world before deciding where to land. I hope Paris is treating you kind. I hope you’re sleeping better than I am.

— F.

P.s. I keep checking the weather in Paris. Old habits.

[Weeks later — the envelope, slightly bent, lands back in his mailbox.]

Return to sender. Address incomplete.

He stares at it for a long time before sliding it into the top drawer of his nightstand, unread by anyone but him. The ink smudged in one place where his hand must have lingered too long.

[Postcard: a washed-out photo of the Algarve coastline, cliffs burning gold above the blue Atlantic.]

Hey soldier,

I traded gray skies for salt air. Ended up in Portugal for a bit. Long story involving missed trains and the universe’s sense of humor.

It’s beautiful here. Warm. The kind of place where everyone smiles like they belong. I keep pretending I do too.

I saw on the news there were severe storms in Florida last week. Hope you’re staying dry and out of trouble (though something tells me you’d fight the wind if it tried).

Funny thing, I thought moving would make the loneliness fade, but turns out it just changes shape. Don’t worry I’m fine, really.

Write if you want. Or don’t. I’ll keep checking the weather either way.

— X

P.s. Bought another ugly postcard just for you. It’s basically tradition, right?

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

Hey you,

Didn’t think I’d write again after the last one came back. Guess I’m still bad at letting go of lost things.

I’m back flying now. Different kind of contract. Some nights it’s quiet up there, too quiet, and I swear I can still hear the echoes of rotor blades long after we land. The world looks smaller from above. Easier, even. But it never really is.

I finally caved and got one of those iPod things. You’d laugh at me trying to figure it out. Took me an hour to make a playlist. Been listening to a lot of Springsteen lately. Something about the noise keeps me from thinking too much. I get why you like music so much. It fills the space when words don’t know how.

How’s the world treating you, wherever you are now? Still chasing summer? I picture you with salt on your skin and sand in your hair, rolling your eyes at tourists and drinking something terribly sweet and overpriced.

Take care of yourself, alright?

— F.

It’s raining again, the season returned. Florida‘s rain period, thick and relentless, soaking the tarmac until the world turns to reflection. Frankie sits beneath the hangar awning, cigarette unlit between his fingers, and watches the storm blur the edges of everything, like he wishes his mind would do the same.

He used to like the sound, found it relaxing. It reminded him of the peace he rarely had ever since joining the Army. Now it’s just noise.

The wind whips the smell of jet fuel through the damp air, and somewhere behind him, a rotor hums — steady, mechanical, alive. Another flight. Another day he’ll leave, and come back a little emptier. Somewhere between New Mexico and the next deployment, he lost a part of himself in the aftermath. Left it tangled in the sheets of a shitty motel room, with peeling paint and a questionable stain on the carpet.

He left his heart there too, even if he shouldn’t have. Even if he swore it was just a one-night thing — a distraction, something temporary to fill the quiet. It still hums in his bones, louder every time thunder splits the sky.

The storm’s creeping closer, crawling across the horizon like a bruise. The air smells like ozone and salt, the kind of weather that makes the ground crew move quicker, heads down, hands up to signal.

Frankie watches them through the haze, cigarette burning low between his fingers. He shouldn’t be thinking about you when he’s about to fly, not when the sky looks like it’s about to tear open. But you’re there anyway, you always are.

He wonders if you ever think of him when it rains. If thunder still startles you awake the way it did that night. If you still hum under your breath when you’re nervous.

He hasn’t written in months. The last letter came back unopened — wrong address, faded ink, a neat stamp in the corner declaring RETURN TO SENDER, like it wasn’t a person being sent back to him, just a failed attempt at connection.

You were wildfire in the shape of a girl. A storm in the body of someone soft. You burned down everything you touched and still made people miss the warmth after the flames were gone. 

He flicks the cigarette away, watches it die in a puddle, and climbs into the chopper. The seat’s a familiar cracked leather. The faint tang of oil and sweat fills the cockpit, the rattle of metal like an old heartbeat, so much stronger than his own feels. The crew’s chatter fades into background noise as he checks the instruments, hands moving on instinct.

There’s a Polaroid tucked inside the clear pocket of his flight bag — your face, sun-drenched and smiling, edges curled from too much handling. You’ve sent it in one of the earlier letters. He glances at it once before starting the engine. It’s superstition now, part of the ritual. Touch the photo. Breathe. Fly.

The blades spin up, slicing the humid air. The vibration crawls through his bones, steady, grounding. He doesn’t pray — not anymore — but he does look once more at the dark line of the horizon, where lightning flickers like camera flashes.

Maybe you’re watching the same sky, maybe not.

The comm crackles in his ear, pulling him back to the moment. “Catfish, you good to go?”

He nods, eyes fixed ahead. “Yeah,” he says, voice steady even when his hands are anything but.

As the helicopter lifts off, the rain starts to fall hard and fast against the windshield, streaking the world into blurred shapes of gray and gold.

He thought he was immune to that kind of burn. Thought the war had cauterized whatever soft parts were left. But you left a mark he can’t quite scrub away, something permanent right beneath the skin.

Up here, the storm doesn’t sound like thunder.

It sounds like your laugh, fading into the distance as he climbs higher, still chasing a calm that never comes.

Hey,

I don’t even know where you are right now, but today I saw a chopper and thought of you. Damn, these things are loud. How are you able to keep a clear head in that noise? 

I am almost done with uni. Gonna move coasts soon. 

Was thinking if you’d wanna visit call me sometime?

Gonna give you my number, got one of these smartphones now or what they call it.

All love,

— X

It’s hot and humid, the kind of heat that crawls under your skin. It is a certain kind of torture when you feel the storm brewing in the distance, but it doesn’t break through. Thunder is  rolling somewhere far off as Frankie sits on the edge of his cot, a half-smoked joint balanced between his fingers, your last letter spread open on his knee. The ink’s smudged at the corner where he keeps touching it, like he could rub the distance away. Like he could somehow feel closer to you. Silly. 

He’s read it every day, too many times to count. 

The number at the bottom feels like a dare. He stares at it a long while before finally picking up his phone and dials the number. 

It rings three times before your voice answers, soft and uncertain. 

“H-Hello?”

He swallows hard. Even through the static, you sound like something alive. Too warm, too good for the grey that’s been living inside his head lately. You sound better than in the dreams his mind tortures him with. It’s been years since he heard you talking instead of the fading memory of your voice in his head. 

“Hey,” he says, low. His voice comes out rough, blurred around the edges. “Hope I’m not catching you at a bad time.”

“Frankie? No, it’s— it’s fine,” you say, and there’s a small smile in your tone. “I didn’t think you’d actually call, to be honest.”

He huffs something that’s almost a laugh. “Yeah, me neither.”

There’s a pause. He can hear you breathing. It makes his throat go tight. He wants to say so many things, but his mind is hazy.

“You sound different,” you say after a moment and his heart skips a beat.  He’s not sure if you’d catch that he’s high, or if it’s just the way he talks now. Slower, different somehow, like too much time’s passed since you last saw him.

“Do I?” He tries for lightness but it falls flat. “Guess the Florida air’s messin’ with me.”

“Frankie…” your voice dips low, careful. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” The lie catches halfway out. “Just tired, been a long week.”

The silence that follows feels like punishment. He rubs a hand over his face, eyes burning — wishing he hadn’t called, wishing he had sooner.

He’s spent so long imagining what it would sound like to hear you say his name again, and now that it’s real, he’s fucking it up. Feeding you half-truths when all he wants is to tell you how bad it hurts. Not just for you, for anything that feels human. For closeness. For the kind of intimacy he only ever found with you that one impossible night in Albuquerque.

He wants to tell you how much death he’s seen. How many times he’s watched men bleed out from a sky he couldn’t land in time to save them. How he’s seen the world from above — burning, drowning, endless.

He wants to tell you he still keeps your picture in his flight bag, edges worn soft from years of handling. His lucky charm, even though he never believed in luck. He wants you to know how much you changed him, how good a day it was whenever a letter from you came, and how empty the days felt when there weren’t any. How he was stationed halfway across the world and still replayed your voice saying “So sure” right before he fucked you in that shady motel room you shared for one night. A night that was never supposed to mean anything. Just two strangers stranded, chasing relief, reckless and young in all the ways that make sense only once. It feels like a lifetime ago now.

He wants to tell you all of that, but he doesn’t.

Instead, he forces a laugh that sounds nothing like him and says, “Gonna call again soon, okay?”

The line clicks dead as you hang up and for a long moment he just sits there, phone still pressed to his ear, like maybe the silence will change its mind and bring you back. It doesn’t.

The air in the room is thick and sticky. The fan in the corner spins lazily, pushing the heat around instead of easing it. Sweat gathers at his hairline, crawls down the back of his neck. He feels suffocated, like he’s breathing someone else’s air.

He stares at the phone until the screen goes dark, then sets it down on the nightstand with a soft clack. His hand lingers there, heavy, as if letting go will make the moment final.

Outside, the cicadas scream. The whole world hums with this unbearable, living noise, and still somehow all he can hear is your voice saying his name.

He drags a hand through his hair, exhales a low, bitter laugh that catches halfway out of his throat. “Yeah,” he mutters into the heat, to no one. “Gonna call soon.”

But he never did.

[unsent letter — found folded twice, edges soft, the ink bled slightly from sweat and time]

Hey,

I don’t even know why I’m writing this. Maybe just to get it out before it eats through my chest. You don’t have to read it — you won’t, anyway.

I keep thinking about that night in Albuquerque. The way you said “It’s just running away with prettier scenery”, not knowing how much I already knew that feeling of wanting to run away from something inescapable. 

Everything’s different now. People die faster out here. Some days I think about how easy it would be to forget all of it if I just stopped showing up. But then I remember I still owe the world something, maybe just staying alive.

I used to think I was a good man. Not great, not special, but good. Then I started doing things to keep others alive that don’t feel like something a good man would do. You’d probably still look at me like I’m someone worth saving, and that’s exactly why I can’t let you see me now.

You knew the soft parts of me I didn’t believe were worth showing. The parts the army stripped away piece by piece over the years. I can’t bring that boy back. He died somewhere between the first mission and the last time I came home sober.

If you ever think of me, I hope it’s not this version. I hope it’s the one who made you laugh in the motel room, the one who still believed he could make it home and not lose himself along the way.

—F.

The air in your old room smells faintly like dust and the perfume you stopped wearing years ago. Everything feels smaller now — the bed, the walls, the posters still thumbtacked above the desk like a museum of your teenage self. You came home to breathe for a while, to figure things out, but mostly you’ve just been sleeping too much and avoiding your mother’s questions.

She knocks once before pushing the door open, laundry basket balanced on her hip. “These came by a while ago,” she says, voice casual, distracted. “Figured you’d want them.”

Something lands on your bed with a soft thud. A small stack of envelopes, edges yellowed and bent from travel, tied together with a thin piece of string.

You don’t even have to touch them to know.

You recognize the handwriting instantly — sharp, uneven, stubborn. His.

Your mother doesn’t notice the way your breath catches. She just hums, straightening a pillow. “They’ve been sitting in that box in the hall closet for years,” she adds, shrugging. “Guess they got lost in the mail or something.”

You nod, not trusting your voice. She leaves, door closing softly behind her, but the silence she leaves behind feels suffocating.

For a long moment, you just stare at them — the weight of them heavy in your chest before you even untie the string.

There’s an old return address on the top envelope. Florida. You trace the letters of his name with your thumb, feeling the grooves of the pen, the small tremor in the way he writes the F.

You open the first letter and the paper crackles as it unfolds — thin, slightly sweat-stained from the heat wherever he wrote it. His voice bleeds through the ink before you even read the words. You can almost hear him — quiet, careful, trying not to say too much and failing.

By the second letter, your eyes are burning and by the third, you have to stop because it all blurs together. 

Because every sentence feels like a ghost reaching for you across years and oceans and you can’t afford that kind of ache.

You were never supposed to read those lines — the ones where he spilled his thoughts onto paper that you know must have cost him. 

And suddenly, it all rushes back.

All the impossible feelings you’ve been harboring for years, the longing that lived quietly inside you for every piece of him that reached you through missed chances and shitty timing.

It was only one night. One reckless night you never managed to shake off, even years later after moving states, after your life expanded around the ache. You learned to breathe with it, to live beside it without giving it a name. Because naming it would’ve made it real, and you never had the right to claim something that brief.

You were a fading memory in his life, or at least that’s what you told yourself after he promised to call again and never did. So you stuffed everything that reminded you of him into a drawer you swore you’d never open, and you moved on.

Well. Until now.

Because seeing his handwriting again woke every ghost you thought you’d sealed away, and it makes you feel pathetic.

Pathetic that your eyes sting.

Pathetic that you can still recall his voice from that last phone call, rough and slurred with whatever he’d taken to survive the noise in his head.

Pathetic that, despite the anger, despite the distance, there’s still that impossible pull toward him like an invisible string neither of you ever cut.

A connection that lingered beyond time zones, oceans, and every reason you should’ve let each other go.

You curl into yourself, knees pulled to your chest as the mattress dips under your weight. The ache moves through you in slow, relentless waves — dull enough not to drown you, but strong enough to rattle something deep inside.

You try to picture how he looks now. If he’s still alive, or just another fallen name swallowed by a war that keeps eating its own.

In your mind, he’s still the man in the motel light — brown eyes too gentle for what they’d seen, that crooked smile, that old Standard Oil cap pulled low over his curls. You tell yourself he’s fine, that he found peace somewhere far from all this. But the thought doesn’t stick.

Because as the night stretches on, his voice starts to grow louder. That low, steady tone you swore you’d forgotten. It hums under your ribs like a heartbeat, stubborn and alive, whispering the same pull you’ve been resisting for years.

By the time the sun starts bleeding through the curtains, you’re sitting up, the letters spread out around you like old maps. You didn’t sleep. The air feels too still, the house too small. You can’t explain it, not even to yourself. It’s just that something in you is stirring, restless and aching in the spaces you thought had long turned hollow.

You’ve spent years running from the past, and now every part of you is pointing back to it.

Back to him.

Back to New Mexico.

Hey stranger, Today I graduated. I left a chair empty for you just in case you somehow got the invite, wherever you are right now. But you didn’t show up, and I cried, even though I knew it was stupid.

I think I need to let you go, Frankie. I can’t keep doing this. A rope only holds if both people keep their grip, and right now it feels like I’m the only one still holding on.

I hope you’re okay. I hope you find the kind of happiness you deserve. Hope never got me very far, but if you ever wonder: Even in all the waiting, a part of me was always yours.

I hope it’s sunny where you are and the rain lets up soon.

All love, — X

The air is stale and thick the moment you step into the airport. It smells like regret and sweat and all kinds of bad decisions that probably start right here. You didn’t tell your mother much about where you were going and she didn’t ask. You’re grateful for that.

Now, you sit in the same kind of blue plastic chair you did all those years ago. Your linen pants cling less than the denim shorts you wore back then, and the memory makes you smile in a small, private curve of your lips.

So much has changed since that day.

So many miles traveled, so many choices made. Some you regret. Most, you don’t.

Frankie was never one of the regrets, even if holding onto his memory has hurt more than you’ve ever admitted out loud. In every man you’ve dated since, you’ve searched for traces of him — in different voices, different hands, different shapes of love. Realistically, you know that’s insane. Maybe that’s why you never told anyone about the ache that one night left behind.

Still, your heart jumps every time you see a man in uniform. That ridiculous, impossible hope flickering that it might be him. But fate was never a gentle mother, and you never saw him again.

The only photo you have of him is the Polaroid you took that morning after in Albuquerque. The two of you tangled in motel sheets, your hair spilling over the pillow, his curls wild and untamed. You’re curled into his side like you belonged there and God, you wish you’d stayed.

Wish you’d followed him. 

Wish you’d had another chance to feel him again — those big hands that had done God-knows-what in God-knows-where, yet still held you like you were something breakable, sacred.

No man ever held you like that again. He shaped you in ways that never made sense, but your heart didn’t care about logic anyway. You still dream of him, even if it got more rare over the years. And every time you look at that Polaroid, it still aches.

It’s taped to the back of your travel journal. A secret shrine you carry with you from city to city. 

You can still hear his voice from that morning, amused and warm against your hair:

“That’s the most scandalous photo I’ve ever taken. Don’t show it to anyone, or my reputation’s ruined forever.” 

You’d laughed, and he’d buried his nose in your hair like he had the right to stay there forever. You let him, smiling brighter than the sun slipping through the curtains. 

A brightness you’d spend years trying to find again.

You don’t even notice him at first. You’re too busy pretending to read, thumb pressed against the yellowed spine of The Shining, a used copy you picked up at a thrift store on your way here. The print is faded, corners dog-eared, someone else’s handwriting scrawled in the margins, little ghosts of readers before you.

It’s ironic, really. You only bought it because you remembered that day. The book he never finished. The one you ruined for him with that stupid grin and a spoiler.

The airport hums the same as it always has. Machines sighing, people shuffling, distant announcements crackling over the speakers you didn’t really pay attention to. You’re tracing a line of text with your finger when the air shifts, almost imperceptibly, but enough that your body reacts before your mind does.

And then—

A bag drops into the seat across from you.

Your heart knows before your eyes do. You look up, and time folds.

He’s older now. The beard’s darker, curls tamed under the familiar navy blue cap, eyes still that impossible shade of warm brown. A little more tired maybe, but still him. Still unmistakably Frankie Morales. His biceps stretch tight beneath a faded pale-blue T-shirt, dark jeans fitting just right. You have a hard time reconciling the version of him you’ve carried all these years with the undeniably attractive man sitting in front of you.

He hasn’t seen you yet, not really. He’s lowering himself into the seat, muttering something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like a curse, and when he finally does look up, his breath catches too. Just for a second. Like maybe, he feels the same collapse of years that you do.

He blinks once, twice, and then that crooked half-smile ghosts over his lips. The one dimple you memorized in all your dreams showing in the sinking afternoon soon. 

“The kid lives, by the way,” he says quietly, nodding at the cover of your book.

It’s stupid. It’s so him. Spoiling the ending like no time has passed at all.

Your laugh breaks out before you can stop it, shaky and wet and full of every unsent letter between you. 

You hear the echo of your name before you see him smile, like the word might break if he says it too loud. You forgot how your name sounded in his mouth. Lower, now, roughened by time, but still with that tiny upward curl at the end that makes it feel like a secret.

“Frankie,” you breathe, the name ghosting out before you can stop it.

He laughs under his breath, disbelieving, shaking his head as if the universe pulled a trick on him. “What are the odds, huh? Same airport, same damn gate. Guess fate’s got a sense of humor after all.”

You’re still frozen, clutching your book like it might explain anything. “Guess so,” you manage, voice too small.

He glances around, scanning for something to do with his hands, then gestures to the vending machine a few seats down. “Coffee? For old times’ sake?”

You nod, and a minute later you’re both sitting with paper cups that smell faintly of burnt beans and something metallic. He toys with the rim of his cup, thumb dragging along the cardboard sleeve.

“So,” he says, eyes flicking to yours, then away again, “what are you doing here? Didn’t expect to see you still hanging around airports.”

You hesitate, staring into the swirl of your coffee before answering. “Honestly? I don’t know,” you admit. “I just came from my parents’. Thought maybe I needed to go somewhere else. Anywhere else.” You laugh softly, without humor. “Guess I just ended up here. You?”

He studies you for a moment, something gentle flickering in his expression, but he doesn’t press.

“Came down for a job thing,” he says finally. “Flying private charters now. Keeps me busy, keeps me—” his mouth twists into something not quite a smile, “—mostly out of trouble.”

You both laugh softly, but it fades quickly, dissolving into a silence that feels heavier than before. He looks older, sure, but it’s not just age. It’s what’s been carved into him. The wear of trying too hard for too long.

Then his phone buzzes. He frowns, glances at the screen. You look away to give him space, but his voice still carries—gentle, familiar, intimate.

“Hey, baby,” he says, voice softening in that way it only does when you love someone.

Something inside you folds. Like being shot, but it’s quiet and clean, bleeding out in slow motion with no visible entrance wound. 

You stare at your coffee cup, focusing on the swirl of cream that looks like a storm from above, and you tell yourself not to care. Not after all these years. Not after everything.

When he hangs up, he doesn’t quite meet your eyes. “That was—uh—Gina. My fiancée.” He swallows hard. “We’re… having a baby. Wasn’t planned. But—” his hand twists the cup sleeve again, “—I’m trying to do the right thing, you know?”

You nod, even though your throat burns. “Yeah,” you whisper. “You always did.”

For a while, neither of you say anything. The airport hums around you, people passing by, the soft buzz of announcements in the distance, all ordinary things while you feel like you got stuck in that sick time loop.

Then, quietly, you ask, “Why didn’t you ever call back?”

He goes still. The kind of still that feels like a wound being reopened.

He exhales, slow and shaky. “Because I couldn’t stand for you to hear me like I was,” he says finally. “It got dark after I got home. The kind of dark that eats everything. I started using. Just to sleep, to stop thinking, to stop seeing things I couldn’t unsee. Thought I could handle it. Thought I was stronger than that.”

You stay quiet. He keeps going, voice fraying.

“I told myself I’d call you when I got clean. When I was better. But I kept falling. And every time I picked up the phone, I thought about you hearing that version of me. And I couldn’t do it. You didn’t deserve that.”

Your heart twists. You want to reach out—to touch his hand, to tell him you understand—but you don’t. You both just sit there, the same storm quietly rolling between you.

When he finally looks up, his eyes are glossy, wrecked, but so soft. “You were the one good thing I didn’t want to ruin,” he says quietly. “So I let you go instead.”

You look at him then, the same man but in a different font. The one you lost and the one you somehow, by cruelty or fate, found again. The same man you spent years trying to forget now in love with someone else, and all you can think is how it still hurts in the same beautiful, unbearable way it always did.

“I’m sorry,” he finally says, the words rough, worn down to their truth. “I pack my cowardice in pretty words, like that ever changed a damn thing.”

Your laugh slips out before you can stop it—bitter, humorless, the kind that tastes like bile and regret. “You always were good with words, Frankie. Just never the right ones at the right time.”

He winces, eyes dropping to the cup in his hands. The sleeve is mangled now, torn where his thumb kept worrying at it. “You think I didn’t try?” he says quietly. “You think I didn’t want to?” His jaw tightens, and when he finally looks up, it’s all there—every sleepless night, every unspoken word. “I thought about you every damn time it rained,” he admits, voice breaking just enough. “And when it didn’t, I checked the weather anyway.”

The words hang between you, heavy and trembling. You can almost hear the soft, relentless echo of them in the low hum of the airport, like rain against glass.

You want to ask if she knows—his fiancée, the woman carrying his child. You want to ask if he looks at her and pretends you never existed. But you already know the answer. You see it in the way his gaze lingers on you, in the way his fingers twitch like they want to reach out but know they can’t.

He swallows hard. “She’s good,” he says finally, as if that’s a confession. “She deserves better than what’s left of me.” A pause. “But she’s not you.”

If there was ever a moment you wished for the ground to open up and swallow you whole, it would be this one. You don’t know whether you want to scream or cry or both. Everything feels suffocating, too bright, too loud, like the world has narrowed to this small, unbearable space between you.

“How dare you?” you whisper, but it comes out cracked, the words trembling in your throat. “You can’t just—”

“I know,” he cuts in softly, voice raw. “I know it’s fucked up to spill this here, of all places. But I don’t think I’ll ever get another chance to tell you.”

You shake your head, throat burning. “I got your letters,” you manage. “The ones that got lost. My mom gave them to me. She had them all bundled up like they were something precious. And when I opened them, I thought I was going to throw up.”

He flinches, eyes glistening under the sterile light. “I never wanted you to see those.”

“I know,” you say quietly, arms crossing over your chest as if that might hold you together. “But I did. And the thing is, Frankie… I still care. God help me, I still do. But you have a life now. Someone waiting for you. Someone who loves you the way I used to dream of loving you. And I’d never forgive myself for ruining that.”

He opens his mouth, then shuts it again, jaw working like he’s trying to find the right words and can’t. The overhead speakers crackle before either of you can speak again. Flight 274 to Jacksonville now boarding.

The announcement hits like a punch. He exhales shakily, the kind of sound that carries everything he isn’t saying. “That’s me.”

You nod, unable to look at him. But then he steps closer, and before you can react, his arms are around you. It’s instant. Crushing. A fucking tsunami that drags you under before you can even take a breath.

And just like that, it’s Albuquerque again. The storm, the bed, his hands trembling against your skin, soft but sure. You’re twenty-something and reckless and entirely his again for just a second that hurts like a whole eternity.

You grip the back of his shirt, eyes shut tight, and he holds you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go. Maybe you already are.

As he moves through the boarding line, he glances back once — a small wave, a half-smile that nearly undoes you. You manage a faint nod, and when he’s finally out of sight, you sink back into the plastic chair and cry until your lungs burn.

Three months later, a white envelope waits in your mailbox. You almost miss it, tucked between bills and travel ads, but the handwriting stops you — steady, familiar, achingly careful. Frankie’s.

Inside is a wedding invitation.

Your heart stumbles. For a moment you can’t breathe. The paper smells faintly like Florida rain, ink smudged at the corner as if he’d hesitated while writing.

But then you see his name, crossed out in thick black pen. Beneath it, written in his unmistakable scrawl:

Didn’t happen. I couldn’t do it.

A folded note tumbles from the envelope and lands in your lap. 

Checked the weather. Still stormy without you. — F.

thanks for reading 💌

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[rhapsodyofdarkness]

The Quiet Hours

pairing: janitor!Frankie x f!reader

tags: meet-cute, protective!Frankie, some awkward convos, wet!Frankie, tension, dual POV, unprotected PinV, praise, Frankie talks you through, oral (f!receiving), soft!Frankie, emotional intimacy

summary: When your date goes wrong, the building’s quiet night janitor steps in, sparking a tender, unexpected bond built on late-night coffee and shy glances that grows into something neither of you saw coming.

word count: ~ 11.2k

author's note: Here’s my weekly Frankie offering (I meant to post it on Frankie Friday, but for those of us who adore our favourite messed-up pilot, every day becomes Frankie Day). Endless thanks to my favourite human @berryispunk for beta reading and for her precious advice and wisdom. Learning from you always feels like a gift 💜✨

When you first moved into the building, Mr. Harris had been part of the welcome package. He had been there for years, a kind old man with soft eyes and a permanent stoop, who always carried a ring of keys that jingled when he walked. He was always there in the evenings, leaning on his mop handle, ready to greet you with a warm smile and a corny joke. He knew everyone’s name, never failed to ask about your day, and had a grandfatherly way of making the building feel like home.

So when you saw him packing up his cart one night, keys jingling in his hands, you froze.

“Wait… are you leaving?” you asked, startled. 

He smiled, lines deepening in his weathered face. 

“Retiring. It’s time I spend my evenings with grandkids instead of mop buckets.”

“Oh,” you said softly, a subtle hint of sadness in your voice. “It won’t be the same without you.”

He winked. “Don’t you worry, kiddo. They’ve got a new night guy lined up. You’ll be in good hands.”

The next evening, you understood what he meant.

The man behind the desk was nothing like Mr. Harris. Younger, mid-thirties, maybe. Tall, with broad shoulders that made the lobby chair look small. A worn baseball cap sat low on his head, dark curls escaping around the edges. And when he looked up, you caught a glimpse of deep brown eyes, steady and unreadable, catching you off guard with their intensity before dropping back to the clipboard in his hands.

“Good evening,” you offered automatically.

“Evening,” he returned, voice low and rough around the edges.

That was it. No smile, no small talk. Just that. Just that one word before his gaze dropped back to the clipboard in his hand.

Still, you couldn’t help noticing him after that. The way his shirts clung to the shape of his arms when he hefted heavy trash bags like they weighed nothing. The quiet efficiency in how he worked, never rushed, never sloppy. Sometimes you passed him in the hall and caught the faint scent of soap and musk and something warm. Coffee, maybe?

And always, always, that quiet nod when you walked by. A nod that said he’d seen you, even if he didn’t say more.

Frankie Morales

That was what his name tag said. Frankie.

Sometimes you thought about starting a real conversation. Asking how his night was going, maybe even joking about how different he was from Mr. Harris. But every time, the words shrank on your tongue. Frankie didn’t seem like the type to invite chatter. You didn’t talk much beyond that polite exchange, not because you didn’t want to, but because he didn’t seem particularly interested. 

And really, why would he be? Men like him didn’t look twice at women like you. At least, that’s what you told yourself. You weren’t the kind of woman people looked back at on the street. You weren’t glamorous, or striking, or whatever it was that men like him probably wanted. So you stuck to your polite “good evening” and your little smiles, then went back upstairs to wonder, just a little too much, what his voice might sound like if he ever said more than one or two words to you.

Weeks passed like that. He became a quiet fixture of your nights: Frankie at the desk, Frankie with his mop and bucket, Frankie leaning back in his chair, cap pulled low. Sometimes, you swore you caught him watching you when you walked by. But every time you glanced back, he was already looking away. So you smiled politely, nodded when your paths crossed, and pushed down the silly little flutter in your chest every time those dark eyes met yours for a fraction too long.

Until one night, you realized you couldn’t keep living on autopilot. Around that time, a friend nudged you into saying yes to a date.

“You’ve been single since forever,” she had teased. “At least get dressed up, have some fun.”

So you did. You dug out a dress you hadn’t worn in ages, swiped on red lipstick, curled your hair until it framed your face just right. And when you stepped into the lobby that night, your high heeled boots clicking against the tile, you felt Frankie’s eyes on you instantly.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t smile. But his gaze lingered, heavier than usual, as if he was seeing you in a way he hadn’t before. It was enough to warm your cheeks as you gave him a nervous wave, before your date appeared at the door with an eager grin.

The dinner itself was fine. He asked about your work, laughed at his own jokes, and held the door open for you. It wasn’t bad. But it wasn’t good either. No spark, no tug in your chest. Just… mediocre. You wanted to feel something, really did. But the spark never came.

When he offered to walk you home, you accepted, because it felt rude to say no. But the closer you got to the building, the more his charm soured. His hand brushed yours, then your arm, lingering too long. His compliments turned heavier, expectant.

By the time you were back in the lobby, unease had settled in your stomach.

“Invite me up,” he said, gentle but sure, as if the answer should be obvious. “The night doesn’t have to end here.”

You stepped back, forcing a light laugh. 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea…”

“Don’t play shy,” he pressed, his voice dipping. “You’re too pretty to be alone tonight. C’mon… I know you want to.” 

His hand slid lower on your arm. You opened your mouth to protest, but before you could, he leaned in, lips angled toward yours…

“Hey,” the voice came low and firm, stopping everything cold.

It was him, Frankie.

You hadn’t even seen him leave his post, but suddenly he was there, a solid wall between you and your date. Broad shoulders squared, jaw tight, his presence alone commanding the space.

Your date blinked, startled. 

“Uh… can I help you, man?”

“She said no,” Frankie said. His voice wasn’t raised, but it carried weight, a quiet authority that made the air shift.

Your date scoffed, puffing up his chest as if to argue, but Frankie didn’t budge.  His gaze locked with the other man, his presence alone enough to make him falter. After a beat, the guy muttered something under his breath and backed away, hands up in defeat.

You stood frozen for a beat, still processing the turn of the events. The door clicked shut behind your date, leaving only the hum of the fluorescent lights and the sound of your own pulse in your ears behind.

Frankie didn’t move right away. He kept his stance, making sure the man was gone before finally turning to you. His expression softened, the edge melting from his jaw, though his eyes still searched yours with a kind of intensity you’d never seen before.

“You okay?” he asked cautiously.

You nodded quickly, though your heart was racing and your throat was tight. You wanted to say something else. To thank him, to explain, to ask the million questions you’d never dared before. But all you managed was a breathless: “Yeah… Thanks…”

Your gaze darted to the door, your chest still tight. Under your breath, almost without meaning to, you muttered “What a dick.”

For a split second, his expression cracked. The corner of his mouth twitched, almost - almost - a smile.

You caught it, and it startled you more than you expected. Frankie, the mysterious, unreadable Frankie, almost smiling at something you said. You didn’t point it out, somehow it felt like if you did, he would shut back down instantly. But the flicker stayed with you, warming something in your chest.

“Guess you’ve seen worse, huh?” you asked instead, your voice steadier now.

Frankie adjusted the bill of his cap, leaning back slightly. 

“Sometimes,” he said, quiet but sure. His tone carried the weight of someone who had stepped in before, someone who didn’t hesitate when things turned ugly.

You tilted your head, curiosity tugging. 

“You always… look out for the tenants like that?”

For a moment, you thought he might ignore the question. He shifted his weight, glanced toward the desk like he was ready to retreat. But then his eyes found yours again, steady and unreadable.

“Only when they need it.”

Something in the way he said it made your chest warm. Not a line, not bravado. Just a simple truth.

Silence stretched between you, not uncomfortable this time but charged with something new. You wanted to say more, to ask him more, to bridge the mysterious distance he always kept. But your courage wavered quickly.

Instead, you gave him a small, grateful smile. “Well. I owe you one”

His gaze lingered on yours a beat longer, then dipped in a slow nod. That ghost of a smile touched his mouth again, gone before you could fully believe you saw it. Then he turned and walked back toward his desk.

For the first time since you met him, you realized something: Frankie may not talk much, but his eyes said plenty.

By the time you made it upstairs, your adrenaline was finally starting to ebb, leaving behind the dull ache of the evening. You leaned against your door once it clicked shut, shutting out the rest of the world.

The first thing to go were the shoes. You bent down and tugged off the boots, wincing at the tender spots already forming at your heels. You weren’t built for high heels, not anymore, maybe not ever. They clattered to the floor as you padded barefoot across the room, stretching sore arches and rolling your shoulders free of tension.

You dropped onto the couch, dress pulling tight around your legs, and buried your face in your hands. 

God, what a night. Not a disaster, not exactly, but not what you had hoped for either. A date that hadn’t sparked, a man who couldn’t take no for an answer, and the sudden, startling appearance of your building’s mysterious janitor stepping in like your own personal shield.

You exhaled, pressing your palms into your eyes. And just like that, your mind circled back, unbidden, to Frankie.

The memory of him standing there, broad and steady, his voice firm but low. She said no. Three simple words, yet they had carried more weight than your protest had. You had wondered, more times than you would ever admit, what his voice might sound like if he said more than a word or two. And now you knew: rough, even, with a kind of gravity that lodged deep in your chest.

It wasn’t just what he said. It was how he said it. Like there was no room for argument. Like he meant it.

You lay back against the cushions, the faintest ghost of his almost-smile replaying in your mind. The way his eyes had softened, as if he’d been holding something back all along.

Your heart kicked unexpectedly, and you pressed your lips together, embarrassed even though no one was around to see. He was just the janitor. Quiet. Distant. Mysterious. Not the kind of man who would notice someone like you.

Still… when you finally drifted off to sleep, the sound of his voice was the last thing that lingered.

****

The next evening, you stopped at the café on the corner on your way home. You weren’t entirely sure what you were doing, only that it felt wrong to just breeze by Frankie like nothing had happened. He had stepped in for you. He had cared, in his own quiet way. The least you could do was acknowledge it.

So you walked into the lobby with two cups, coffee for him, tea for you. Your heart thudding unreasonably hard in your chest.

Frankie was in his usual spot, leaned back in the chair, clipboard balanced on his knee, cap pulled low. He looked up as you approached, gaze catching on you, unreadable as ever.

“Evening,” he nodded.

This time, you didn’t just nod. You stopped in front of the desk and held out one of the cups.

“For you,” you said, nerves tightening your throat. “Just… a thank you for last night”

For a beat, he didn’t move. His eyes flicked from the cup to your face, like he was gauging whether you meant it. Then, slowly, he reached out and took it, his fingers brushing yours for the briefest second.

“Appreciate it,” he murmured.

You swallowed, suddenly too aware of the warmth in your cheeks. 

“I figured coffee might be useful. Long nights and all.”

Something flickered in his gaze. Curiosity, maybe, or amusement at your clumsy attempt of small talk. 

“Yeah,” he said. “Keeps me awake.”

The corner of your mouth tugged upward without you even realizing.

 “Guess that’s important in your line of work.”

That almost-smile again. This time it lasted a fraction longer. “Guess so.”

Silence stretched, but not the distant, guarded silence you were used to. This one felt open. Waiting. You tightened your grip on your own cup.

“Doesn’t it get lonely? Nights here by yourself?” you asked, the question slipping out before you could overthink it.

Frankie shrugged lightly, leaning back in his chair. 

“Quiet’s not the worst thing” His gaze drifted briefly to the darkened lobby windows before coming back to you. “Noise doesn’t sit right with me anymore.”

It was a simple sentence, but the way he said it, like it held more than he intended to share, made your breath catch. You almost asked what he meant, but something in his posture stopped you. He wasn’t shutting you out, but he wasn’t ready to open the whole door either.

Instead, you nodded slowly. “I guess quiet can be… comforting.”

His eyes lingered on you, steady and searching, as if weighing how much to say. Then he gave a small nod again, as though you had answered correctly.

“Well…,” you said softly “if you ever need company… I’m usually around.”

This time, there was no mistaking it, the faint tug at his mouth, the smallest curve that wasn’t quite a smile but close enough to steal your breath.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said.

You turned toward the elevator after wishing him a good shift, heart racing faster than it should, tea clutched in your hands. And when the doors closed behind you, you leaned against the wall, smiling to yourself.

Because for the first time, Frankie wasn’t just the quiet, mysterious janitor you noticed in passing. He was a man who’d let you see the smallest flicker beneath the surface. And it was enough to make you crave the rest.

****

Ever since that night–ever since Frankie stepped in and shut down that idiot of a date–you’d made it a quiet ritual. On your way home from work, you’d stop by the café on the corner, grab an extra cup of coffee, and bring it down to the lobby for him. 

At first, it was just a quiet gesture of gratitude.

But little by little, it became something more. You found yourself staying a few minutes longer, talking to him before heading upstairs. He still didn’t talk much, but his low, steady voice carried more warmth with each passing night. And somehow, the quiet exchanges, the small nods, the fleeting glances, started to feel like something entirely your own.

Tonight was no different. You balanced your coffee carefully, walking around the desk where he was seated. But fate, or perhaps your lack of coordination, was working against you. Your foot caught the edge of the carpet, the coffee sloshing dangerously.

“Whoa!” Frankie’s voice snapped through the lobby, alert and tense.

“Ah! No-” you gasped, trying to steady the cup, but a splash tipped over onto your hand and a little puddle spread across the carpet.

Frankie was instantly at your side. 

“Careful!” 

His deep brown eyes were wide with concern, and his large hands reached out, calloused but surprisingly gentle, examining your hand as if it were fragile.

“I’m… I’m so sorry,” you murmured softly, cheeks burning. “I didn’t mean to stain the carpet…”

“It’s fine,” he said quickly, his hands lingering just long enough to make you aware of the warmth and care in them. “The carpet… can be cleaned.You… this” he added, touching your hand “we don’t want you burned.”

You flinched a little, not from pain, but from the unexpected tenderness. 

“I am okay… and really am sorry,” you repeated, softer this time, shyly.

Frankie’s eyes softened, and his lips curved in a small, genuine smile. 

“You know… maybe… next time, we should take this outside the lobby. Coffee or tea, somewhere outside the building. Less risk of flooding, more room to spill,” he said slightly teasing, but his tone was warm.

Your heart skipped. Was he…?

 “You… mean it?”

“Mmm if you want,” he said, nodding. “We could call it… preventative measures.”

You laughed, shy and light, brushing your hair behind your ear. 

“I think I could handle that.”

“Good,” he said, voice low and casual. “Then it’s settled. Coffee or tea. Somewhere with space.”

His gaze met yours, steady and warm, and you felt a quiet certainty settle in your chest. The ritual of coffee had begun as a simple gesture, but somehow, it had become a bridge. And tonight, he had just hinted that the bridge might lead somewhere entirely new.

****

It was next Saturday morning, as sunlight poured through the café windows, casting everything in a warm, golden glow. You stood just inside, fidgeting with the hem of your skirt when Frankie appeared a few moments later. Hands tucked casually into his jacket pockets, dark curls peeking from under his cap, his gaze swept the café until it landed on you.

“Hey. Morning,” he said,  carrying that warmth in his voice you had come to recognize.

“Morning,” you replied, smiling nervously. “It’s… strange seeing you outside the lobby and in daylight.”

He tilted his head, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. 

“I was thinking the same thing. You… look different than at night.”

“I could say the same about you. Usually so mysterious. Now… just normal,” you teased.

“Normal,” he echoed, amusement flickering in his eyes. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

He gestured toward the café counter. “Do you want to sit inside?” he asked. “Or… we could take them to go and stroll around. There’s a park a few blocks from here”

You paused, heart skipping. “A walk… sounds nice”

He nodded, and together you stepped out into the crisp morning air after grabbing your drinks. The city felt noisy compared to the lobby at night. As you walked side by side, your senses were acutely aware of him. The broad sweep of his shoulders, the heat radiating from his body, the faint, smoky scent of his cologne. You noticed how tall he was, how his strides matched yours easily, how present he was even in silence.

After a few moments, you gathered your courage to break the ice.

“So… I’ve always wanted to ask you, have you always been a janitor? Because… you don’t really look like one.”

Frankie tilted his head, smirk tugging at his mouth. 

“Don’t look like one, huh? Are you implying I don’t fit the part?”

“Well… maybe it’s the broad shoulders,” you said nervously. “Or the… commanding presence.”

He chuckled, low and warm. “Commanding presence” he repeated. “I like that” 

Then, softer: “I wasn’t always… this.”

“Oh?” you prompted gently.

“I used to work in the army,” he admitted, eyes on the path ahead. “Pilot. Helicopters to be precise.”

You blinked. “Wow… that’s impressive.”

Inside, your thoughts wandered. Being in the army, knowing the horrors of war… Maybe that had shaped Frankie the way he is. Maybe that was why he liked the quiet now, why he carried himself with such careful control.

He seemed to sense your curiosity. 

“Flying teaches you to notice everything. The quiet, the calm, the spaces between the chaos. Up there, you have to stay aware, stay steady… or someone doesn’t make it back”

You nodded slowly, the weight of his words settling in. You could almost see the invisible scars beneath the calm exterior. The discipline, the vigilance, the moments he carried alone. And somehow, that made him feel even more real, more human.

“That’s why,” he continued, eyes briefly meeting yours “I like quiet now. Not just the absence of noise but the chance to think, to breathe, to… not have to be ready for anything all the time.”

His gaze drifted to the street for a moment, then back to you. 

“But quiet doesn’t always need to be alone.”

You blinked, surprised at the softness in his tone. 

“I… didn’t know you thought that way.”

“Sometimes,” he said, shrugging lightly. “Not often.”

You smiled, feeling a traitorous flutter at the possibility of being in the rare ‘sometimes’.

“Well, I’m glad you thought it today.”

He met your gaze steadily, holding it, and for the first time, it felt like he wasn’t just being polite. “Me too,” he murmured.

The park came into view, a small oasis of green amidst the city streets. You both headed toward a bench, and sat down. The proximity made your chest flutter, you were fully aware of how close he was, the subtle warmth from his jacket brushing against yours.

The place was quiet, sunlight streaming through the tree branches. Sitting next to him, you noticed all the little things you had only glimpsed at night: the strength in his shoulders, the barely noticeable scar over his left cheek, the careful way he handled the cup, the subtle way his eyes tracked your movements. He looked… approachable, and yet, unmistakably Frankie.

“So,” you said, playing your already empty cup of tea nervously “do you always appear so… composed in daylight?”

“Not always,” he said, eyes locking on yours with that rare intensity. “Just… careful. People notice more. And… I’m not used to being noticed like this.”

 “You’re… used to being invisible?”

He gave a short shrug, smirk threatening again. 

“Not invisible. Just… unnoticed, usually. I like it better that way.”

You smiled, leaning a little forward, your voice soft and honest.

 “Well, I’m glad I noticed you then.”

For a moment, silence fell, comfortable but charged. He finally looked at you fully, eyes steady. 

“I think… I like being noticed by you,” he said quietly.

Your chest tightened. You could feel the quiet pull between you, the almost-electric awareness of how close you were sitting. His hand brushed yours lightly, and instinctively, you leaned a fraction closer. The world narrowed until it was just the two of you.

He tilted his head, lips barely apart, and you felt it, the longing, the heartbeat-close proximity before drops of rain broke the spell.

You both looked up, startled, then laughed softly.

 “Of course,” he murmured, glancing at the sky. “Always dramatic weather.”

Frankie immediately draped his jacket over both of you like a makeshift umbrella.

 “Got you covered.”

You laughed, slipping slightly on the wet pavement when you stood up, and he grinned down at you. The sound, a warm, unexpected laugh, made your chest flutter. It was the first time you had ever heard him laugh, and it caught you completely off guard. 

“Come on,” he said, tugging you along as he started jogging. You stumbled slightly, both of you laughing like kids as you ran toward a nearby bus stop. 

The city blurred around you in a haze of rain and reflections, but all you could focus on was him. Every detail was amplified: the warmth radiating from him, the faint scent of his cologne, the subtle movement of his shoulders under the jacket. You found yourself stealing glances at him, noticing the curve of his nose, the way his curls stuck slightly to his forehead from the rain, and the rare softness in his deep brown eyes.

By the time you reached the bus stop, both of you were breathless, giggling, cheeks flushed. The rain continued to fall around you, but under the jacket, it was your own little world.

“Stay under here,” he said. You huddled together, laughing softly as he brushed droplets from your hair. For a moment, there were no words, just presence, warmth, and the quiet charge of proximity.

The small overhang provided an improvised shelter, and you both stood beneath it, the rain drumming softly around you. Frankie adjusted the jacket over your shoulders to protect you from the cold and brushed a wet strand of hair from your face. He glanced at you, eyes dark and intense in the muted light. 

“You okay?” he asked, voice low, almost intimate.

You nodded, but your heart was pounding. “I… yeah. Better, actually.”

Frankie tilted his head, studying you for a moment. Then he gave the faintest smile.

“You know… I’m glad we did this. The walk, the park, even the rain.”

You felt heat rise in your cheeks.

 “Me too,” you whispered. “Even if it’s… a little weird.”

He chuckled softly. “Weird’s part of it, but good weird.”

You stayed close, talking about everything and nothing: the absurdity of running through the rain, the strangeness of seeing each other in daylight, the unexpected comfort of shared silence, and even little personal anecdotes like failed dates, that had you both laughing. Small touches became intentional: brushing hands, leaning slightly closer. You noticed his gaze fixed on you, and you let yours hold his a beat longer. Frankie’s hand brushed yours again, deliberate this time, lingering, as if testing boundaries and you didn’t pull away.

And then, somehow, slowly, you leaned toward each other, breath mingling, about to kiss when a car splashed a puddle nearby, soaking you both.

Both startled, you froze for a heartbeat, then laughed softly. 

“You have to be kidding me,” he murmured, half amused, half frustrated. “Thought this only happened in movies.”

“Maybe it’s the universe telling us to wait,” you teased, cheeks flushed.

“Guess patience is part of the game," he murmured, eyes meeting yours, steady and warm. A small drop of rain slid down your cheek. Frankie reached up instinctively, brushing it away with a tenderness that made your chest ache and you felt a shiver run down your spine, not from the cold, but from being so close.

Frankie gave you a protective glance. “Go on… you should change into dry clothes before you catch a cold. But first, we have to walk you back home,” he said, draping the jacket over both of you once more.

By the time you reached your building, the rain had slowed to a gentle drizzle, the streets glistening in the soft morning light. Frankie kept the jacket draped over both of you, and neither of you spoke for a moment, simply walking in companionable silence. The world felt paused, suspended between raindrops and quiet city hum.

At the entrance, he stopped, and you realized just how much you had come to rely on his closeness, even these brief minutes had made his presence grounding, almost necessary. You noticed the faint wet curl sticking to his forehead, the way his jacket still smelled faintly of him and the rain.

“Well…” he said finally, voice low, steady, but carrying a hint of warmth. “I guess this is it.”

You nodded, secretly wishing the time with him would not come to an end. “Yeah…”

There was a pause, a hesitation neither of you broke. You felt the quiet weight of anticipation, your chest fluttering with every subtle movement he made, how he adjusted the jacket over your shoulders, how his hand brushed yours almost by accident.

He looked down at you, soft, deliberate, and intensely focused. “I… had a good time,” he said quietly. “Today. Even with the rain.”

You smiled, shy and a little breathless. “Me too.”

Another pause. Neither of you stepped back; the space between you felt charged, almost electric. You noticed the tilt of his head, the faint curve of his lips, and before you could think too much about it, your gaze met his and something unspoken passed between you.

Slowly, deliberately, he leaned closer. You felt your heart hammering, a thrilling mixture of anticipation and certainty. And then…

Your lips met.

Soft, hesitant at first, as if both of you were testing the waters. The world shrank to just the two of you: rain-soaked city streets, the hum of the morning, the faint scent of his jacket, the warmth of his body pressed near yours. And beneath it all, you noticed it. The subtle, refreshing taste of rain on his lips, mingling with your own, a fleeting, exhilarating reminder of the storm that had brought you together. The kiss deepened slightly, natural and effortless, a long-awaited culmination of all the little stolen moments, the laughter, the walk, the quiet confessions, and the teasing glances.

When you finally pulled back, breathless, his forehead rested briefly against yours, eyes half-lidded, soft and steady. 

“Patience rewarded,” he murmured, a playful glint to his gaze.

You laughed softly before a bold thought slipped out. “You… want to come up? Just… just to dry off a bit?”

Frankie’s gaze softened, a tiny, thoughtful smile tugging at his lips. You wondered what kind of thoughts were swirling in his mind. And if the memory of your lips, made him ache to be closer too. Instead he shook his head, voice low and deliberate.

 “Not yet. Not like this. I know what’ll happen if I go up now. We both know and I  want to wait. For both of us.”

“Then… do I see you tonight?” you murmured, stepping back slightly.

“I’ll be at the lobby desk.” he replied softly, giving a small, gentlemanly bow. “As always.”

****

The rain started again just as you disappeared inside. Frankie lingered at the entrance of the building, jacket heavy with damp, morning light swallowed by the sudden downpour. He had told you no, told you he should wait, that if he went upstairs with you, it wouldn’t just be about drying off. And he had meant it.

But standing there, watching the rain turn the street into rivers, he hesitated. He could picture you upstairs now, shaking droplets from your hair, slipping out of wet clothes, padding barefoot across your apartment. Alone.

He cursed under his breath. He knew your floor, your door. Of course he did, he knew every tenant’s. But knowing and acting were different things. Going up felt like breaking his own promise, like betraying that careful patience he wanted to give you both.

And yet…

His boots were carrying him to the elevator before his mind caught up.

By the time he reached your door, his pulse was a steady thrum in his throat. He raised his hand, knocked once, and immediately thought of walking away. But then the door opened, and all the air left his lungs.

“Frankie?”

You stood there, hair still wet, loose over your shoulders, glasses perched on your nose. An oversized T-shirt skimmed your thighs, clinging in the right places, revealing more than it hid. Simple. Casual. And yet he couldn’t remember ever seeing anything so beautiful.

For a second, he forgot every word he knew.

“I–” His hand rubbed at the back of his neck, that nervous tic he hated, the one that betrayed every bit of the calm, unshakable mask he wore downstairs at the lobby.

You tilted your head, confusion flickering in your eyes, but there was warmth too. An invitation, if he was brave enough to take it.

“Come in,” you said softly, stepping aside.

Frankie’s throat worked. His boots felt impossibly heavy, like crossing that threshold would mean more than just escaping the storm. It would mean lowering his walls, letting you see the man beneath the quiet.

And still he stepped forward.

The door clicked shut behind him, sealing out the storm, and suddenly the quiet pressed in harder than the rain ever could.

Your apartment smelled faintly of flowers and something warm he couldn’t place. Frankie let his gaze wander. Ancient History books stacked on the coffee table, a blanket tossed over the couch, shoes near the door. Soft. Lived in. So very you.

And then his gaze slid back to you.

Bare legs peeking out beneath that oversized Nirvana tee, damp strands of hair curling over your collarbone, glasses slipping slightly down your nose. You pushed them back absently, and he swore his chest tightened at the sight.

He caught himself staring at the way the fabric clung in all the right places, and for a split second his mind wandered. Imagining you in one of his own shirts or nothing at all. 

Frankie shook his head quickly, trying to banish the thought, telling himself to focus, to breathe, to not let desire take over when he had just stepped inside.

He cleared his throat, suddenly aware that he was dripping on your floor. 

“Sorry,” he muttered. “Didn’t mean to carry half the rain in with me.”

You smiled, small but easy.

“It’s fine. You look…” you started, then caught yourself, eyes flicking down from his damp curls to his broad frame before darting away. After a moment you swallowed and said “You look like you could use a towel.”

Frankie rubbed the back of his neck, awkward and endearing. “Yeah, probably”

You disappeared down the hall and came back with a towel, holding it out. When his fingers brushed yours, his stomach flipped. 

“Here” you said softly, and then, you added “Maybe… you should take off your boots and your jacket. And the shirt. They… they’re soaked.”

For a heartbeat, he hesitated. Then he nodded, setting the jacket aside. His hands went to the hem of his T-shirt, dragging the wet fabric up and over his head in one motion.

Your breath hitched just slightly he noticed. He was revealing a broad chest, skin still damp, the faint curve of a soft abdomen under strong ribs. He knew you were staring and color flushed your cheeks, it was adorable. 

His lips twitched like he might smirk, but instead he busied himself with the towel, running it through his curls. 

You tore your eyes away, noticeably flustered.

“Do you… want something hot? To drink I mean!” you quickly corrected yourself. 

“I, um, don’t drink coffee, so I can’t really offer that, but… I could make you tea? Or maybe hot chocolate?”

You weren’t just being polite. You wanted him to stay. And God help him, he wanted that too… more than he had wanted anything in a long time.

But he also knew himself. Knew what would happen if he let this moment slide too far.

His eyes softened, fixed on you. He wanted nothing more than to reach out, to close the tiny distance between you, to lean in and… he shook his head gently, grounding himself. Patience. He had to remember patience.

“Tea sounds good,” he finally said. Safer than the alternative.

You nodded, relief flickering across your face, and moved into the small kitchen. Frankie’s gaze followed every motion, how your hair clung to your neck, how the oversized shirt fell loosely over your frame, how casual and effortless you looked.

He realized, once again, how unfair it was that you could look this incredible without even trying. And yet, a part of him marveled that you didn’t know the power you had over him.

He followed you then, leaning against the doorway, towel draped over his shoulders, still dripping in places. The warmth of the apartment pressed against his damp skin, making the chill from the rain feel distant, almost irrelevant. He watched you move, reaching for mugs, fumbling a little with the tea bags, tilting your head in concentration while you fiddled with the kettle and felt a strange mixture of awe and longing. It felt almost too intimate, like he had stumbled into a dream he shouldn’t have been allowed to see.

“Not used to seeing you here,” he murmured.

You glanced over your shoulder, smiling softly. 

“Here? In my kitchen? Well, same. Not used to see you here. But I won't complain about the novelty.”

He smiled back and, in that moment, watching the morning light filter across your face, your glasses slipping again as you frowned at the machine, he thought: This is dangerous. She’s dangerous. Because if I’m not careful, I’ll want this every damn day.

As you prepared the tea, he caught himself inching closer, drawn by the warmth radiating off your body, the faint scent of your shampoo mingled with the steam. He felt the pull, the familiar ache of wanting you nearer, wanting to let all the careful patience slide,  but he held back. Not yet. Not until the right moment.

“You… you seem a little nervous,” he observed softly, voice almost a whisper, looking at the slight tremor of your hands. He didn’t want to make you feel uncomfortable, but the words slipped out before he could stop them.

You glanced up at him, startled, before a shy smile curved your lips.

“Maybe a little,” you admitted, eyes dropping to the counter again. “It’s… weird, having you here in my apartment.”

Frankie nodded, feeling the same way. 

“Yeah… it is.” 

His hand brushed against the towel draped over his shoulders, gripping it tightly as if it could anchor him to restraint. 

“But… good weird, right?”

You looked up then, meeting his eyes. Your gaze held something tender, something open. “Good weird,” you whispered.

Finally, you handed him the mug, your fingers brushing his. This time he let his hand linger, careful not to overstep, but close enough to feel the heat of your skin.

“Thanks,” he murmured, taking a slow sip. The tea was hot, grounding. He needed that.

You watched him for a moment, lips parted as if weighing your next words, then finally asked.

“Why did you come back? I mean, you said you’d rather wait. And then you showed up at my door?”

Frankie froze with the mug halfway back to the counter. He hadn’t prepared an answer, hadn’t even really thought it through. The rain had pushed him inside, sure, but that wasn’t the truth. Not the whole of it at least.

He set the mug down carefully, buying himself a second before meeting your eyes again. 

“Because I wanted to,” he admitted, voice low, roughened by honesty. He rubbed the back of his neck, that old nervous tic slipping out again.

“I told myself I shouldn’t, that waiting was smarter… safer. But when I walked away, when I saw the rain come down again, the thought of you up here while I kept my distance…” He shook his head. “I couldn’t do it. I just… I needed to be with you.”

Something flickered in your gaze. Relief, warmth, something that pulled him in even tighter. Your lips parted slightly, as if words might come, but none did.

The air shifted then. He could feel it, thick and charged. The careful restraint he had wrapped around himself all morning frayed under the weight of your closeness, the softness in your eyes, the trust in your silence.

Suddenly, the distance he had tried so hard to maintain felt meaningless.

He set the mug down fully now, steady but deliberate. You leaned a fraction closer, maybe unconsciously, maybe not, and Frankie felt every nerve in his body snap to attention.

He swallowed hard, gaze flicking from your eyes to your mouth and back again. The pull was undeniable, stronger than any caution, stronger than the promise he had tried to make himself. And before he could talk himself out of it, before he could let patience win one more time he closed the distance.

The kiss was soft at first, just like when you kissed for the first time down in the lobby. Tentative, the barest brush of rain-chilled lips warmed by tea and something sweeter. But the second your hand brushed lightly against his arm he leaned in deeper, letting the world fall away. The storm outside, the steaming mug, the cautious walls he had built, all of it faded until there was only this. Only you.

The kiss deepened before he even realized he had moved. One second it was soft, like testing the edge of a flame; the next, heat flared between you, desperate and hungry after weeks of secret restraint. You made a soft sound against his mouth, and it undid him. Frankie’s hands moved without thought, strong and certain, gripping beneath your thighs. In one smooth motion, he lifted you onto the counter, the clink of mugs shifting out of the way, and suddenly you were eye-level, chests pressed close.

The world narrowed to the taste of you. Tea and rain and something that was only yours. Your fingers curled in his damp curls, tugging lightly, and he groaned into your mouth, the sound rumbling low in his chest.

He kissed you deeper, lips parting yours, the rhythm growing more frantic, more desperate. Patience be damned. He had promised himself to wait, to keep it slow, but with you perched on the counter, your legs brushing against his hips, restraint felt impossible. Every breath, every heartbeat urged him closer.

His hands slid higher along your thighs, calloused palms pressing into soft skin, holding you steady as if you might vanish if he didn’t. You leaned into him, lips parting with a sigh, and his chest tightened with something fierce, something he couldn’t name but felt in every nerve.

Still, even in the rush of it, Frankie forced himself to pull back just enough to look at you. Your cheeks were flushed, lips kiss-swollen, glasses slightly askew. Beautiful in a way that made his stomach drop.

His thumb brushed lightly over your cheekbone, trying to steady himself, his breathing ragged. 

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he whispered, voice hoarse, words tumbling out before he could stop them.

And the truth was he wasn’t sure he could stop anymore.

The words barely left his lips before you pulled him back in, kissing him harder, as if answering the confession with your lips. Frankie groaned, low and rough, the sound vibrating against you. His hands slid from your thighs to your hips, thumbs digging into the curve there as he pressed you closer against him, your legs parting naturally to cradle his body, making both of you gasp at the unexpected closeness.

The kiss turned messy, desperate. Teeth grazing, tongues brushing, the kind of kiss that left no space for thought, only want. You tugged at his curls again and he broke into it, panting, forehead pressed against yours as he tried to catch his breath.

“Fuck…” he muttered, almost to himself, before kissing you again, slower this time, savoring, drawing it out until you sighed into his mouth. His chest was tight, his pulse hammering. He wanted all of you - right here, right now - but some small, stubborn part of him clung to control.

His lips trailed down, brushing along your jaw, finding the damp skin of your neck. You gasped, and the sound went straight through him, heat coiling low in his belly. He kissed there, slow and deliberate, tasting rain and skin, feeling your pulse flutter under his mouth.

“Frankie…” you whispered, breath hitching, your fingers curling at the nape of his neck.

His hands slid beneath the hem of your oversized shirt, just enough to touch bare skin, rough palms meeting soft warmth. He groaned again, head spinning with how good it felt, how right it felt.

But then… his grip tightened on your waist, stilling the motion. His breath came hard and uneven, lips hovering at your collarbone. He forced himself to pause, forehead resting against your shoulder, every muscle taut with restraint.

“We should stop now, before…”

He pulled back slightly, enough to look into your eyes. Your lips were swollen, cheeks flushed, eyes hazy with the same need he felt burning through him. God, it almost undid him completely.

He swallowed hard, thumb brushing along your hip under the shirt, reluctant to let go. 

“I meant what I said earlier. I want this. I want you. But not like this… not the first time, not when I can’t give you the patience you deserve.”

Still, he leaned in one last time, kissing you softly. Gentle, tender, a promise layered over desire. His forehead rested against your shoulder again, his chest heaving as he tried, God, he tried, to hold on to the last shreds of sanity.

 “If I don’t stop now…” he rasped, voice gravel and thunder “…I won’t be able to.”

He felt you shiver beneath his touch, the words hanging between you like a fragile thread. And then your hands slid into his damp curls, tugging gently until he was forced to look at you.

“Then don’t stop,” you whispered, breathless, pleading.

The words punched the air from his lungs. For a heartbeat, he stared, searching your face, desperate to be sure he hadn’t imagined it. But the look in your eyes, soft, certain, burning, was all the permission he needed.

Something inside him snapped.

With a groan that sounded more like surrender than anything else, he crushed his mouth back onto yours, no hesitation this time. The kiss was hungry, consuming, and all the patience he had clung to dissolved in an instant. His hands slid higher beneath your shirt, palms greedy against your curves, pulling you flush against him as he pressed between your thighs.

You gasped into his mouth, and he swallowed the sound, kissing you deeper, rougher. His body moved on instinct now, drawing you to the edge of the counter, aligning himself with you as if he’d been hungry for this for years. Maybe he had.

“Joder… you really don’t know what you’re doing to me, nena…” he muttered against your lips, voice ragged. His fingers dug into your waist, desperate to feel more, to anchor himself to the heat of you. 

You tugged at his hair again, and he hissed, trailing his lips down your neck, biting gently, sucking at the spot just below your ear. You arched into him, and he nearly lost it then and there, groaning your name like a prayer he couldn’t hold back.

There was no thought left of waiting, no careful plan of patience. Only you, warm and willing in his arms, urging him deeper, closer, until he couldn’t tell where he ended and you began.

Your plea - don’t stop - was still echoing in his skull. He kissed you hard, tongue sliding against yours, devouring the soft, needy sounds you made. His hands were everywhere. Your waist, your thighs, the curve of your ass. Grabbing, kneading, desperate to memorize the shape of you. 

His palms slid beneath your thighs, spreading you more open to him.

“Damnit” he groaned against your mouth, pressing himself between your legs. Even through the wet denim of his jeans you probably could feel how hard he was, how much he wanted you.

“Frankie…” you whispered, breath hitching when his mouth left yours to trail down your jaw, your throat, teeth scraping over your pulse. He sucked at your skin, slow and deliberate, leaving marks that made you whimper.

“Say it again,” he growled against your neck, voice raw. His hands slid under your oversized shirt, thumbs brushing over your ribs as if he couldn’t get enough. “Tell me not to stop.”

Your fingers dug into his shoulders, nails scraping, and you breathed the words against his ear: “Don’t stop, please.”

That was it. He tugged your shirt up and over your head in one rough motion, his breath catching when he saw you. Fuck, you were beautiful. More than beautiful, you were devastating. His eyes devoured every inch of bare skin like it was a work of art. 

For a heartbeat, you froze, suddenly hyperaware of the way his eyes swept over you. Your hands moved almost on their own, instinctively trying to cover yourself, a flush of embarrassment heating your cheeks.

Frankie noticed immediately. His expression softened, all hunger easing into something gentler. 

“Hey,” he murmured, catching your wrists with careful hands, not forcing, just holding. His eyes locked on yours, steady and unshakable. “Don’t hide from me.”

You swallowed, words tangling in your throat. “I just…”

He leaned in, pressing a slow, reverent kiss to your shoulder, then another to the soft curve of your arm. 

“You’re beautiful,” he said simply, firmly, as if it were an unshakable truth. His thumbs stroked over your wrists before guiding your hands down, freeing your body from your own grip. “Every inch of you is perfect.”

He kissed you again, deeper this time, like he wanted to erase every single doubt you ever had about yourself.

“Jesus Christ…” he muttered against your lips, almost in disbelief, thumbs caressing the soft skin before he ducked his head to your chest. His mouth closed around your nipple, tongue flicking, sucking until you gasped and clutched at his hair. The sound of you unraveling against him drove him wild. He switched to the other, giving it the same attention, groaning when your hips rolled against him, seeking friction.

“Fuck, baby…” he hissed, dragging his mouth back up to yours. One hand slid down your stomach, over your panties, already damp against his fingers. He pressed the heel of his palm against you and nearly lost his mind at the way you moaned into his mouth, hips jerking.

“You’re so fucking wet for me,” he whispered, almost reverent. His forehead pressed to yours, eyes blown dark with desire. “Tell me what you want. I’ll give you everything.”

“Frankie…” Your lips brushed his, breathless, needy, every word a plea. “Take me to bed.”

Without another word, he bent and swept you up into his arms. You weren’t light, but to him you felt like nothing, like carrying something precious he would never dare drop. Your surprised laugh vibrated against his mouth, and he swallowed it greedily, kissing you hard as he started down the hall.

You pointed, breathless between kisses, guiding him toward the right door. He barely looked, too busy pressing you to the wall, mouths colliding, teeth clashing in messy, hungry kisses. Each stop left you gasping and him groaning, hands gripping your thighs tighter as if he couldn’t bear to let go.

The edge of a table caught his hip on the way, and a vase toppled with a sharp crash. You yelped, then burst out laughing against his lips. “Frankie!”

“Later,” he growled, kissing you harder, ignoring the wreckage. 

Finally, he stumbled through the bedroom doorway. He set you down only long enough to press you against the door, devouring you with kisses that left you both trembling, before lifting you again and laying you back on the bed.

For a second, he just stood there, staring. Your hair was a wild halo over the pillow, lips swollen from his kisses, glasses long since gone, oversized T-shirt discarded on the kitchen floor. Bare, beautiful, waiting for him.

“Fuck.” he whispered, voice hoarse, chest rising and falling fast. His hand raked through his damp curls. “You’re… Jesus, you’re beautiful. Preciosa…”

Your smile was shy but teasing, pulling him back in. “Then don’t just stand there…”

He climbed onto the bed, caging you beneath his body, kissing you again, deeper this time, pouring everything into it. The weeks of wanting, the months of quiet interest, the years of quiet loneliness he hadn’t even realized he carried until you had cut through it.

And as your hands slid down his chest, tugging at the waistband of his jeans, he thought only one thing: there was no turning back.

He hovered over you, lips swollen, breath heavy, and for the first time since he had carried you through that door, Frankie forced himself to pause. To really look.

Your chest rose and fell quickly, eyes wide and shining, lips parted as if you were waiting for him to take the next step. His big hands framed your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks with a tenderness that almost undid you.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice low, rough with want but steady. “You sure about this? About me?”

Your answer came without hesitation: “Yes. I want this. I want you, Frankie.”

That did something to him. His forehead dropped to yours for a second, a soft groan escaping him, and then he pulled back just enough to look at you again. His hands slid down to the hem of your panties, fingertips teasing the waistband but not pulling.

“Can I?” he asked, voice hoarse, eyes locked on yours. “Tell me I can take these off, baby.”

You nodded, whispering “Please.”

Permission given, he peeled your panties down your thighs, slow and reverent, until you were completely bare beneath him. He sat back for a moment, drinking in the sight of you, his lips parting in awe.

“Fuck, you’re gorgeous.” he whispered, almost like a prayer. “Perfect. Absolutely perfect.”

Before you could say anything, he bent and kissed down your stomach, slow, deliberate, until he was right where he wanted to be. Spreading your thighs wider, he settled between them. The first brush of his lips against you made your whole body jolt.

“Frankie…” you gasped, already clinging to the sheets.

The sound you made, half gasp, half moan, went straight to his groin. He groaned low in answer, the vibration against you making your hips jolt. His tongue was slow at first, teasing, savoring you like he had all the time in the world. Then he picked up the rhythm, sucking gently, circling his tongue exactly where you needed it. Your hips lifted helplessly, chasing his mouth, and he growled low in his throat. 

Those deep brown eyes locked with yours from between your legs, darker than you had ever seen them, pupils blown wide with hunger. His mouth glistened with you, his lips swollen, and still he held your gaze as his tongue pressed flat and slow against your most sensitive spot.

You whimpered, trying to look away, the intensity almost too much, but his hands squeezed your thighs, grounding you. His eyes pinned you there, commanding and tender all at once.

“Look at me,” he rasped against you, voice low, roughened by desire. Tongue darting to taste the corner of his mouth as if he couldn’t get enough. The sight alone made you whimper, thighs trembling under the firm hold of his calloused hands. His mouth brushed against you as he spoke, teasing you with the heat of his breath. 

“Don’t look away while I taste you.”

Then his mouth was back on you, working you with slow, devastating precision, his eyes never leaving yours.

The intensity of it had you moaning louder, your hand flying to your mouth until he growled and shook his head. One big hand caught your wrist, pulling it away.

“Don’t hide from me, baby,” he rasped, mouth moving against you. His gaze burned into yours. “I want to see you fall apart.”

When he pressed two fingers inside you, curling just right as his mouth worked faster, your vision blurred. The intensity of his stare, the sound of him murmuring good girl, so sweet, that’s it, and the relentless pleasure tore through you until you cried his name, breaking apart under his hands.

Still, he didn’t look away. He watched every twitch, every gasp, every second of you coming undone for him. And when your thighs trembled and your body went limp, he finally pulled back, lips and chin wet with you, his eyes burning with a hunger that made your stomach flip all over again.

“Most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he whispered.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, chest heaving, lips glistening with your taste. And then he started moving upward again, pressing kisses along your hips, savoring the soft curve of your stomach, enjoying the way your body shivered under his touch. His mouth traveled to the valley between your breasts, pausing to nuzzle and kiss, teasing your nipple before continuing up your chest.

Your fingers tangled in his curls as he reached your chin, tilting your head gently, lips brushing against yours in a slow, heated kiss. Your tongue met his, tasting yourself there, and he made a low sound vibrating against your chest.

“You’re… you’re still in your pants,” you gasped between kisses, voice breathless, and a giggle slipped out. 

He laughed too, breathless, a rough sound, before trying to tug at the waistband of his jeans. His fingers fumbled, and you couldn’t stop laughing as they got tangled up in his legs, tugging and twisting. 

“Fuck… wait, hold on… shit!” he cursed, red-faced, fumbling like a man possessed yet hopelessly clumsy.

Your laughter rang out, louder now, filling the room with warmth amid the storm of your desire. 

“You’re so silly,” you managed to gasp between kisses, pulling him back down for another taste of your lips.

Frankie grinned against your mouth, shoving gently at your thighs to free himself, finally wriggling out of the entanglement.

“Silly only for you,” he murmured.

Finally, he leaned back just enough to shimmy out of his jeans and boxers completely, leaving them discarded across the floor, before letting his body press flush against yours again. Your bare skin met his, and the heat, the scent, the closeness made him moan, low and urgent. He whispered against your lips before capturing your mouth in another deep, heated kiss, pressing every ounce of want he had held back into it.

Your body reacted instantly, heat pooling low as his hands roamed freely, guiding you, worshiping you, making you laugh and moan at the same time. The clumsy struggle with his pants had only heightened the intimacy, the trust, the fire between you.

He held you there, forehead pressed against yours. “Are you sure?” he murmured, voice husky, thumb brushing along your hip. “I want this to feel perfect for you. Tell me if it’s too much, okay?”

Your fingers tangled in his damp curls, tugging him closer, and you whispered “I am sure. I want you, Frankie. I need you.”

That was all he needed. He aligned himself, teasing at your entrance, letting you feel the full length of him just brushing against you. A low moan escaped his throat when he finally sank into you. Slowly, deliberately, letting you feel every inch of him. 

He paused for a moment, giving you time to breathe, time to take in the sensation. Just enough for you to feel him, to take in the fullness, to adjust. Your breath hitched, nails grazing his shoulders as both of you shivered. He let his hips stay still, pressing only lightly, letting you feel him without moving. 

“You okay?” he murmured, voice low, rough with desire. His thumbs brushed along your hips, steadying you.

When you nodded, encouraged him with a soft moan, he began to move. Slowly. Not thrusting fast, not pushing, but with care, letting your body guide the pace. He kissed your shoulder, then trailed down your collarbone, murmuring softly against your skin.

 “You feel amazing… so tight…”

His hands roamed, tracing your waist, sliding down to your hips, lifting slightly when you pressed closer, hips meeting his in gentle rhythm. Each motion was measured, attentive. Listening to your body, your reactions, your tiny gasps.

“You like this, don’t you?” he murmured, voice low, teeth grazing your earlobe, making you shiver.

You clutched his shoulders, arching into him, and he captured your lips in a deep and  messy kiss. Pulling back just slightly, he whispered against your lips.

 “So perfect… you feel so good…”

He increased the rhythm just a notch, teasing, careful, watching your reactions, letting you take the lead with subtle movements of your hips, letting him know when to go faster, when to slow down. Every gasp, every sigh, every moan was fuel for him, driving him deeper, harder but still attuned to you.

“You’re incredible…” he rasped, pressing you closer with each measured thrust, thumbs brushing along your hips, fingertips grazing your stomach. 

His hands continued roaming over your body, not hurriedly, but with intent. Caressing your hips, tracing the curve of your waist, sliding up your sides to cup your breasts, thumbs brushing over the soft skin there. 

Slowly, the rhythm began to build naturally, a dance between you. Him attentive, you responding. Both of you riding the rising tide of sensation, the tension coiling tighter, closer to the edge. 

“So perfect, nena… taking me so well… Sí… just like that…”

He let his forehead rest against yours, eyes dark, pupils blown wide with desire, locking onto yours even as your moans and his sounds grew louder.

When you bucked against him, close to breaking, he answered by driving into you, fast, deep, matching the rise and fall of your hips.

Every motion was intense, passionate, but yet careful. Attentive to your pleasure, your reactions, making you feel cherished and worshiped. The warmth of his chest, the press of his body, the weight of his gaze holding you entirely, made the moment stretch deliciously.

And then, together, your bodies tensed, breathless, voices mingling in gasps and shivers, hearts hammering in unison. Frankie felt it the moment your body began to tremble around him, the way you tightened, fluttering, drawing him impossibly deeper. His breath hitched, forehead pressed to yours, and a low, broken moan tore from his chest.

“Fuuuck…” he rasped, holding your hips firmly, fighting for control, even as every nerve in his body screamed to let go. You clenched again, desperately crying out his name, and that was his undoing.

The heat coiled sharp and unbearable, flooding through him in waves. He buried his face against your neck, teeth scraping lightly over your skin, his hips stuttering as he drove into you, lost, completely undone.

You were perfect. So warm, so tight, pulling him under with every pulse. He couldn’t stop the way his body gave in, clinging to you as if you were the only thing anchoring him.

And then he was falling. Free, unrestrained, shattering against you. His release tore through him with a force that left him shaking, gasping, his hands gripping your body as though he could fuse you to him. He spilled into you, every wave pulling another sound from his throat, until finally he slowed, chest heaving, skin damp and burning. He pressed a desperate kiss to your lips, murmuring your name against them, breathless and undone.

You came with him, crying his name while he still moaned yours, trembling in his arms, holding you through every shared shiver. Still murmuring praises into your ear, lips brushing your hairline, your jaw, your lips.

“I’ve got you… I’ve got you…” he whispered, voice softening as he let you ride the waves, keeping you close, anchoring you with his hands, pressing soft kisses to your shoulder and temple, letting the intensity of what you had just shared settle between you.

Even as the last tremors faded, he stayed inside you, unwilling to break the connection, forehead resting against yours. Your pulse thundered against his lips where he kissed your skin, and all Frankie could think, through the haze of pleasure, was that he had never, in all his life, felt something so consuming… and so right.

“God… I’ve wanted this… you… everything about you,” he admitted finally, voice low and tender, chest rising and falling against yours. Skin sticky with heat and sweat.

He finally rolled off you just enough to pull you close, chest pressed against yours, arms wrapped tightly around your waist. Your hair tickled his cheeks, damp and wild from earlier, and he buried his face in it, taking in the scent of you, the warmth of your skin.

The quiet settled between you, warm and golden, like the afterglow itself was wrapping the two of you in its arms. Frankie’s breathing was still heavy, but steady now, his hand tracing lazy patterns over your hip.

You tilted your head just enough to meet his eyes and for some reason, that simple act made you both break into soft laughter. The kind that bubbles up without warning, almost giddy in its nature.

You buried your face against his shoulder, heat rushing to your cheeks. 

“God… I can’t believe we just…” You trailed off, giggling again. “This is so embarrassing.”

Frankie’s low chuckle rumbled through his chest where your cheek rested. He kissed your hair, lingering there for a tiny moment.

“Embarrassing?” He echoed, his voice amused, but soft.

You peeked up at him, lips curved in a smile you couldn’t hold back even if you tried. “I’m still blushing…”

His thumb brushed across your flushed cheek, gaze warm and steady. “Good,” he murmured, lips quirking. “You look even prettier when you do.”

Your laugh slipped out again, light and breathless, before you hid your face against him once more.

“You okay?” he murmured, voice still tinged with the heat. 

You nodded against him, fingers threading through his curls. 

“Yeah… I’m… perfect,” you whispered, voice shaky but full of contentment.

He chuckled softly, a warm, quiet laugh that made your heart flutter. 

“Perfect, huh? I think I’d agree with that” His lips brushed the top of your head, then your temple. “God… you’re incredible.”

You shifted slightly, tilting your head so he could look at you. His eyes, still dark and intense, softened as he traced your cheek with a thumb. 

“I could stay like this forever,” he murmured. “Just… holding you, talking, breathing together… like nothing else matters.”

You smiled softly, nuzzling against his chest.

“Me too” you breathed. “This… feels so right…”

For a few long minutes, neither of you spoke again, simply listening to each other’s heartbeat, breathing in sync, letting the aftermath of your shared passion settle into quiet intimacy. Frankie tightened his arms around you, as if holding you close could somehow make time pause.

“You know,” he whispered finally, voice husky but gentle “Tonight… the lobby desk… we’ll see each other again, like always. But this… this morning… is ours.”

You tilted your head up to press a soft kiss to his jaw, smiling. 

The rain had stopped outside, leaving the streets glistening in the soft morning light, but inside, the warmth of your shared heat lingered. You lay in each other’s arms, bodies entwined, breaths slowly returning to normal.

For a moment, wrapped in each other’s arms, nothing else existed. Just you, him, and the quiet aftermath of a love that had finally found its way into the daylight.

Outside, the world carried on. The city humming, the sun beginning to break through clouds. But here, in this small apartment, everything else fell away. Time seemed to slow, suspended between stolen touches, lingering kisses, and whispered words.

Thanks for reading <3

Main Masterlist

[holbrk]

Pedro Pascal as Ted Garcia Eddington (2025) dir. Ari Aster

[rhapsodyofdarkness]

A Spark Ignited

pairing: Frankie Morales x Fem! Reader summary: You left for a bar not expecting much and end up with permanet fingerprints on more than your heart. tags: sexual tension, first meeting, public sex, Frankie the consent king, alcohol mention, some negative thoughts wc: ~2.2k

a/n: Long time not publishing so which better moment to rescue this silly thing I had buried on my drafts than Frankie Friday?

You didn’t usually go to places like that.

Bars felt loud in a way that didn’t invite you in, only reminded you how out of place you were. Too many bodies. Too much noise. Too many versions of yourself you no longer recognized reflected in dark windows and half-empty glasses.

That night started with two mojitos and zero expectations. Just the need to keep moving. To stay out. To exist somewhere that wasn’t your apartment, your couch, your thoughts.

Your ex used to say you were too much. Too loud. Too impulsive. Too emotional. So you learned to shrink. To soften your edges. To become agreeable, quiet, careful.

By the time it ended, you didn’t know what was left of you.

So you stood there, leaning against the bar, the glass sweating between your fingers, feeling like a ghost wearing your own face.

And then he appeared.

He didn’t enter the room loudly. He didn’t demand attention. He simply took up space in a way that felt solid and calm. Broad shoulders stretched beneath a worn jacket. Dark curls escaped from beneath a faded baseball cap, the kind that looked like it had been with him for years. His stubble framed a mouth that seemed used to holding back words, and his eyes, warm and steady, moved through the room with quiet awareness.

Frankie Morales.

You didn’t know his name yet. You only noticed how the air shifted when he sat on the empty stool beside you, how suddenly you felt less alone in your own skin. There was something about the way he carried himself, quiet, solid, like he’d learned the hard way how heavy the world could be. It pulled at you before you even realized it.

He didn’t open with a line. Just a glance. A small, crooked smile.

“Long day?” he asked.

His voice sounded calm. Grounded. Like he wasn’t in a hurry to be anywhere else. You laughed, surprised by how easily it came out.

“Long… life.”

That earned a soft huff of amusement from him.

“Yeah,” he said. “I get that.”

You talked. At first about nothing. The music playing too loud. The bartender who kept messing up orders. How neither of you had planned to stay out late. And then, without noticing when it happened, the conversation drifted into softer territory. More honest ground.

You told him things you didn’t usually say out loud. About feeling hollow. About missing the version of yourself that laughed easily. About how you barely recognized who you had become.

You expected him to fix it. Or joke it away. He didn’t. He listened. Really listened. When he looked at you, there was no pity, no judgment. Just something steady and attentive, like he saw you clearly without trying to reshape you, and that quiet attention made your chest feel warmer than the alcohol had.

“You don’t sound gone to me,” he said gently. “Just… tucked away.”

The words settled deep in your chest. Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was the way he said it, like he meant it. But you felt it: a small, sharp spark waking up inside you.

Alive.

You caught him looking at your lips more than once. His gaze would linger for a second, dark eyes softening, before he dragged them back up to yours, almost like he was scolding himself. That small struggle in him made your stomach flutter in a way you hadn’t felt in a long time. It made you feel somehow wanted… but not hunted. Desired, but respected. And that felt dangerously addictive, so much so that, without even realizing it, you started flirting back. You leaned in a little closer when you spoke, let your smile linger, touched your hair without thinking. It surprised you how easily it came, how naturally your body responded to his quiet attention.

God, he’s dangerous, you thought. Not because he looked like trouble, but because he didn’t. Because for the first time in a long time, sitting next to someone didn’t feel exhausting, or performative.

When he suggested going somewhere quieter to talk, you nodded without thinking.

The moment you stepped outside, the cool night air brushed against your skin. The noise of the bar faded behind you. You laughed again at something he said, lighter this time, freer. Like the version of you that existed before everything became so careful.

You didn’t make it far.

The alley behind the bar felt narrow and strangely intimate, cut off from the streetlights and the noise. A single lamp flickered above, casting soft shadows across the brick walls. You turned to say something, and Frankie was suddenly very close.

Too close.

His tall presence filled the space without overwhelming it. You caught the scent of him then: clean skin, faint soap, and something warm underneath. His hand brushed your arm, slow, almost tentative.

You didn’t pull away.

For a second, the responsible voice in your head warned you this wasn’t smart. That he was a stranger. But you were so tired of being smart.

So when he leaned in, slow and deliberate, giving you time to stop him, and you didn’t, he kissed you.

The kiss hit like a release. Deep, grounding, hungry in a way that felt controlled rather than reckless. His mouth moved against yours with quiet intent, his tongue sliding in like he already knew you’d let him.

And you did.

Your hands fisted in his jacket, pulling him closer. The kiss grew heavier, breath turning uneven, bodies pressing together in the narrow space. You felt the solid heat of him, real and unmistakably affected, and instead of panic, you felt powerful.

Wanted.

You broke the kiss only to catch your breath, forehead resting against his. His thumb traced your jaw, gentle despite the tension humming between you.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

You nodded, already breathless. Already past pretending.

His hand slipped lower, sliding beneath the hem of your black top with unhurried certainty. Warm fingertips traced the skin of your stomach, then moved higher, cupping your breast through the thin lace of your bra. He brushed his thumb over your nipple, slow and deliberate, feeling it tighten under his touch. You shivered, a soft sound escaping your throat.

He didn’t rush. His fingers explored with quiet focus, learning what made your breath hitch, what made your hips press forward instinctively. Then his hand drifted lower, slipping under the hem of your skirt. His fingers brushed the sensitive skin of your inner thigh before he paused.

“Can I touch you here?” he murmured against your lips, voice low and rough, but patient.

You managed a shaky “Yes” and that was all he needed.

He touched you like he was listening to every reaction, sliding his fingers beneath your underwear, finding you already slick and warm. He circled your clit with steady, patient strokes, then slowly slid a finger inside you, curling it just right. The rhythm was unhurried but sure, building heat with every movement. Your legs trembled. Your fingers dug harder into his broad shoulders as pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in your belly.

That was what undid you. Not just the touch, but the way he paid attention. The way he asked. The absence of pressure. The permission to simply fall apart.

You pressed closer, the brick cool against your back, Frankie’s body warm and solid in front of you. His mouth returned to yours, slower now, deeper, swallowing the gasps and whimpers you couldn’t hold back.

When it crested, it caught you by surprise. You gasped against his lips, thighs tightening around his hand as the pleasure rolled through you, sharp and overwhelming, wave after wave. Frankie stayed with you through it, murmuring something low and soothing against your skin, his fingers still moving gently until the last tremor faded.

Your breathing gradually slowed, but the heat between you didn’t fade. He stayed close, so close you could feel the hard line of him pressed against your thigh. Then he shifted, hips rolling forward once, slow, deliberate, letting you feel exactly how much he wanted you.

You felt him fully then. How hard he was. How much he was holding back.

Another rush of want bloomed low in your belly, hot and insistent. Your hands, which had been fisted in his jacket, then grew braver. You slid one down his chest, feeling the solid muscle beneath his shirt, the way his breath hitched when your palm pressed lower, cupping the hard line of him through his jeans. He groaned softly into your mouth, hips pressing into your touch, and the sound sent a rush of heat through you.You stroked him slowly over the denim, amazed at your own boldness. But right behind it came the familiar voice:

Be good. Be careful. Don’t want too much. Don’t take up space.

The voice that sounded like this every time you’d been chosen only when you were easy, quiet, undemanding.

For a split second you wanted to silence it. To stay reckless. To let your body decide.

But you couldn’t. Not yet. So you pulled your hand back, breathless and a little stunned, resting your forehead against his chest.

“Wait. I-”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. Frankie didn’t push. His hands stayed warm and respectful at your sides, his breathing measuring. He simply waited until the silence felt safe again.

“Okay,” he said softly. “That’s okay.”

He didn’t move away immediately. He stayed there with you, letting the moment settle instead of break. 

“I should go home,” you whispered.

“I can walk you,” he offered gently.

You shook your head. “No. Not tonight…”

He nodded, understanding. “Then at least let me call a taxi and wait with you until it arrives. I’d feel better knowing you got in safely.”

You hesitated only a second before nodding. The walk back toward the street was quiet. Too quiet. An awkward silence settled between you, thick with everything that had just happened and everything that hadn’t. When you reached the curb and the taxi was already on its way, Frankie finally spoke, voice low and careful.

“Hey… I'm sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to push or make you feel like I was taking advantage of you. I just thought… you wanted it too.”

“I did,” you admitted, voice low. “I do. It’s not that. It’s just… I’m not like this…  anymore. Or… I don’t know. I don’t want to wake up tomorrow and regret it. Not because of you, I mean, but because… oh god, I don’t even know how to do this without overthinking everything.”

The words came out messy and half-formed. You kept talking, trying to explain feelings you barely understood yourself. Frankie listened without interrupting, his thumb brushing slowly over your hand in a soothing rhythm.

“I get it,” he said softly when you trailed off. “More than you know.”

When the car pulled up, you reached for the door handle and lingered a second longer than necessary. The night still clung to your skin, your body still humming faintly, reluctant to let the moment go. Frankie stood a few steps away, hands in his pockets, dark curls tucked under his cap. He didn’t move closer. He didn’t ask you to stay. He simply looked at you, steady, contained, like he understood that this was something meant to pass.

Something brief. Something that would not survive daylight.

But then, Frankie’s voice stopped you one last time, just when you opened the door.

“Wait-” He gave you a small, hopeful smile, when you turned to look at him again. “Can I at least have your number? So we can do this right next time. In daylight. Without the chance of morning regret.”

You hesitated only a second before pulling out your phone. When you handed it to him, both of you were smiling. Small, a little shy even, but real.

He typed his number and gave it back, fingers brushing yours.

“Text me when you get home safe?” he asked.

You nodded and whispered a farewell.

Once inside the taxi, as the city blurred past the window, the warmth slowly receded. What remained wasn’t longing or regret. It was awareness.

You hadn’t gone out looking for anyone. You hadn’t wanted disruption. But you had found proof.

Proof that you were still capable of reacting to the world. That laughter could still escape you. That desire could still bloom, sudden and inconvenient, inside your chest.

That the version of you who felt alive hadn’t died. She had just been kept small. Contained. Taught to wait.

And in a bitter kind of irony, it took someone fleeting, someone who arrived without promises and left without staying, to return your pulse to you.

It had been only a spark. But sometimes one brief flash is enough to light up everything you thought had gone dark.

Masterlist

Thanks for reading~

[holbrk]

╰┈➤ 𝘴𝘰𝘧𝘵!𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘨𝘢𝘳𝘤𝘪𝘢 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘤𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘯𝘴.

he reads a lot. mostly biographies and political theory — but when he's falling for someone, he starts scribbling private little notes in the margins of books he's currently reading. inside jokes. observations. faint “this reminds me of [them].”

he insists on making you breakfast, even if it’s just toast and black coffee, or even tea. it's less about the food and more about the ritual. mornings with ted are slow, wordless, comforting — the kind where he presses a kiss to your temple and hums under his breath as he cooks. coffee on the back porch as music plays from inside the house.

when he feels safe — truly safe, he slows down. he walks barefoot. he speaks more softly. he lingers in hugs. the kind of softness that says “I’m not in a rush to be anywhere but here.”

over time, his house shifts. your books end up on his shelves. his cufflinks just above your drawer. a photo of the two of you laughing at a wedding appears on the mantle. the place slowly becomes yours — without either of you having to say it out loud. he wants a part of you everywhere. at all times. small reminders.

after long days, the first thing he does is loosen his tie and unbutton his collar with a sigh that sounds like letting go. if you’re near, he leans into your touch without asking, resting his forehead to yours like you’re his reset button.

he is warm — gentle, romantic, protective — but he doesn’t offer that warmth easily. he hides it under layers of professionalism and distance. only those who prove they won’t misuse it ever get to see the full breadth of how deeply he can love.

if you’re cold, he’ll wrap you in his coat without saying anything. if you’re upset, he’ll make tea and sit beside you, not pressing, just being there. his love language is comfort — quiet, practical, and always sincere.

his favorite sweater is older than some of his staffers — soft from years of wear, sleeves a little frayed. his blankets are plush, his favorite mugs are chipped, and he always sleeps better under a too-heavy quilt.

at home he talks softly to himself. not full conversations — just little things. “alright, one more email.” “where did I put that damn folder?” “that’s better.” his voice is quieter when no one’s around, almost boyish. less guarded. more him. unless his son does something he isn't suppose to.

[holbrk]

Interlude: Between Your Folders

Pairing: Ted Garcia x f!Reader Warnings: (MDNI) explicit sexual content, ass sniffing, dubious consent, power imbalance, inappropriate touching, sexual degradation, clothing damage, THE MAYOR HAS A DIRTY LITTLE FETISH!!!!!! Word Count: 502

Summary: You've been seeing Ted for some time now. He's asked for your help to de clutter his office for a move after your shift but moving folders and empty coffee mugs is the last thing on his mind. Notes: This is an interlude. A short one shot between the series! There are NO SPOILERS for the movie Eddington in this fic.

♡ MASTERLIST ♡

The office was quiet, save for the ticking clock and the rustle of papers. Fluorescent light hummed above, casting a sterile glow over the cluttered desk, the stacked files and you, bent at the waist over Ted’s desk, your tights hugging every curve like a second skin.

You had promised after your shift today that you’d come by and help with his clutter since he’d be moving to a new office.

You always just saw it as an excuse for him to see you in your work attire.

Ted leaned back in his leather chair, arms crossed loosely as he watched you. Pretending to read through the personnel files you were handing him. Pretending not to be completely fucking gone at the sight of you like that — your skirt hitched just enough, the seam of your tights splitting the perfect swell of your ass.

“You always bend over this much when you’re helping out?” His voice was a low rasp behind you, dripping with dark amusement.

You looked over your shoulder. “Oh enough — I’m just trying to help you tidy up.”

He made a soft, derisive sound. The chair creaked as he leaned forward. “Yeah, okay… sure.”

You didn’t have time to straighten up. One hand planted on the small of your back, pressing you down just a little further — enough to make your thighs twitch and the other hooked around your waist possessively. His breath was hot against the back of your leg as he crouched behind you, mouth so close you could feel it through the sheer nylon.

“Jesus fucking Christ…” he muttered, almost reverent. You heard him inhale, slow and deep, nose dragging up the curve of your ass, over the seam, until he reached the small of your back. Another inhale. Deeper this time. "You want me like this, don't you? Filthy little thing. Practically begging for it."

You whimpered, biting your lip.

His hands clamped around your hips, thumbs digging into the plush give of your thighs as he mouthed through the fabric, tongue tracing where your heat pressed against the tight stretch of nylon. Every motion was obscene. Worshipful. Devoted in the filthiest way.

Your knees nearly buckled when his teeth grazed that soaked spot between your cheeks, breath steaming through your tights.

“You’re just gonna keep standing there...” he growled against you, “and keep letting me do this? Ruin this pretty pair? You bend for me like this, you get sniffed like this. Simple math, girl.”

You felt the warm flick of his tongue again, and again, through the barrier — teasing, tasting — while your fingers curled white-knuckled into the desk’s edge.

Somewhere under the groan of the old office vents and the thud of your heart in your ears, you heard the unmistakable sound of his zipper and then the tear of your tights.

“Ted…” You hear the whimper before it even leaves your lips. “It’s all good sweet girl, you’re alright...” His voice soft, as the tip of his cock began to reassure you.

I know it's not chapter 3 but I hope it's enough to get you by! Don't forget to like and reblog. I'm always so thankful for the support of you all and for this series.

Tagging (please inform me if you want to be removed): @iamasaddie @pokayyto @perotovar @cassiuspascal @berryispunk @chasingthepoguelife @madpanda75 @lady-artemis27 @elvenhymntoelbereth @shivispunk @cosmickid-inmotion @beezusvreeland @eviispunk @glitterspark @crumbs-from-the-algonquin @decadent-hag1 @worhols @picketniffler @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 @68saturnism @sad-bitch-disorder @melmel-fandom @jadesmultifandom @anabdaniels @savedyounine

[holbrk]

Pairing: Max Phillips x f!Reader

Summary: Max misses you. So he calls you while at work, horny and frustrated. Warnings: (MDNI) masturbating, dirty talk, solo masturbation, profanity, public masturbation, phone sex. Word count: 722

Notes: A little idea that came up in the server, thanks to @catnip987 and @elvenhymntoelbereth.

Max's tie was askew — again, but he didn’t bother fixing it. One hand was casually twirling a pen, the other holding his cell phone between his cheek and shoulder as he stared at the dead-eyed drones shuffling past his glass office.

"Tell me again what you’re wearing," he drawled, lips curled in a smirk.

Your voice on the other end sent a chill down his spine, and he leaned back in his ergonomic chair with a soft groan. "God. That’s evil. You’re evil. I’m literally surrounded by the undead and you’re trying to somehow still kill me with a mental image of you in that fucking robe again?"

A pause. You say something lower. Something much filthier.

Max's cock twitches instantly. He sits up a little straighter, eyes narrowing with amusement and lust.

"Mm. No. Say it slower."

You do. He closes his eyes.

He hears the subtle shift in your breathing. The drag of your fingers over skin. He can picture it — has seen it and now his imagination fills in the gaps: your thighs parting, the plush folds of your robe slipping off your shoulders.

“Goddamn,” he murmurs. “You touching yourself yet? Or are you waiting for me to beg for it?”

Someone knocks on the glass wall of his office. Max turns with an overly bright grin and gestures vaguely to go away. Whoever it is just nods and retreats. Max swings back around, loosening his belt with one hand as he balances the phone again.

"Okay, so here's the situation," he says, voice dipping lower. “You’ve got me hard in the middle of a vampire call center and I mean hard, baby. Like — uncomfortably, going-to-burst-out-of-these-suit-pants hard. And all I want is to hear you fall apart for me and the sweet sounds of your fingers fucking your wet pussy, okay?”

You whimper, it’s barely audible but there and Max hisses through his teeth.

"Jesus. Don’t make that sound. You’re lucky I’m not coming over there right now and biting the inside of your thigh 'til you beg me to move higher."

His hand slips into his briefs, fist curling around the hot weight of his cock. Precum slicks his palm. He bites his lip, almost laughing.

"You know what’s messed up? I could be doing a sales report right now. I could be draining Eric from HR for his last drop of blood. But instead, I’m jerking off to the sound of your voice. You proud of yourself?"

You moan. Max strokes himself once, twice, the wet sounds muffled under his breath.

"Shit, that’s hot. You close? Tell me what it feels like."

You tell him. You explain every detail while your fingers do the work. He groans — low and feral, biting back a curse as his hand speeds up. He props a foot on the edge of the desk, hips lifting into his grip.

“Fuck, fuck! You sound so fucking good. Gonna come for me? Let me hear it, baby. Let me hear that sweet little cry when you — ”

You whimper his name. And that’s all it takes.

Max jerks once more and spills into his hand with a low growl, biting down on his tie to muffle the sound. His whole body tenses, spasming, as the phone nearly slips from his shoulder.

He exhales hard, breathless and smiling.

“…Whew.” He chuckles darkly. “Okay. I am going to need to fake a spreadsheet crash or claim I got possessed by a fucking demon or something. You just ruined my afternoon… and me.”

There’s a moment of silence where you both just breathe — his a little ragged, yours still trembling. Then, softer, he adds, “You should see the mess you made. Christ. You owe me a dry cleaning bill.”

You laugh faintly on the other end, and his grin grows slower. Lopsided. Intimate.

He leans back again, eyes on the ceiling. “I’ll come by after sunset. I’ll bring that wine you like. And if you’re still in that robe…” His voice drops into something darker, breathier. “…don’t expect to keep it on long.”

The line clicks off, and Max stares at his cell for a second, jaw tight — then he smirks to himself, wipes his cum covered hand on a client file he didn’t like anyway, and reaches for a fresh tie.

Round two couldn’t come fast enough.

Tags: @berryispunk @anabdaniels @perotovar @chasingthepoguelife @68saturnism @pokayyto @madpanda75

Hope you enjoyed the short read!