jj.°

The room was almost completely dark except for the dull amber glow from the streetlamp outside Rue’s window, the light slipping weakly through the blinds and stretching across the walls in thin uneven lines. Everything in her bedroom felt soft around the edges at night — the scattered clothes on the floor, the tangled charger cords, the faint outline of posters taped crookedly against the wall, the quiet hum of the ceiling fan overhead. The air smelled faintly like laundry detergent and weed, and you could hear the distant sound of cars outside every now and then. The room mostly felt sealed off from the rest of the world, suspended in its own quiet atmosphere where time moved slower.

Rue lay on her side facing you, curled halfway beneath her blanket, one arm tucked beneath the pillow. Her curls were flattened messily against the fabric, slightly frizzy around her forehead, and her hooded eyes looked heavy with exhaustion in the way they always did at night. Even relaxed, Rue carried tiredness like it had soaked permanently into her bones. Her expression shifted lazily as she looked at you – somewhere between amusement and vulnerability – and every so often the corner of her mouth twitched upward into those brief crooked smiles she never seemed fully aware she was making. Her gaze drifted over your face quietly, lingering with the kind of attention that always made your chest ache a little. Rue looked at people carefully when she loved them, like she was trying to memorise proof they existed. Even now, half-asleep and emotionally worn out, she studied tiny things: the movement of your mouth when you smiled, the way your eyelashes caught the dim light, the shape your hand made against the blanket between you.

“What?” you whispered.

Rue blinked slowly. “Nothing.”

“You’re staring at me.”

“I know.”

“But why?”

Another tiny shrug. “Because I like looking at you.”

The honesty in her voice came so naturally it almost hurt. Rue rarely sounded embarrassed when she admitted things late at night. The exhaustion stripped some of her defenses away, softening the sharpness she carried during the day. Her sarcasm became quieter, her detachment loosened, and what remained underneath was startlingly gentle. It happened slowly, a small smile pulling at her mouth whilst her eyes stayed half-lidded. Rue always looked strangely younger when she smiled for real; The heaviness in her face loosened for a few seconds, revealing flashes of the softness she usually buried under irony and exhaustion.

There was a long comfortable silence afterward — not empty silence, but the kind that felt intimate because neither of you felt pressured to fill it. Rue’s hand shifted slightly beneath the blanket until her fingers brushed yours. The movement was hesitant, absentminded almost, but when your fingers curled instinctively against hers, you felt the tiny exhale leave her chest. Relief. Rue reacted to affection like someone constantly bracing for it to disappear.

The amber light from the streetlamp cast long, flickering shadows across her face, highlighting the dark circles under her eyes and the slight tremor in her breath. For a moment, the world outside – the chaos of East Highland, the crushing weight of her addiction, the volatility of her family – felt like a distant memory. In this small, dim sanctuary of a bedroom, there was only the sound of your synchronised breathing and the electric tension humming between your bodies.

You shifted closer, the fabric of your clothes rustling against the sheets, until your foreheads rested against one another. The proximity allowed you to see the golden flecks in her pupils and the way her eyelashes fluttered. Rue’s gaze dropped to your lips, her expression turning tentative, almost questioning. She was always calculating, always analysing the risks, but the longing in her eyes outweighed the hesitation.

When she finally spoke, her voice was a low, raspy murmur that vibrated in your chest. "I don't want to mess this up," she whispered, her breath warm against your skin. "I just... I really want to kiss you."

You didn't answer with words, instead tilting your head just enough to bridge the final gap. When your lips finally met, it was a soft exploration. It tasted like the gum she’d been chewing and felt like a homecoming. Rue let out a shaky sigh into the kiss, her hand sliding from your fingers to cup the side of your face, her palm slightly rough but her touch incredibly gentle. She kissed you as if you were something fragile, something precious that she was terrified of breaking. It was a slow burn, a gradual deepening of pressure as the initial nervousness melted into a desperate, aching need.

As the kiss grew more heated, Rue’s movements became more urgent. She groaned softly, a sound of pure surrender, as she pulled you closer, her body molding against yours. The friction of your hips pressing together ignited a fire that had been simmering since the moment you both realised your friendship had shifted into something deeper. Rue’s hand slid down from your cheek to grip your waist, pulling you flush against her as if she were trying to merge your two souls into one.

The heat intensified, and Rue’s hand began to wander, drifting down from your waist to the waistband of your sleep shorts. She paused for a heartbeat, searching for permission, her touch a mixture of desire and a deep-seated need to ensure you were comfortable. When you let out a small, encouraging sound and arched your back toward her, she let out a breath she seemed to have been holding for a lifetime. Slowly, tentatively, her fingers slid into the fabric of your shorts, the cool air hitting your skin for only a second before the warmth of her palm replaced it.

Rue’s fingers found your centre, and the first time she brushed against your clit, you gasped. She froze, her forehead still resting against yours, her voice a strained, loving whisper. "Is this okay?" she murmured, her eyes wide and searching.

You could feel her heart hammering against your ribs, her vulnerability on full display. You nodded lightly, giving her the confidence she needed. She began to rub you in slow, deliberate circles, her touch light but precise, building the tension inside you. The friction was intoxicating, and Rue watched your face with an intensity that felt like she was reading your every nerve ending. She loved the way your eyes fluttered shut and the way your breath hitched.

“You’re so wet," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. She shifted her position, sliding two fingers down and pushing them slowly, lovingly, into your heat. You let out a soft moan, your thighs instinctively parting a little wider around her hand. Rue didn't rush; she moved with a patient, rhythmic grace, fingering you with a tenderness that almost brought tears to your eyes. She continued to talk to you, her voice a soothing anchor in the storm of pleasure. "You feel so good," she whispered, her thumb continuing to stimulate your clit whilst her fingers worked inside you.

Every thrust was calculated to maximise your pleasure, her fingers curling upward to hit the exact spot that made your toes curl and your vision blur. Rue’s own breathing was heavy, her face flushed, her eyes half-closed in a state of blissful concentration. She wasn't seeking her own release; she was devoted to yours, treating your body like a map she was discovering for the first time.

As the climax began to build, Rue increased the pace, her fingers sliding in and out of you with a wet, slapping sound that echoed in the quiet room. She leaned in to press a kiss against your neck, her voice becoming a series of low, encouraging whispers. “Right there? Do you like that?" she gasped, feeling the walls of your pussy tighten around her fingers.

“Yes,” you breathed back with a nod, your brows pinched in pleasure and your hand gripping her upper arm as the coil in your lower stomach tightened.

When you finally broke, moaning her name into the silence of the room, Rue didn't pull away. She held you through the tremors, her fingers staying inside you for a few more moments, grounding you as the waves of pleasure slowly receded, leaving you both breathless and tangled together in the amber glow of the night.

Rue stayed close even after your breathing began to steady, her forehead pressed lazily against your shoulder while the room settled back into silence around you. The air felt warm and heavy beneath the blankets, carrying the lingering smell of sweat, laundry detergent, and the faint sweetness of the candle burning low on her dresser. Rue’s fingers finally slipped from between your thighs with lingering care, slow enough that it made you shiver again, and you immediately curled against her afterward like the distance bothered you instinctively. She buried her face half against your neck, breathing unevenly, her curls tickling your skin.

Her hand drifted lazily across your waist beneath the blanket as she asked, “You okay?” The question came out more serious than everything else she’d said. You could hear the uncertainty beneath it — the fear of having done something wrong without realising it.

You brushed your fingers gently through the curls sticking damply against her forehead. “Yeah. I’m okay.”

Rue visibly relaxed. It happened in tiny ways: her shoulders loosening, her breathing evening out, the anxious tension leaving her eyes. She nodded once against the pillow, almost to herself. “Okay,” she whispered.

The room fell quiet again afterward, but it wasn’t awkward silence; it felt intimate in a way that almost hurt. Your legs remained tangled together beneath the blankets whilst Rue traced absentminded shapes against your skin with slow sleepy fingers, like she needed physical contact to reassure herself you were still there.

And you would be.

The house smelled like garlic, onions, and the tomato sauce simmering low on the stove for nearly two hours. The radio hummed softly in the background — some old rock station Frank liked leaving on whenever he was home. You’d kept it on lately out of habit, the noise helping the house feel less empty. The gentle murmur of the dishwasher filled the pauses between Lisa’s running commentary from the living room, the occasional plastic clatter of toys against hardwood, and Frank Jr.’s happy babbling as he sat on the rug near his sister. ling contentedly. Warm afternoon light spilled through the kitchen windows in long gold streaks, turning the hardwood floors amber, and catching the edges of crayon wrappers and stuffed animals scattered around the coffee table.

You stood in the kitchen with your sleeves pushed up to your elbows, one hand wrapped around a dish towel whilst the other stirred the sauce simmering slowly on the stove. Every few seconds, you glanced toward the living room automatically, checking on the kids without even realising you were doing it. Lisa sat cross-legged on the floor in her favourite pink socks, completely focused on her drawing. Her dark curls were still messy from her earlier nap and breakfast syrup still lingered faintly at the corner of her mouth despite your attempts to wipe it clean. She pressed down hard with her crayons, tongue peeking out slightly in focus as she coloured what was apparently supposed to be your family.

Frank Jr. sat beside her near the couch, chubby legs spread awkwardly as he smacked two toy blocks together with serious concentration. Every so often, he’d lose balance and topple sideways onto the rug only to blink in surprise before pushing himself upright again with determined little grunts. He was getting steadier every day. Walking now — sort of. Not confidently or gracefully, but enough to wobble from the coffee table to your legs if sufficiently motivated by snacks or attention. You still couldn’t quite believe it sometimes.

Frank had gone overseas when you were six months pregnant, and at the time, Frank Jr. had only been a weight beneath your ribs and blurry ultrasound photos folded carefully into envelopes overseas. Now he was nearly one year old and stubbornly trying to walk. Frank had missed everything: the birth, the first smile, the first time he rolled over, the first word that was maybe “mama” or maybe just random noise.

You swallowed hard against the familiar ache in your chest. Fifteen months. Fifteen months since he’d kissed you goodbye in the driveway with one hand cradling the back of your neck and the other spread protectively over your pregnant stomach. You’d survived them somehow: the calls that cut out without warning, the weeks of silence, the fear every time unknown numbers appeared on your phone, and the terrible, quiet ritual of checking the news with your stomach twisted into knots.

You’d mailed photographs constantly: Frank Jr. asleep against your chest, Lisa finger-painting, Frank Jr. in the bathtub covered in soap bubbles, Christmas morning… tiny milestones frozen in glossy little rectangles because it was all you could give him from thousands of miles away. And Frank had written back every chance he got. Short letters usually, his handwriting smudged on rough paper: Miss you. Miss the kids. Tell Lisa daddy loves her. Kiss my boy for me.

“Momma!” Lisa called suddenly from the living room. “Look!”

You leaned around the doorway with a smile. “Lemme see.”

Lisa held up the paper proudly. Four crooked stick figures stood beneath an aggressively yellow sun. “That’s Daddy,” she informed you seriously, pointing at the tallest figure. “He got big boots.”

You laughed softly despite the sudden sting behind your eyes. “Yeah? He does?”

“Mhm.” She nodded firmly. “And this baby Frankie.”

Frank Jr. immediately looked up at the sound of his nickname, blinking wide dark eyes before slamming his blocks together again triumphantly. “Baba!”

Lisa pointed at the smallest figure. “That’s me.”

“I know who you are,” you teased, and she giggled.

Then, after a short moment, she spoke again — but this time, her voice was quieter. “When Daddy gets home… he stay now?”

The question hit you harder than you expected, and your grip tightened slightly on the dish towel. “Yeah, baby,” you said softly, “Daddy’s home now.”

Lisa studied your face carefully like she was checking whether to believe you. Then she nodded once and returned to colouring.

The clock on the microwave read 3:17 PM. He should’ve been there already. Your nerves had become unbearable by noon, and every passing car made your pulse jump, every creak outside sent Lisa scrambling toward the window yelling, “Daddy?!”

Frank Jr. didn’t understand any of it. To him, today was just another day at home with Mama and Lisa. He had no idea his father was about to walk through the door. No idea that somewhere only minutes away was a man who had spent fifteen months surviving war with photos of him folded inside his vest.

You heard the truck before you saw it, the low engine rumbling outside the house making you freeze instantly, every part of your body going still Lisa’s crayon dropped from her hand before she yelled, “Daddy!” She launched upright so fast she nearly slipped in her socks, scrambling toward the front door whilst you stood rooted in place for one stunned second, breath caught painfully in your chest.

Outside, the truck door slammed shut, heavy boots approaching the porch, and then the front door opened. Frank stood there carrying a duffel bag over one shoulder, broad frame filling the doorway completely. He looked older. Not dramatically – not enough that someone else might notice immediately – but you did, and you saw it instantly: the exhaustion carved deeper into his face, the heavier lines around his eyes, the tension in his shoulders like his body had forgotten how to fully relax. His hair was shorter than before he left, beard slightly outgrown, skin darker from sun and dust and places you tried not to imagine too clearly.

But it was still Frank.

Still your Frank.

And the second his eyes landed on you, something in his expression cracked wide open. Relief. Pure, overwhelming relief.

“Hey, baby girl–” Lisa hit him at full speed before he could finish speaking. Frank dropped the duffel instantly and caught her with both arms, grunting softly from the force as she wrapped herself around his neck. “Whoa– Hey, hey, c’mere…” His voice broke into a rough laugh you hadn’t heard in over a year. “Jesus Christ, look at you…”

Lisa buried her face into his shoulder immediately. “You came home,” she murmured, the words coming muffled against his neck.

Frank closed his eyes, his large hand spreading over the back of her tiny body instinctively, holding her tighter for a second like he needed proof she was real. “Yeah,” he murmured hoarsely. “Yeah, sweetheart. Daddy’s home.”

You stood frozen near the kitchen doorway, suddenly unable to breathe properly. Frank looked up at you over Lisa’s shoulder, and just like that, every wall inside you collapsed. He crossed the room fast, Lisa still clinging to him as he reached you, one hand immediately coming up to your face like he couldn’t help himself. His palm was rough and warm against your cheek, thumb brushing beneath your eye before he kissed you hard enough to steal the air from your lungs.

God, he smelled familiar. Soap. Sweat. Cold air. Leather. Frank.

The kiss wasn’t polished or gentle; it was desperate, hungry, fifteen months of missing each other compressed into one moment. When he finally pulled back, his forehead dropped against yours. “You okay?” he asked quietly.

The question wrecked you for some reason, and you laughed shakily instead of crying. “Took you long enough.”

A rough smile tugged at his mouth. “Yeah,” he muttered, thumb brushing against your cheek once again. “Got a little held up.”

Then a small babbling noise came from the living room, and Frank went still. Completely still. His eyes shifted past you slowly to see Frank Jr. sat beside the couch clutching a toy block in one hand, staring openly at the stranger standing in the house. Frank looked terrified — not of combat or war, but of this, of meeting his son.

You watched his throat move hard when he swallowed. “That him?” he asked quietly, voice suddenly rougher than before. And God, the look on his face… it was like somebody had reached inside his chest and split him open. Frank Jr. blinked at him curiously. Then immediately shoved the toy block into his own mouth. A startled laugh escaped Frank before he could stop it. “Jesus,” he whispered softly, his eyes glassing over almost instantly. “That’s my boy?” You nodded, your own tears burning now, and Frank carefully lowered Lisa onto the floor without taking his eyes off the baby. “Hey, sweetheart,” he murmured distractedly when she protested. “Lemme see your brother, huh?”

Then slowly, he crouched down. His massive frame looked almost awkward lowered to the carpet, his forearms resting against his knees whilst he stared at his son like he couldn’t process him fully. Frank Jr. stared back cautiously, a smile – small, uneven, real – pulled at Frank’s mouth.

“Hey there, buddy.” The baby frowned immediately. Not crying yet, just uncertain, but Frank’s smile slightly faltered nonetheless. You could practically see the heartbreak flicker across his face at the realisation that this little boy had absolutely no idea who he was. “Hey,” Frank tried again softly. “It’s alright.”

Frank Jr. immediately looked up at you instead “Mama.”

Instead of pulling away, Frank exhaled quietly through his nose and nodded once like he understood. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Yeah, that’s Momma.”

Lisa climbed into Frank’s side immediately. “That’s Daddy,” she informed her brother very seriously.

Frank let out another soft laugh. “Thanks, Lis,” he murmured gently, though Frank Jr. continued staring suspiciously. Then, very slowly, Frank reached into the pocket of his jacket. “I got somethin’ for you.” He pulled out a small stuffed bear – worn slightly from being packed away too long – and held the bear out carefully toward Frank Jr.

The baby stared at it, then at Frank, then back at the bear. Tiny fingers reached forward hesitantly before grabbing it with a happy noise. “Baba!”

Frank laughed immediately, the sound warm, rough, and completely wrecked with emotion. “Yeah?” he whispered. “You like that?” Frank Jr. smacked the bear against the floor enthusiastically, and Frank looked like he might cry. Instead, he sat there on the carpet staring at his son with this almost disbelieving tenderness, one hand covering his mouth briefly as he shook his head. “He walkin’?” he asked quietly without looking away.

You smiled with a light nod, moving to kneel on the floor opposite your son. “You wanna show Daddy?” You held your hands out towards him and Frank Jr. immediately used the couch to pull himself upright.

Frank’s eyes widened like he’d just witnessed something impossible. “No shit…” The baby wobbled dangerously before taking several uneven little steps toward you, and Frank watched every movement like it physically hurt to miss even one second of it. “That’s my boy.”

Not bragging. Not ego. Just awe. Pure awe.

And when Frank Jr. stumbled halfway there, Frank reacted instantly on instinct — lunging forward to steady him before he hit the floor. However, the baby startled hard at the sudden movement, and his face crumpled.

“Oh, hey– Hey, hey, no, no–” Frank froze immediately, hands hovering uncertainly. Frank Jr. burst into tears. You moved automatically, but Frank beat you to it. “Hey, buddy– Alright, alright…” His voice changed instantly – softer than you’d maybe ever heard it – and scooped his baby into his arms.

Frank Jr. cried harder for exactly three seconds before confusion interrupted him, because Frank was holding him against this huge warm chest, rocking instinctively side to side with the same natural rhythm he’d used on Lisa years ago.

“It’s okay,” Frank murmured quietly against his son’s hair. “Daddy’s got you.”

The room went silent except for Frank Jr.’s sniffles and Frank’s occasional whispers of reassurance, but when tiny fingers grabbed onto Frank’s shirt, he almost stopped breathing. You saw it happen — the exact moment his heart completely gave out inside his chest. His eyes shut briefly, one arm wrapping tighter around the baby automatically and holding him close like something precious.

And when Frank Jr. finally settled enough to rest his head against Frank’s shoulder uncertainly, Frank looked over at you with an expression so open and overwhelmed it nearly destroyed you.

He didn’t look like a Marine or a soldier. Just a husband holding his son for the first time whilst his daughter leaned against his side and you stood only a few feet away.

The house had never felt so painfully quiet to you as it had during Frank’s deployment. Even with the television running in the background, even with Lisa and Frank Jr. arguing upstairs or music drifting softly from the kitchen radio while you cooked dinner, there had always been something missing — some heavy, grounding presence that made the house feel full when he was in it. Frank carried noise without even speaking: boots against hardwood floors, the scrape of stubble against your cheek when he kissed you goodbye in the mornings, his low voice rumbling through rooms, the restless pacing late at night when sleep refused to come easily to him.

Without him there, the silence felt wrong.

So when you heard the front door finally unlock that evening, your breath caught so sharply it almost hurt.

The kids reacted before you did.

“Dad?!” Frank Jr.’s voice cracked with excitement from somewhere near the stairs, and then suddenly both children were running full-speed toward the front hallway just as Frank stepped through the door.

For a split second, he simply stood there. Big duffel bag hanging from one shoulder. Worn jeans. Dark jacket. Exhaustion etched deep into his face beneath the short scruff along his jaw. He looked broader somehow, harder around the edges than when he had left months earlier, shoulders carrying the invisible weight of everything overseas had put on him.

Then he saw the kids, and the transformation in him was immediate. Frank dropped the duffel bag onto the floor without hesitation, arms opening wide instinctively before Lisa and Frank Jr. slammed into him hard enough to nearly knock him backward.

“There they are,” he breathed out roughly, laughter breaking through the gravel in his voice. “C’mere, c’mere–”

Frank crouched immediately despite the obvious stiffness in his body, wrapping both children up against him with crushing strength. Frank Jr. clung to his neck while Lisa buried her face against his shoulder, both talking over themselves excitedly.

“You missed my soccer game but Mom recorded it and I scored twice–”

“Dad, Dad, I got an A in science and Mom said maybe we can build the volcano thing this weekend–”

“Yeah?” Frank’s voice softened in a way it never did around anyone else. “That right? Lemme look at you two.” He leaned back enough to study them properly, large hands gripping their shoulders as though reassuring himself they were real. His eyes moved carefully over their faces, lingering with something so raw and relieved it made your chest ache. Frank Jr. had gotten taller, and Lisa had lost another tooth since he left — and Frank looked at them like he’d spent every day overseas terrified he might forget those details. “Jesus,” he muttered thickly, shaking his head faintly. “You both got so big.”

“We missed you,” Lisa whispered.

Something shifted in Frank’s expression at that. Not dramatic. Not obvious. Just a brief crack in the armour. His jaw tightened slightly before he pulled them both back into another hug, pressing a kiss against Lisa’s hair before ruffling Frank Jr.’s head roughly. “Missed you too, peanut,” he murmured. “Missed you both every damn day.”

Then finally, his eyes found you. And the entire room seemed to still.

Frank stood slowly, one hand lingering against Frank Jr.’s shoulder as though reluctant to fully let go of the children yet. For a moment, he simply looked at you from across the hallway. God, you could see it immediately — the exhaustion in him, the tension still locked into his posture, the wariness he never entirely managed to leave overseas… but underneath all of it was something softer now that he was looking at you.

Relief. Home.

His mouth twitched faintly at the corners before he crossed the room toward you. “Hey, baby.” The words came low and rough, softened by affection in a way only you ever heard from him.

“Hey,” you whispered back, your throat tightening slightly with emotion.

Frank reached you carefully at first, one hand sliding against your waist like he needed physical confirmation you were standing there waiting for him. Then he kissed you. Not rushed, not desperate, just deep and lingering and exhausted with love. The kiss tasted faintly like travel and coffee and the familiar warmth of him you’d missed so badly it physically hurt some nights. Frank exhaled quietly against your mouth before his arms wrapped around you fully, pulling you hard against his chest in a bear hug that nearly lifted you off your feet.

And there it was. That feeling. The one where his entire body finally seemed to unclench. Frank buried his face briefly against the side of your neck, holding you with almost painful tightness as he breathed you in.

“Christ,” he muttered under his breath. “Missed you so bad.”

You slid your arms around him immediately, fingers curling into the back of his shirt. Beneath the fabric, his muscles felt tense and solid as concrete, but there was exhaustion there too — deep exhaustion, buried all the way into his bones.

“You’re home now,” you whispered softly, and Frank only nodded against your shoulder, like he couldn’t trust himself to speak yet.

──── « 「 ⌖ 」 » ────

Later that night, after dinner and stories and getting the kids to bed after far too much excitement to sleep properly, the house finally fell quiet. The familiar domestic sounds settled around you both — the hum of the bathroom light, the creak of floorboards beneath heavy footsteps, the distant rattling pipes somewhere in the walls. Normal sounds. Home sounds.

Frank looked strange in the bedroom in the soft yellow lamplight sometimes, like war still clung to him too tightly to let him fully fit back into ordinary life yet. He moved through the room with the same grounded physicality he carried everywhere, strong hands slow and deliberate as he unpacked a few things from his duffel.

You caught him watching you more than once. Not speaking, just looking. Like he still couldn’t quite believe he was here. He’d changed into an old grey t-shirt and sweatpants, dark hair still damp from his shower, exhaustion lingering heavily around his eyes. Even relaxed, there was still something tightly wound about him, like his nervous system had forgotten how to fully stand down after years of deployments.

But when he looked at you, that tension eased.

Always.

Frank crossed the room quietly until he stood behind you, close enough that warmth radiated from his body immediately. A second later, his arms slid around your waist from behind, broad hands spreading slowly across your stomach as he pulled you gently back against his chest. The contact drew a soft exhale from both of you, and for a long moment, he didn’t speak. He just held you there. His chin rested against your shoulder while his thumbs moved absentmindedly against your waist beneath your sleep shirt, almost like he needed grounding.

“You got no idea,” he said finally, voice low and rough near your ear, “how bad I wanted this.” You covered his hands with yours instinctively, and Frank swallowed hard before continuing quietly. “All I thought about over there was gettin’ home to you guys.” His grip tightened slightly. “Every time things got bad… every shitty night… that’s what got me through it.”

Your chest tightened painfully. Frank rarely spoke this openly about his deployment. Usually he carried things silently until the weight of them settled somewhere deep inside him where nobody could reach. But tonight he sounded tired enough to let some of the truth slip out.

You turned slowly in his arms, Frank loosening his hold immediately to let you face him, though his hands never fully left your body. They settled at your hips instead, large and warm and grounding. Up close, you could see how tired he really was. Not just physically, but deep-down tired. The kind that lived behind his eyes. Your hands came up instinctively to cradle his face, thumbs brushing slowly across the rough stubble along his cheeks. Frank closed his eyes briefly at the touch, leaning into your palms with a quiet exhale he probably didn’t even realise escaped him.

“You’re here now,” you whispered again just as his eyes opened slowly. Christ, the way he looked at you sometimes. It was like you were the only thing left in his world.

Frank’s hand slid upward along your side, fingers spreading carefully against your back before he leaned down and kissed you again. This one deeper. Slower at first. The kind of kiss built from months of missing each other. You felt the restraint in him immediately — the tenderness he handled you with despite the sheer strength in his body. Frank kissed like he loved: intensely, completely, but with enormous care beneath the roughness.

One of his hands moved lower, gripping gently at your hip before sliding further to your backside, pulling you flush against him with a quiet groan against your mouth. “Jesus,” he muttered softly between kisses, forehead resting briefly against yours. “Missed this, too.”

You smiled faintly, breathless, fingers slipping into the short hair at the back of his neck. Frank kissed you again immediately after that, deeper this time, all lingering warmth and restrained hunger. But even then, there was tenderness threaded through every movement — the way his free hand brushed slowly up your spine, the way he paused occasionally just to look at you, like he still needed reassurance this wasn’t another lonely thought halfway across the world.

When you pressed closer, Frank’s arms wrapped around you tighter instinctively, protective even now. Always protective. You could feel the rigid, pulsing length of his cock straining against his sweats, and a soft sound left you.

“Especially missed that,” Frank murmured huskily between kisses before guiding you toward the bed with a focused intensity.

He stripped your clothes away with hands that were surprisingly gentle despite their size, and you did the same with him until you were both completely bare. When he laid you back against the pillows, he didn't rush. He hovered over you, his hips settling between your thighs, his brown eyes scanning every inch of your face as if he were memorising you all over again.

Frank kissed you deeply, his tongue dancing with yours, before he began a slow, torturous descent. He trailed kisses down your throat, over your breasts, and down the centre of your stomach, his rough beard grazing your sensitive skin. When he reached your thighs, he nudged them wide, his large hands gripping your hips to hold you open. He dove in, his tongue finding your clit with a precision that made your back arch off the bed.

“Fuck,” you moaned softly, head falling back against the pillow. One of your hands reached down to grip Frank’s hand on your thigh whilst the other clutched at the bed cover beside you.

He licked at you with slow, heavy strokes, sucking the sensitive bud into his mouth while two of his fingers slid inside you, stretching you and prepping you for him. He was relentless, eating you out with a focused hunger, listening to the way your breath hitched and your soft moans filled the room. He wanted to taste every bit of you, his tongue flicking and swirling until you were trembling, your hand leaving his to tangle your fingers in his short-cropped hair.

Just as you were about to reach the precipice, you pulled him up, needing to feel the full weight of him inside you. Frank complied, his chest heaving, his eyes dark with desire. He reached down, guiding his thick, hard cock to your slick entrance, and with a low, guttural groan, he pushed forward, sliding into you in one deep, seamless motion that filled you completely.

"God... you're so wet, sweetheart," he rasped, his voice breaking.

He began to fuck you with a steady, powerful rhythm, his hips slamming against yours with a blue-collar intensity. It wasn't polished; it was raw and honest. He held himself up with his left forearm, bracketing one side of your head, whilst his other hand gripped your hip, his fingers digging into your skin, anchoring you to him as he drove deeper and deeper. Between the heavy thuds of his body hitting yours, he leaned down to whisper in your ear, his words a mix of praise and desperation.

"That's it, baby... take it all," he groaned, his breath ragged. “So good, my girl…”

He watched your face, tracking every flicker of pleasure, adjusting his pace to ensure you were peaking. He pushed you further, his thrusts becoming faster and harder, his muscles rippling under his skin. A few deep thrusts later, his hips angled just right, and suddenly he struck that hidden place inside you that unravelled everything at once. The jolt of pleasure was white-hot, tearing through you so swiftly that you couldn’t hold it back. A moan spilled from your pillowed lips as your body clenched around him, pulsing in waves you couldn’t control. Your breath hitched and your thighs trembled as the ecstasy consumed you, your eyes locked onto his whilst every nerve lit like fire.

The sight of you lost in pleasure only pushed him closer to the edge. With a final, deep thrust that felt like it hit your very soul, Frank pressed his face into the crook of your neck to muffle his groan and buried himself to the hilt, spilling his cum deep inside you. He shuddered with each wave of his release, his hips grounding into yours and his body tense as he rode out the waves with you, his hips stuttering to a halt.

He collapsed onto you, his heavy frame pressing you into the mattress, his heart hammering against your ribs. He didn't pull away immediately; his body covered yours completely, heavy and warm against you, broad shoulders rising and falling slowly as he fought to catch his breath. The room was quiet except for the sound of both of you breathing and the faint hum of the old ceiling fan overhead. Somewhere down the hall, the house creaked softly — familiar, lived-in sounds that only seemed to settle deeper into Frank now that he was finally home inside them again.

He didn’t rush to move. That was the thing about Frank when he came back from deployment — sometimes it felt like he held onto you a little tighter afterward, like some part of him still expected the world to yank this away if he loosened his grip for too long. His face stayed buried near your neck, rough stubble scraping lightly against your skin as he exhaled slowly. One of his hands spread wide against your waist while the other remained tangled protectively beneath your shoulder, keeping you tucked against him like instinct.

You could still feel his heartbeat hammering hard against your ribs. Gradually, it slowed, and Frank shifted just enough to lift his head, looking down at you in the dim bedroom light. His hair was damp at the temples, cheeks flushed faintly, exhaustion and affection mixing together in that open, vulnerable way only you ever really got to see from him.

“Y’alright?” he asked quietly. The question came automatically, gravelly and soft.

You smiled faintly, brushing your fingers through the short hair at the back of his neck. “I’m okay.”

Frank studied your face for another second anyway, like he needed visual confirmation. Then his shoulders loosened, and he gently muttered, “C’mere,” as if he wasn’t already practically wrapped around you.

He rolled slightly onto his side without letting you go, pulling you against his chest until your head rested beneath his chin. One thick arm settled around your middle immediately, locking you there with sleepy possessiveness while his thumb moved lazily against your side beneath the sheets.

You listened to the steady thud of his heartbeat while silence settled comfortably between you. Not awkward, never awkward — just tired, and intimate, and full. Frank pressed a lingering kiss against your forehead before resting his cheek against the top of your head.

“Missed sleepin’ beside you,” he admitted after a while, voice quieter now. “Missed all this… stupid little stuff.”

You tilted your head slightly to look up at him. “Stupid little stuff?”

A faint smirk tugged at one corner of his mouth. “Yeah.” His hand squeezed your waist gently. “Hearin’ the kids runnin’ around. You stealin’ all the blankets.” His voice roughened with affection. “Normal stuff.”

The word ‘normal’ sounded strange coming from him. Like something he wanted desperately but never fully believed belonged to him.

You brushed your fingertips lightly along his chest. “You have it now.”

Frank’s eyes dropped for a moment, and there it was again — that shadow that sometimes crossed his face after deployments. The one that made him seem older than thirty-six. More tired than any person should’ve been.

War lingered on him even here: in the tension still buried deep in his shoulders, in the way sudden noises made his attention sharpen instantly, in the way he held his family like something precious and fragile every single time he came home… but then he looked back at you, and some of that darkness eased.

“Yeah,” he murmured quietly. “Yeah, I do.”

His fingers drifted absentmindedly along your spine for a while after that, slow and soothing despite the roughness of his hands. You could feel sleep beginning to pull at him finally — real sleep, deeper than the restless half-sleep he usually managed overseas.

The sidewalks of Hell’s Kitchen still glistened from the rain that had fallen an hour earlier, reflecting the glow of storefront signs and passing headlights in fractured streaks of gold and red. The city never really slept – not in this neighbourhood – and even this late at night there were voices drifting from bars, distant sirens somewhere farther downtown, the low groan of buses lumbering through intersections.

Matt walked beside you with one hand wrapped around yours and the other loosely holding his cane. His suit jacket was slung over his shoulder despite the chill in the air, and his tie was loosened. He looked tired in that familiar way he always did lately – like sleep was something that happened to other people – but tonight there was a lightness to him that hadn’t been there in weeks.

Maybe it was because the case at the office had finally settled.

Maybe it was because Foggy had practically shoved the two of you out the door after catching you lingering by Matt’s desk again.

Or maybe it was simply because the two of you had stopped pretending.

“You know,” you said, nudging his shoulder lightly, “Foggy’s getting way too smug about this.”

Matt smiled immediately, the expression slow and crooked. “About what?”

“You and me.”

“That’s fair.” His thumb brushed over your knuckles absentmindedly. “He earned the right to be smug. He spent… what, a year listening to me deny I was in love with you?”

You laughed softly. “You denied it?”

“Oh, aggressively.”

“You are such a liar.”

“I’m a lawyer,” he corrected. “Different profession entirely.”

You snorted under your breath, and Matt’s grin widened at the sound. He always reacted to your laughter like it was something precious — something he wanted to memorise. Even now his head tilted slightly toward you, listening closer than sighted people ever did.

It still amazed you sometimes, how attentive he was. Matt noticed everything: the subtle hitch in your breathing when you were stressed, the way your footsteps changed when you were angry, the difference between your real laugh and the fake polite one you used around difficult clients.

Sometimes it felt impossible to hide from him.

Not that you wanted to.

“I still think Karen knew before either of us did.”

“Oh, Karen definitely knew.”

“And she said nothing.”

“She likes watching people suffer.”

“That explains why she works with you.”

Matt barked out a laugh at that – an actual laugh, warm and unguarded – and your chest tightened at the sound. You loved those moments most because they were rarer than they should’ve been. Matt carried so much tension inside himself all the time, so much guilt and responsibility and exhaustion that seemed woven directly into him. But every now and then, usually late at night when the city quieted enough, he let himself relax around you.

And when he did, he was unbearably charming.

“You’re mean to me,” he said lightly.

“You like it.”

His smile softened. “Yeah,” he admitted quietly. “I do.”

The conversation drifted after that into easier things. Stories from the office. Foggy’s latest disastrous attempt at flirting with a waitress during lunch. Fran cornering Matt in the apartment hallway earlier that week to complain about the laundry machines again. Matt mimicked her perfectly, down to her exasperated sighs and sharp little gestures, and you nearly doubled over laughing.

“Don’t encourage her,” you managed between breaths.

“She likes me.”

“She manipulates you.”

“She gives me empanadas.”

“God, you’re easy.”

“You offering food, too?”

You rolled your eyes fondly. “Maybe.”

“Then I’m yours forever.”

His voice dipped lower on the last part, teasing but sincere underneath it. Your stomach flipped in that ridiculous way it always did when he said things like that — casual little comments that somehow landed with startling honesty.

By the time you reached your apartment building, the laughter had faded into something softer. The street around you buzzed faintly with distant traffic, but your corner of the block felt oddly still. Matt stopped when you did, cane tapping lightly against the concrete before settling beside him, his other hand remaining wrapped around yours.

For a moment neither of you spoke. You looked up at him beneath the amber wash of the streetlamp. His red-tinted glasses hid his eyes, but you could always tell when his attention narrowed entirely onto you. It was in the slight turn of his head, the stillness that came over him, the way his mouth softened at the corners.

His thumb traced another slow line across your hand. Then, quietly and with a small grin pulling at his mouth, he said, “Alright. I’m gonna kiss you.”

You laughed softly, and so did he before he stepped closer, slowly enough to give you time to close the distance yourself if you wanted to. He always did that. Careful in ways people rarely expected him to be. His free hand found your waist gently. Then he kissed you.

At first it was soft — warm lips brushing yours in a slow, familiar rhythm that immediately melted the lingering chill from your skin. Matt kissed like he did everything else emotionally: cautiously at the beginning, like he was trying not to take more than he deserved. But there was always hunger underneath him, too. You felt it in the way his fingers tightened slightly against your hip. In the quiet breath he exhaled through his nose when you kissed him back harder. In the subtle shift closer until there wasn’t space left between your bodies anymore.

Your hand slid up into his dark hair, and Matt made a soft sound against your mouth that nearly unravelled you on the spot. “Careful,” you murmured teasingly between kisses. “Someone might see us.”

“Mm.” Another kiss. Slower this time. Deeper. “Let them.”

You laughed softly against his lips, but it dissolved into another breath when he tilted his head and kissed you again with more intention. Matt always seemed slightly surprised by affection, even now. Like part of him still expected tenderness to disappear if he held onto it too tightly. Sometimes after long days at the office you’d catch him going quiet when you touched him first, almost stunned by how naturally you did it. And tonight, standing outside your apartment with his mouth warm against yours and his hand steady at your waist, you could feel that same carefulness giving way to something more vulnerable.

He pulled back only slightly, forehead resting against yours. “You know,” he said softly, voice rougher now, “I had an entire walk-home speech planned.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.”

“What happened to it?”

“You laughed at me.”

You grinned. “That sounds fragile for a lawyer.”

“It was a very good speech.”

“You can still give it.”

Matt considered that for a second before leaning in to kiss you once more instead — slower now, lingering. “Nah,” he murmured against your lips. “Think I made my point.”

Your heart felt embarrassingly full. You brushed your thumb lightly along his stubbled jaw. “You wanna come upstairs?”

There was the briefest pause — not hesitation exactly, but consideration. Matt was always thoughtful about boundaries, about making sure you meant what you said. Then his expression softened into something warm enough to make your chest ache. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I’d like that.”

You squeezed his hand and guided him toward the apartment entrance. Matt followed easily beside you, cane tapping lightly against the front steps before folding neatly once you got inside. He slipped off his shoes near the door automatically, setting his cane carefully atop the table beside your front door. There was something deeply intimate about that. Not dramatic intimacy. Not cinematic. Just Matt in your apartment late at night, loosening his tie the rest of the way while you kicked off your shoes beside him.

You watched him shrug out of his dress shirt cuffs, rolling them up his forearms with tired precision, before you asked, “You want something to drink?”

“Water’s good.”

“Boring answer.”

“I’m tired.”

“You’re always tired.”

Matt leaned against your kitchen counter, smiling faintly. “Occupational hazard.” You handed him a glass, and his fingers brushed yours when he took it. “Thank you.”

There was that softness again. That quiet sincerity he carried into small moments when nobody else was paying attention. You moved closer without really thinking about it, resting your hand lightly against his chest. Beneath your palm, his heartbeat was steady and strong, and Matt covered your hand with his own immediately.

“You okay?” you asked softly.

He nodded once. “Yeah,” he said after a second. “Just… happy.” The honesty in it caught you off guard. Matt ducked his head slightly afterward like he regretted admitting it aloud, but you smiled and stepped closer instead.

“You know,” you murmured, “for someone who planned a whole speech, you’re getting really sentimental.”

“Don’t ruin the moment.”

“I would never.”

“You absolutely would.”

You laughed quietly, and Matt smiled again before reaching for you instinctively, fingertips brushing your waist until he found you completely.

Then he pulled you in gently, pressing another lingering kiss to your mouth like he still couldn’t quite believe he was allowed to. His hand came up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing across your cheekbone. There was no urgency, no hunger — just a deep, patient affection that made your heart ache. You felt his other hand settle at the small of your back, pulling you against him. The warmth of his body seeped through the layers of your clothes.

You pulled back after a long, languid moment and took his hand. “Come with me.”

He followed without hesitation, his fingers interlaced with yours as you led him through your apartment and into your bedroom. The room was dim, lit only by the city glow filtering through the curtains. You turned to face him, and he stood there, his head tipped slightly downward as if he could see your outline with his other senses.

You reached for the hem of your sweater and pulled it over your head. He heard the soft rustle of fabric, and a quiet breath escaped him. “Let me,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

He stepped forward, his hands finding your shoulders first, then sliding down your arms. He traced the straps of your bra, then hooked his fingers under them, easing them down. Each movement was deliberate, reverent, as if he were memorising every inch of you through touch alone. You undid the clasp of your bra and let it fall, and his hands skimmed over your breasts, his thumbs brushing your nipples.

You shivered under his touch before you returned the favour, unbuttoning his shirt slowly, pressing kisses to his collarbone as the fabric parted. He let out a low hum of pleasure, his head falling back. You pushed the shirt off his broad shoulders, and soon, you were both naked, the cool air of the room raising goosebumps on your skin.

Matt reached for you, pulling you into a kiss that turned deep and searching. Then he guided you gently backward until your knees hit the edge of the bed, urging you to lean down onto your elbows, then onto your back as he followed you, settling his hips between your thighs. The weight of him was grounding, solid, but there was no rush. He kissed your forehead, your nose, your lips.

He removed his glasses, setting them on your bedside table, before he began to press a trail of soft kisses down your neck, over your collarbone, between your breasts. His lips travelled lower, his hands caressing your ribs, your stomach. When he reached your thighs, he parted them gently, settling his shoulders between your legs and kissing the inside of your thigh, then the other, each kiss deliberate and tender. When his mouth found the heat between your legs, you gasped, your hand reaching down to grip his hair.

Matt ate you out slowly, his tongue working in long, languid strokes. His fingers parted your slick folds, and he hummed against you, the vibration sending sparks through your body. He took his time, drawing out every sensation, learning your rhythms.

“Fuck,” you moaned softly, brows pinching lightly and head falling back against the pillow momentarily before lifting your head again to watch him between your thighs. When he found the spot that made you arch your back, he lingered there, coaxing you higher until you finally shattered — a soft cry escaping your lips as he drank you in, his hands stroking your hips through the aftershocks.

He kissed his way back up your body, his lips tasting of yourself. He found your mouth and kissed you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. His cock pressed against your thigh, hard and ready, but he didn’t rush. He reached down between you, his fingers brushing your slick entrance, making sure you were ready, and then he was guiding himself to your opening.

“Okay?” he asked, his forehead against yours.

“Yes,” you breathed.

He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, filling you completely, and you both let out a long, shuddering breath. He stayed still for a moment, letting you adjust, his whole body trembling with the effort of holding back. Then he began to move — slow, deep, steady thrusts that rocked your body into the mattress. His rhythm was gentle, each roll of his hips a silent declaration of care.

“That’s it, sweetheart…” Matt murmured, his hand coming up to rest on the front of your throat. Not to squeeze, not to exert any pressure — just to feel.

His palm lay flat against your skin, his fingers lightly curving around your neck, and you realised what he was doing. He was feeling the vibrations of your pleasure — the hum of your moans, the pulse of your heartbeat, the tremors that ran through your body. His eyes were closed, his lips parted, his expression one of rapt concentration, as if he were reading you like braille.

“You feel so good,” he murmured, his voice rough with emotion. “I can feel every sound you make. Every little gasp. God, I love that.”

You reached up and threaded your fingers through his hair, tugging gently as he thrust deeper. He groaned, and the sound was raw, honest, unguarded. He lowered his head to bury his face in the curve of your neck, his breath hot against your skin. His hand never left your throat, his thumb stroking softly across your pulse point.

The pace built gradually, not frantic but more urgent, more intimate. His hips pressed harder, his breathing grew ragged, and you felt him losing himself in the feel of you. He whispered your name like a prayer, over and over, his movements growing sloppier as his climax approached. You were close again, too, the friction and the heat and the tenderness pushing you toward the edge.

“Come for me,” he whispered against your ear. “Let me feel it.”

His words, his touch, the steady rhythm of his body — it was enough. A few deep thrusts later, his hips angled *just right*, and suddenly he struck that hidden place inside you that unravelled everything at once. The jolt of pleasure was white-hot, tearing through you so swiftly that you couldn’t hold it back. A moan spilled from your pillowed lips as your body clenched around him, pulsing in waves you couldn’t control. He didn’t falter — he drove into you steadily, prolonging the bliss until you were shaking beneath him. Your breath hitched and your thighs trembled as the ecstasy consumed you, your eyes squeezed shut whilst every nerve lit like fire.

That was all he needed. With a low, broken moan, he pressed his face into the crook of your neck and buried himself to the hilt as he emptied himself inside you, spilling inside you with a shudder that seemed to wring every last ounce of tension from his body. His hips ground into yours, his body tense, as he rode out the waves with you, his hips stuttering to a halt.

He collapsed against you, his weight a reassuring pressure, his face buried in your hair. You both lay there, breathing hard, the only sounds your mingled heartbeats and the distant sirens of Hell’s Kitchen. After a long moment, he shifted, pulling out gently and rolling onto his side, one arm wrapping around you and pulling you close.

He pressed a kiss to your shoulder. “Thank you,” he said softly, the words full of meaning beyond just the moment.

You turned in his arms to face him, your hand finding his cheek. “For what?”

“For trusting me,” he said, his thumb tracing your spine.

You kissed him, soft and slow, and felt him smile against your lips. The night outside hummed on, but in your small apartment, wrapped in Matt’s arms, time felt like it had no meaning. You were just two people, learning each other, one gentle touch at a time. When you pulled back, Matt’s forehead rested against yours, his breathing finally evening out in the quiet dark. The sheets were tangled around your legs, the radiator hissing softly somewhere across the apartment, but he stayed close like he couldn’t quite bear to put any distance between you yet.

His fingers moved lazily along your arm, memorising you in the absent, affectionate way he always did. You had started noticing it weeks ago — how Matt touched like he was learning a language nobody else could hear.

“You’re smiling,” he murmured suddenly.

You let out a quiet laugh. “You can tell?”

“I can hear it.”

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

“It does to me.”

You brushed your fingers through his hair, and you felt him grin faintly before he turned his head, pressing another kiss against your temple this time — slower, sleepier. The kind of kiss that held no urgency at all.

Just affection.