Welcome to P-Star Rentals

As a personal assistant to megastar (and mega man-child) Dieter Bravo you've had your fair share of headaches. Getting accidentally pregnant with his baby however takes the cake, especially when he offers to pay you to be his surrogate. You just weren't expecting to fall in love with him along the way

A poker night over at Benny’s tests the burgeoning secret relationship you have been hiding with Frankie Morales.

After getting matching daisy tattoos with my cousin Jackie, she is convinced it’s finally time to find her soul mate. Me on the other hand? I don’t buy into fate, matching tattoos or destiny shit. Across town Joel Miller doesn’t believe in soul mates either, until he wakes up one morning with a daisy tattoo behind his ear. A disastrous first encounter leaves Joel and I firmly in enemy territory. And when Joel meets Jackie at a party and they discover their matching tattoos, it seems like destiny has brought them together. And me? I’m going to keep my own matching tattoo to myself. Why complicate things? Jackie is happy with Joel and I've started dating his charming and sexy brother, Tommy. Plus, there’s no way the annoying Joel Miller could be my soul mate…. Right?

hold·ing pat·tern - the flight path maintained by an aircraft awaiting permission to land. - a state or period of no progress or change. You move back to your childhood home in Florida to care for your ailing mother, only to find the past waiting for you in every room. Your always kind older cousin Santiago refuses to let you disappear into the sadness, pulling you into his world without hesitation. But Santi's world involves Frankie Morales; your cousin's best friend and the boy who broke your heart decades earlier. Thrust into each other’s orbit again old memories make their way to the surface, blurring the line between hatred and desire. Because the boy you learned to despise is the man you can't seem to forget.

You and Frankie find yourselves in a complicated situation when invited to Benny's wedding for a week in Mexico. Despite your strained friendship, you both pretend to be a couple to save Frankie embarrassment when seeing his recently engaged ex wife. However as you navigate through this charade, old feelings and unresolved issues resurface.

.Newly settled into Jackson City, you’re assigned to patrol duty with Joel Miller; a man of rough edges and cool appraisals. His story is buried deep beneath scars of loss while you hide your own grief behind flour-dusted hands and the desperate hope of belonging. What begins as forced proximity slowly shifts into something fragile and all-consuming. But as the past creeps forward through old wounds and the ever-present threat of raiders, your feelings for one another become both a sanctuary and a liability. In a world already broken, where there is already so much to lose, can you let yourself love Joel Miller?

Facing eviction you're desperate for a roommate, even if it comes in the form of the strange and often brash Max Phillips. What you don't understand is why he only works nights, why you never see him eat and why strange noises are coming from his room during the day. . .

You've never ridden in a helicopter before. 

It's much louder than you anticipated and it smells of oil and old coffee. Frankie says if it was his own helicopter it would be spotless. But as this is a work one he borrowed for the day, beggars can't be choosers. 

You can't stop sneaking looks at him as he flies. There's so much that goes into flying - one hand rests on the controls while the other makes precise adjustments. And as he always was in his youth, he does everything with a calm focus.  He isn't showing off for you, he just knows exactly what he he's doing. Every motion is like second nature, and you muse that some people are just meant for certain things. 

Frankie was meant for flying. 

Your stomach is still a little jumpy from the start of the flight, your heart still pattering a bit quicker than normal, even though you trust Frankie with your life. It was still strange to see the world grow smaller and smaller beneath you, to hear the swop wop wop of the blades cutting through the sky. 

Your headset sits comfortably over your ears and you hear a crackle and then Frankie's raspy voice coming through. 

"You doing okay, Pip?" 

You look his way, nodding. You're doing okay; you just wish that Hilary was with you today. 

The entire idea of flying out here was Frankie's idea, a suggestion brought to you and Hilary the day before the official funeral. 

The three of you sat around the kitchen table sharing the brownies Frankie brought. They sat on plates, untouched in front of all of you. 

“I can’t wait until all of this is over,” Hilary sighed, taking a drag of her cigarette.

“Tell me about it,” you mumbled, your eyes red from crying all night.

Frankie’s shoulder touched yours, a silent reminder that he was there for you if you should need him.

“Well, we can take your mom's ashes to Blue Heron like she wanted when you’re ready,” Frankie told you both quietly, fingers absently playing with his fork. “No rush.”

“No we can’t,” Hilary frowned. “It’s condemned plus all that road deterioration means we’d never manage to get up there.”

Your heart sank as you thought of failing in the one thing your mother requested. You found yourself surprised that Frankie didn’t seem deterred.

"I know, Pip told me. But we can get there by helicopter. I talked to my boss and I can rent one for the day. You just tell me when.”

You burst into grateful tears as Hilary just sat there at the table, eyes wide in disbelief. 

It wasn’t until later that night when you and Hilary were alone that she gave you a solemn look.

"Will you do it? I just ... Can't. I don't like heights.”

Hillary had never had issues with heights. But did have issues with drawn out farewells. You knew it was too emotional for her. Too hard to do that final step and say goodbye and for once, you came to her aid. 

"Of course." 

So it's just Frankie and you touching down into Blue Heron with your mother's ashes in a metal urn held securely in your lap. 

Frankie sneaks a glance your way, can see the nerves in you and you knowi this was the truck he'd be reaching over to squeeze your knee, to quickly press a kiss to your cheek at a stop sign. However, behind this beast of a helicopter, his focus needs to remain on the task at hand. 

But that doesn't stop him from shooting you a soft smile before turning his attention back to the console. 

"There it is, baby." 

Through the curved windshield the abandoned camp appears below as a dark patch of collapsed docks and overgrown trails swallowed by green. Isolated and forgotten, many areas patchy from lack of growth. But there is a large section big enough for his chopper.

You glance Frankie's way, eyes meeting briefly before he's focused back on guiding you both down. As the helicopter descends, the lake's surface ripples outward beneath the downdraft. Tall grass begins to bend flat, leaves and pine needles spiraling into the air like mini tornados. 

Even as the winds nudge the helicopter on your descent, Frankie remains completely composed, dark eyes scanning the instruments and horizon with steady focus. The helicopter finally touches down with a soft bump on the earth below you hold your breath. The rotors gradually slow and the blades thundering chops stutter to a stop.  

You remove your headphones and all that's left is the quiet sound of the birdsong and a gentle lapping of the lake against a weathered and collapsed dock. 

You don't move right away, the weight of the urn heavy on your lap. You just stare out the windshield, looking at the still campground. You’re scared of this next step.

“No rush, Pip. We can go when you’re ready.”

You look over to see your boyfriend gazing at you with concern. Of course Frankie knows without you saying a word. 

"I'm ready." 

You climb out, Frankie's hands at your waist, boots sinking briefly into damp moss. It's hard to imagine this place once overrun by happy tourists. He takes the urn from you, carrying it in one arm, the other snaking around your middle.

"You got this, Pip," he tells you. His lips brush yours. "I'm here every step of the way." 

The two of you move through the trails, the green canopies of shivering treetops. The sun is warm on your shoulders but the breeze fragrant from the flowers that grow in wild directions. 

When you come to the lake you suddenly understand your mother's love for it. The sun makes the surface of the water glitter and you can imagine her here, her youthful face tipped to the sun, her shoulders bare.

The dock is rotted away, unable to be tred on. But the shoreline is pristine, welcoming as you move towards it. You wonder if your mother ever jumped off the deck in a cannon ball formation or a sleek dive. 

"I'm gonna give you some space," Frankie murmurs as you take the urn from him. "Unless you need me."

The afternoon light streams through the trees, catching the strong lines of his face and brim of his cap. You fall a little bit more in love with him in that moment.

Yes, you do need Frankie. You need him in your life, in your bed, in your thoughts. But for now, you want time with your mom. 

"I've got it." 

Turning from him you make your way to the water, eyes stuck on the beautiful serenity.  The lake is so beautiful, the day so perfect. The wind is soft it's a caress against your cheek. 

You stare down at the urn you hold and find it strange to think of how a person with all their huge experiences and big feelings can somehow fit into such a small totem. 

You remember the way your mother smiled when you got into college, how her hugs felt when you were sick. You remember the way she rubbed your back and told you she loved you. 

You unscrew the lid of the urn as you think of her. How she too was doing life for the first time. 

Thank you for bringing me into the world.

Thank you for always having open arms. 

Thank you for trying your best. 

"Goodbye, mom," you whisper, gingerly tipping the urn over. You watch as the ashes pour slowly from the lip, carried on the wind and out onto the lake. 

Thank you for being my mom. 

The ashes scatter into the water and wind, a swirl of memory and life and body committed to the earth and water. And there's something so poetic in that, to be returned to the world in this form. 

"I'll take care of Hilary," you promise her. "And she'll take care of me." 

You take a few minutes of quiet, head bowed, hands holding the empty urn at your waist. 

Finally, with tears dried you raise your head. You look over at the trees to where Frankie balances his shoulder against a tree, thick arms crossed, just watching you.  When he sees you look his way, his brows twitch up. You motion for him to join you and he does so quickly, arms outstretched to gather you against him when he approaches. 

"Thank you," you say, breathing in the warmth of the sun on his clothes. "For the flight and for being here and just.... Thank you, Frankie." 

The two of you walk hand in hand back to the helicopter, a strange feeling of bliss found in the quiet of this moment, a comedown. It's a good sensation, you observe.

 Like the end of one book and the start of another. 

“Are you insane?”

You sit with Hilary at the kitchen table with bleary eyes swollen from the tears you two can't seem to stop. Fragrant coffee steam wafts from chipped mugs, but both remain untouched.  

The dividing of your mother's assets was quick and adroit. She didn't have much, a few pieces of jewelry from her own grandparents (A necklace of which was given to Rosalita, despite her initial refusal), your mother's meager savings and a few odds and ends. 

The house however, is mortgage free. A true asset having been bought long before the increasing surge in real estate prices. The manila folder holding the deed to the house, and your ownership stake signed over to your sister. 

"Seriously, have you lost it? I can't accept an entire fucking house," Hilary says with a shake of her head, pushing the folder towards you across the kitchen table. 

"Why not?"

"Because it's not fair to you."

Your folded hands remain unchanged, your temperament serene. You knew the second the deed was in your hand that it would be passed to your sister. 

"It's not fair that you stayed home and took care of Mom for most of your life," you correct. 

Your voices are hushed in the early morning, faces painted amber from the gaps between windows curtains. A stripe of it cuts your sister's concerned expression in half. 

"I didn't do it for that. She was our mom."

"Of course you didn't," you say. "Hilary, for all you did, please take this with my gratitude and my love. No strings." 

She balks, mouth opening, brows pointing before something stops her. It makes her body relax back into the chair. "You don't want me to buy you out or something?" 

You both know she has no money to do that. But having lived here these months you realize the emotional and physical Burtons you placed upon your older sister, assuming she could hold the weight of it all. A house still doesn't seem enough for all she did. 

"No. I just want you to have it."

Her eyes sweep up along the corners of the kitchen, to the faded linoleum and the sink that never quite stopped dripping. It's nowhere near a perfect home, but there's safety in the familiarity for her. 

You can see it in Hilary's face, the sudden realization she will no longer be un-moored. The freedom in this ownership. 

"This whole house just for me?" She says, and when she looks at you for a moment, you see a flicker of the headstrong teenage girl she was. You're taken back to the times when that bravado would fall, like a mask slipping down. 

She gives you a raw, naked look of concern. A girl worried she's going to do the wrong thing because she has always done the wrong thing. 

"Yeah," you nod before reaching across the table. You squeeze her limp palm tightly before retracting. "And Justin, if that's what you want."

Justin is still sleeping in Hilary's old room, and at the mention of him your sister lets a smile twist one side of her mouth. 

"Yeah. I want that if he does." 

Ever since Justin flew in, the two of you have become fast friends. You love the way he looks at your sister, with this constant adoration that Hilary pretends to hate. Maybe she did hate it at one time, considering that kindness was a weakness. You think she sees this differently now.

You hope she does. 

Because in the quiet moments when they think they're being unobserved, you watch as your sister rests her head upon his shoulder, the way he brushes the hair from her eyes and kisses her slowly. 

And you know then that Justin will love your sister with all he has, that he will continue to doggedly pursue her until she understands that love can come quietly, that it can be constant. 

That it's never too late. 

At home the following evening you sit on Frankie's porch swing, the night dark and the stars twinkling. You feel a chill to your upper arm as Frankie presses a chilled glass of lemonade to it. 

You take it with thanks, shifting to get closer to him when he joins you on the porch swing. He puts an arm around you, pulling you close. Every day it seems the two of you want to melt more and more into one another. 

You feel that Frankie's eyes are trained on you and you look up to see he's got those big, brown, puppy dog eyes; the ones that give away every emotion he possesses the second he feels them. 

And right now they look anxious. 

"So, guess you'll be heading back to Seattle soon." 

It's a topic the two of you have been dancing around recently. Between the late nights talking, meeting Justin, the reminiscing of good times, your mom's passing, any thoughts of the future seem to have been put on hold. 

But now as you think of your mother's ashes dancing in the wind, you're affronted with one singular realization. 

Home is wherever Frankie is. 

"I dunno about that," you shrug, snuggling up closer to him. "I can work remote so I don't necessarily have to go back." 

His body is tensed and, you feel his heavy arm band tighter against your middle. 

"But you love Seattle," Frankie says, his chest rumbling as he speaks. "You keep reminding me how crappy our coffee is here. How gators outnumber the humans." 

You giggle softly, cheeks swollen, eyes squinting. "Well, it's true." 

He pulls you closer as he chuckles, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. He's contemplative, you can feel it in how he holds you a little tighter. 

"But, it's not so bad here," you offer, reveling in the light night breeze against your skin. 

"Pip, you hate Florida," Frankie says as he pulls back, eyes casting your way. You stare up at him, eyes limpid. 

"But a lot of people I love are here," you say softly. "One in particular I have no intention of saying goodbye to."

This pleases him, cheeks pink and mouth hitching into a grin. Despite the shield of his hat, you don't miss the dimple in his cheek as he nods. 

"Then you shouldn't have to say goodbye." 

You nod at him before snuggling closer. You inhale the scent of his cologne and fresh sweat, of old spice and the wind. Of Frankie. 

No, you shouldn't have to say goodbye. 

And you won't. 

"About time!" Santi calls over the heads of the bar patrons. Some look your way as you, Hilary and Justin enter. 

Santi is already at the table with Benny and Will, a jug of beer and several glasses waiting for the three of you. Justin and Hilary slide into the booth, Santi giving a good-natured shake of his head. 

"What the hell took you so long? And where's Fish?"

You can't tell him the real reason. That it was because Frankie had his mouth between your legs all afternoon, coaxing pleasure from you for so long that the two of you lost track of time. 

"Had to run some errands and Frankie said he was giving Tom a ride," you shrug. "I'm just gonna grab a drink.”

You weave through the bodies of people until you get to the bar. The man working is distracted by several other patrons so you wait, glancing over at the table. 

Justin is fitting in already. His arm around Hilary as he clicks bottles with the group. He says something and the group laughs uproariously. You smile when you see the way Hilary gazes up at him, a pleased smile on her face. She's so gone for this guy, the sight warms you. 

"No way! Hey babe!"

Fuck. 

Christy is there at your side, drink in hand. She moves with a shuffle, her long legs slightly wobbly. You force a polite smile. 

"Hi Christy." 

She smiles widely when she comes to stand opposite of you. She smells like cigarettes covered by perfume. She's still gorgeous, but her makeup is smudged, hair dishevelled

"You've been back all this time and we still haven't had a catch up!"

“Yeah, been busy.”

She starts to talk about the drinks here, how they’re overpriced and how she misses going to the beach with a six-pack and having a great time.

How are you going to avoid this interaction in the future? You forgot that when you move back here you're moving back into a world of characters you don't particularly enjoy. Into a history you tried to forget.

"There you are." 

Your eyes go over your shoulder to see Frankie approaching with Tom who gives a wave your way before going to join the rest of the table. 

"Hey," you smile, feeling yourself melt when Frankie comes to stand next to you. 

He's wearing that cologne that you love his dark grey t-shirt straining over his shoulders and biceps. His hair curls under his hat and when he smiles that dimple on one side deepens. Basically sex on legs. 

"Hi Frankie," Christy offers with a slur, eyes raking over his body. "S'good to see you." 

"Hey Christy," Frankie says politely, but his gaze never leaves yours. 

Christy watches over her glass as his hand slips around your waist to draw you closer. 

"Sorry I'm late." 

"No problem." 

He gets a heated look on his face before his warm breath on your ear, raspy voice dipped so only you can hear. 

"You look so good right now," he says, hand sliding along the hips of your jeans. "Forget hanging out with the guys. I wanna take you back to bed and ma-" 

You smirk, mouth meeting his in a short peck to stop his dirty thoughts from finishing before you whisper back. 

"Waiting is half the fun, Morales." 

"Not for me it isn't," he growls gently, his beard rasping against your cheek. 

You give him a playful shove before he can start saying more things that turn your insides to jelly.

"I'll be patient," he promises.  

He gives you a wink, patting your ass gently before moving towards the booth where everyone is chatting and drinking. He's halfway there before he turns around, brows raised.

"Coke with a lime," you say before he can speak. "I know." 

He grins from under his cap, teeth a slab of white against the bronze of his skin. 

"Thanks, baby." 

You watch him move to join the group, smiling when they cheer his arrival. You remember that Christy is there when you hear her sharp little gasp. 

"Holy shit! No way! When did that happen?" 

Now you feel your cheeks warming. "The first time?" 

Christy's eyes are blown wide, a grin slicing her face in half. "First time?! Girl, tell me everything!" 

With any other topic you'd skillfully avoid answering. But Frankie is a topic you never tire of. 

"We were pretty quiet about it," you admit with a shy look at the floor. "Back before I left for college."

Christy gives a squeak of delight, fingers finding yours on the bar top. She squeezes gently, her hands warm. "No fucking way!" 

She surprises you, going from looking elated to sobering, her already flushed cheeks pinking further. The man behind the bar takes your order and when he leaves, Christy is looking at you with an anguished expression. 

“What’s wrong?”

"I just remembered how I used to throw myself at him." She surprises you by crooking her slender arms around your neck, pulling you tightly against her for a hug.  "I'm so sorry. You must've thought I was such a bitch!" 

For a minute you stay still, confused at the action before slowly banding your arms around her narrow middle. 

"We were teenagers, Christy," you say with a sincere shrug as she pulls back, eyes wet. 

She places an order for another beer, her empty glass slid onto the bar top. 

"I swear if I'd known I never would have been so... Aggressive. I just thought he was just shy you know?"

"He was," you say, taking your drink from the bartender with a nod. Christy is still staring at you when you turn back. 

"Francisco was one of the few guys that was nice to me," she admits. "And like, not just so he could get in my pants."

Your heart clenches at her vulnerability. 

"Unlike Travis," she adds with a grimace before wincing. "I'm sorry, I know he was your friend-"

"Barely," you say with a disgusted curl of your lip. "Do you ever talk to him?" 

Christy gives a humorless chuckle 

"I saw him on Tindr last week. He's bald and his entire bio is just Taylor Swift lyrics." 

"I thought he was married?"

"Divorce was finalized a while ago," she says before thanking the bartender for her beer. She turns her attention back to you. "According to my Facebook stalking." 

You give a sharp, unexpected laugh at this, flashing a look at Frankie and the rest of the group. You can't wait to tell him this piece of gossip later.   

"I think he cheated on his wife," Christy continues in a stage whisper. "I mean, I'm not shocked...Anyway, I should let you get back to your group," Christy says, observing your attention on the table. "It was nice seeing you."

You look at Christy with her smudged lipstick and glassy eyes. At the outfit far too tight and her hair disheveled.  It would be so easy to hate her. To blame her for everything that happened, but how can you? She was a teenage girl desperate for connection. And it seems she's a grown woman looking for the same. 

You smile warmly, motioning over to the table of your laughing friends. 

"Hey Christy, why don't you join us?" 

You look around at your childhood bedroom, a cardboard box in your arms. There isn't much you're taking with you. A box of mementos, pictures, movie stubs...a keychain with a shell attached to it. 

"Hey, Pip."

Santi strides into your bedroom, his smile muted. He misses your mom, even if it's harder for him to admit out loud. He was the son she never had. 

"How you holding up?" 

You shrug, exhausted and sad and emotional. You lower the box to your dresser, walking over to give your cousin a tight hug. 

"Thank you for everything you did for her," you say into his shoulder. "And for me."

The two of you remain like this for a moment, transported into your childhood bodies. The way he would comfort you when your mom was too drunk. The way you would welcome him into your room after his dad started to beat him regularly. 

"Sometimes I wish we could go back to when it was simple," Santi whispers in a thick voice. "Before we knew our parents weren't perfect. Back when summers were forever and the world was just waiting to be discovered." 

"I know." 

"But I'm happy now too," he amends. "I love my job and my friends and ... Plus now you and Frankie are finally together. Finally." 

You smile against the collar of his jacket, so wide your cheeks hurt. 

"Yeah." 

You squeeze one another before stepping back. For a change, your cousin doesn't look like the confident man you normally see. He looks big-eyed and anxious. 

"Frankie says you're staying in Florida?" 

"Yeah." 

He gives you a hard look, one you've seen before. A look that challenges your answer. It makes you feel nervous, exposed and unsure. The room seems warmer, smaller, tighter. 

"Well, Hilary is here," you say when he remains silent. 

"So?" 

"She's my sister, Santi, and we're getting along." 

He crosses his arms over his chest, a move of bravado. He's getting irritated. 

"She never wanted you to end up here, Pip. You know that."

"Things change," you say as your mind drifts to Frankie. "People change." 

But you think about that conversation with Hilary that night. 

I knew your future wasn't here in the same town we grew up in.

But then as if by magic, the image of your boyfriend's face comes to mind. And with it, a flood of adoration then nearly takes your breath away. 

"And Frankie is here, his house is here," you say, eyes bright. "And that's enough for me. More than enough, actually." 

"Yeah?" 

You nod, eyes limpid. "Yeah." 

He's quiet for a lingering moment, eyes tracing your face as if trying to read your mind before he finally gives a tight smile. 

"I better go. My flight's coming in early tomorrow." 

He kisses your forehead, murmuring that he wants to keep in touch better. Knowing Santi you don't think it'll happen, but it sounds very nice in theory. 

You enter the kitchen, passing Hilary and Justin chatting quietly over the table. They glance up, smiling your way. 

"Boxes are all packed," you announce, giving a dramatic wipe of your brow. “Just need to do the suitcase.”

You move to pour a glass of water, Hilary tracking your moves. 

"You didn't have to rush through that," Hilary insists, mouth thinned. "I hope you didn't feel pressured."

"What? Not at all. I'm just excited to be moving into Frankie's place." 

Hilary doesn't reply, but you think you see a bit of concern there before she turns back to Justin. 

"What're you guys up to?"

"Justin got his managerial job back at the bar," Hilary says proudly nudging him. "The place was falling apart without him."

Justin gives a shy laugh, face pink. He's impossibly humble, and he'd never admit that the place is a dump ever since he left.

"How do your parents feel about you moving back to the US?" 

"They don't love the political situation," Justin admits. 

"That's fair," Hilary says exchanging a knowing look with you. You clink glasses before Justin continues. 

"But they love Hilary and they know I love her so they're happy for us. We might go visit them next summer."  

"That's fantastic," you say, grinning. You take a seat at the table with them, looking at the notes and sketches they've been scribbling. 

"What's all this?"

"We're talking about some renovations we might be able to do this year," Hilary says carefully scanning your face. "Maybe starting in here. What do you think about that?" 

"I think that's awesome," you say before taking a sip of your water.

"Really?" 

"Yeah," you nod, motioning to the far wall. "If that isn't load-bearing, you could knock it out and have a totally open concept main space." 

Hilary still looks troubled. "You're sure about that?"

You turn her way, brows rising. "Why wouldn't I be?" 

"Because we both grew up here," she reasons, blinking quickly. "And because I don't want you to think that this isn't your home anymore-"

"Hilary," you say softly placing a hand over hers. "I don't want it to be my home anymore." 

She looks confused, as does Justin. You feel your heart clenching as you gaze around the kitchen and remember some of the past. The good times, the bad. 

"It hasn’t been my home for a long time," you finally explain to them. "It’s just a house I used to live in. You have memories here I never will. Good ones. You lived here so long; it's a part of you. That's why I want you to have it and that's why I want you to do anything you want to it." 

Her eyes are watery. "But-"

"I mean it, Hil. All I ask is that you make good memories in this place from now on." You stand and extend a hand. "Deal?" 

You see the way she rubs at her eye before she stands as well, shaking your hand briefly as she grins. 

"Deal."

You're packing your suitcase later that day when the bedroom door creaks open behind you. You don't even hear Frankie approach; you just smile when he embraces you from behind, gentle kiss planted behind your ear. 

"Hey baby." 

"You're early," you say as he releases you and takes a seat on the edge of your old bed. "I just have a few more things to pop into my suitcase and then we can go."

"Yeah, it's about that. I wanted to talk you before we head to mine." 

"Why?" You smirk. "Changed your mind about me moving in, Morales?" 

You stop folding a pair of jeans halfway when he doesn't reply. You look up and your stomach plummets when you see the strange look he's wearing. 

"Wait…Are you?"

"It's just, my place isn't very big," he says. 

"I don't need a lot of space." 

"Well, you'll need an office and everything for work."

No no no. 

Didn't you already talk about this? Wasn't Frankie the one so eager for you to move in as soon as you felt ready? What made him change his mind? 

He gives a soft exhale before patting the space on the mattress next to him. You move slowly, lowering yourself without looking away from him. 

"I remember you telling me your apartment in Seattle is pretty nice. Two bedrooms and an office, right?" 

You nod dumbly. "Yeah."

"You haven't put it on the market yet, have you?" 

You shake your head, not trusting your voice to remain even as the truth makes itself apparent. 

He wants you to move back to Seattle. He wants you gone.  

"I don't understand... We agreed on me moving in today." 

"I just don't think it's a good idea moving all your stuff into my place."

Your stomach bottoms out, limbs trembling. He's leaving you. Dumping you. Forgetting you. It's like being thrown back through time into the body of that hurt and confused girl at the party. 

"What made you change your mind?" You force your voice to stay steady.

Frankie looks at his hands. You feel your temper rising when he won't make eye contact. 

"I've been doing a lot of thinking," he says quietly, eyes narrowed on the ground. "Realized it wasn't the best plan." 

You feel your insides quivering as you take in the nervous smoothing of his hair under his baseball cap.

"I thought about it," Frankie says, breath shaky as his eyes finally sail to your face. "And I talked to Tom last week and he thinks he can get me a good price for my place." 

A beat. 

"Huh?"

"Apparently it's a seller's market, whatever that means," Frankie shrugs. "But I need to get it stage ready by next week. So we might have to leave your big stuff here for a bit so I can get the place looking presentable. You think Hilary would mind?" 

A beat passes as you try to make sense of what Frankie is saying. 

“But…Frankie why?”

"Because when I sell it I’ll have the money to start over somewhere else..." Frankie's cheeks flush as he gives you a crooked grin. "Like, with my girlfriend in Seattle." 

Confusion floods your body as he talks.

"... Seattle?"

"Yeah, they have a lot of opportunities for a pilot out there," he says as if he hasn't just dropped a huge bomb on you. "The helicopter academy, places like that. I already talked to them and they want me for an interview in two weeks."  

"You want to move to Seattle with me?" You say, needing it spelled out for you. "Like, to live. Permanently?"

"Unless we decide we want to move somewhere else," he shrugs. "Who knows where we'll be staying in five years. Maybe we'll pick up and fuck off to Italy." 

He chuckles warmly at this, his hand finding your knee and squeezing. 

You can only stare at him.

"Is Hilary making you do this?" 

"Huh?"

"She never wanted me to stay here in Florida," you say, voice rising. “Did she make you do this?”

Frankie almost looks amused. "Pip, you know I think your sister is great, but there's no chance I'd let her tell me what to do."

"So you just came up with this yourself? Uprooting your life to Seattle?" 

"Yeah." 

His eyes are gentle and soft at the edges and you realize you've read this entire situation wrong. 

And suddenly there's this great big adventure in front of you, this world that you never thought possible. A city you love a man you love. 

You think of walking hand in hand with him through Pike Place Market, stopping to look at produce, Frankie buying you flowers when you're not looking.  You think of fresh coffee sipped on your apartment balcony with Frankie behind you, one arm around your waist, chin propped over your shoulder, murmuring about how happy he is. You imagine the light patter of rain on the rooftop as you and Frankie make slow and tender love under the sheets, blanketed in the serene gray blue of an overcast sky. 

Bliss. 

But then this excitement gives way to guilt, something that you can't shake off when you look at him. Because for a minute there's that shy boy with oversized T-shirts, who lost his parents that you remember so well. 

You think of that house he grew up in, how the echoes of his past are in every nook and cranny. The bedroom where he took your virginity, the kitchen where he gave you your first kiss. 

It's asking too much of him. 

He draws closer to you on the mattress, urging you under his arm so you can burrow tightly against his side, but your mind is going everywhere. 

"If that's what you want," he rasps. "I don't want to pressure you." 

You jerk your chin up, eyes wide. 

"Of course I want you and that life, Frankie. But y-you can't give your house up for me," you stammer, guilt and excitement all building within your belly. "You can't- You grew up there. It's the only constant home you've ever known. You're saying you want to give that up? Plus the job you just got back?" 

His dimple deepens, a serene look crossing his face

"You're acting like I'll get nothing in return by doing it," Frankie murmurs. "Baby, I get a future with you. Who gives a shit about an old house?" 

Sometimes Frankie says the most amazing things, things that take your breath away, and this is no exception.

"And I can work anywhere with an airport," he assures you. "Might be nice to go work somewhere that doesn't have staff gossiping about my suspension." 

You're stunned into silence, any response, any refusal completely wiped from your mind. Frankie seems to know this, his dark eyes scanning yours.

"It's time, Pip," he says gently, warm hand squeezing yours. He lifts it to his mouth and you feel the soft plush of his lips kissing the center of your palm sweetly. "I'm done living in the past. I want a future with you full of the good memories we'll make together. A new start." 

"A new start," you echo. 

He shoots you a crooked grin, a bundle of nervous excitement. "So? What do you say?"  

Your heart squeezes with love for him. Love for the boy he was and love for the man he is now. Love for the future he's offering and the sacrifices he makes without question. 

Your glossy gaze is caught in Frankie's, smile mirroring his as you lean in for a kiss. And just as his lips are about to press against yours, your answer is given. 

"Yes." 

I am gonna miss these two HARD.

Please comment.

tag list

dividers by @saradika-graphics

taglist

@ashleyfilm

@beezusvreeland

@doblasftcisco

@harriedandharassed

@joeldjarin

@maried01

@menshipsandthesea

@peppermintfury

@severelysentientnova

@speaktothehandpeasants

@vickie5446

"Drink some more water."

"If I drink any more I'm gonna piss my pants," you grumble.

Hilary is there at your shoulder, shaking her head at you. She arrived five minutes ago smelling of cigarette smoke and mint gum. Frankie didn't re-join her in the room and you're too embarrassed to ask why. 

“So can I leave?”

"Doctor just told me you have to be here overnight for observation," she sighs, sinking into the chair next to the bed.

"Fuck."

You're in a hospital gown, propped up in bed with a cup of warm jello next to you. This whole day has been a barrage of nurses and doctors to take your vitals, blood, to give you stitches and x-rays. 

"I don't need to stay here overnight," you croak. "I'm perfectly fine."

"You don't look fine."

"It's just a sprain."

"And a possible concussion."

Your shoulders lower. "I'm sorry, Hil. As if you didn't have enough to worry about with Mom." 

Hilary gives you a rueful looks, shrugging. "I like an interesting life. Besides, Mom is fine. She was just sleeping when I left." 

You nod guilt and fatigue fighting a battle within your body. You lower the back of the bed slightly, sighing. 

"I can't believe some asshole blasted through a stop sign," she says before she clicks her tongue.  

"I don't have the best luck," you say blinking up at the ceiling. 

You can feel your sister's eyes on you, the sound of gum snapping against her teeth. 

"Did you get to tell Frankie everything or...?" She trails off.  

You shake your head. "No time."

"But you're gonna, right?"

You exhale slowly, thinking about it.

A part is terrified that maybe Frankie is seeing someone, or at least interested in someone else. That lipstick tube you found at his place still rattles around in your head.  There’s also the chance that if you tell Frankie how you really feel about him, that he'll reject you outright. Any relationship or friendship the two of you were embarking on will be decimated. 

And yet…

"Yes." 

 “What exactly are you hoping to get out of it? A relationship?”

There's a part of you that worries this confession will be a selfish act. That it will drudge up bad memories for Frankie. But you know he deserves the honesty, the clarification. He’s owed that much even if it ends with him banishing you from his life.

“Whatever he wants,” you say. “But mostly, I think I just want to apologize to him. He deserves that much.”

You watch as Hilary picks at her ragged nails with the chipped black polish.

"Did you ever think of reaching out to Frankie before? Like, in the years you weren't talking?"

You think back to the intervening years. To the times between bouts of hurt and sadness. To the moments when you craved being back in his arms and in his life. 

"Yeah." 

She looks up at you, eyes red rimmed and exhausted looking. "Why didn't you?" 

"I was too afraid." 

"Yeah. That's what I figured."  She seems more contemplative than usual and you're about to ask if she's alright when she jerks her chin up. "Justin called when I was heading over here." 

You push yourself up in the bed, stunned. "Really?"

"Yeah."

"Is this the first time he's called?"

"It's the first time I've answered." Hilary shifts in her seat, legs crossing. "He wants me to give us another shot," she mutters. 

"What did you tell him?"

"That I was open to it," she says, eyes stuck on the ragged edge of her nail. "That I missed him." 

You try not to look too hopeful. "What changed your mind?" 

Hilary glances at the door, as if she is expecting to be interrupted. A beat passes before she worries her bottom lip with her teeth. 

"I see how much you and Frankie care for each other even after all this time," she offers. "Even after the misunderstanding and the hurt." 

You're quiet, eyes bouncing between hers when she lifts her gaze your way. 

"It made me miss Justin."  

This is a new Hilary sitting next to you bed. The bricked wall behind her stare is lowered, her eyes shiny. You've never seen this reaction in her and it warms your entire body to see it. 

"Because you love him," you grin. 

She slumps back against the chair, arms crossing as she rolls her eyes aggressively at you. But there's a small tug to one side of her mouth. 

"Stop being so fucking annoying."

The two of you giggle gently before a calm silence settles. Beeps from machines and far off cries from other patients are heard faintly.

"Are you going to give him another shot?" 

Hilary shrugs. "Maybe."

She stays until the doctor comes in to give his overview, and as she leaves you inwardly beam, soul lightening at the realization that while Hilary has been coming to rescue you, maybe you've been able to impact her in some small way. 

THEN

"I miss her," Hilary murmurs, eyes half closed on a warm August night. She and Santi sit on her front porch, iced tea sweating in mason jars between their thighs, a cigarette smoldering in an old glass ashtray. 

"Me too." 

Santi is back before being deployed to a part of South America he can't tell anyone about. He and his team are after some big drug kingpin. 

But right now as he sits beside his cousin, Hilary feels like they're kids again. It reminds her of secretly smoking cigarettes at the baseball field after school; shitty ones Santi stole from his father's room. 

"I mean, even though she annoyed the shit out of me, the house just feels wrong without her," Hilary sighs. "Mom's always wasted and I should move out but rent is so high everywhere and ..."

Hilary draws her legs up to her chest, propping her chin on her knees and exhaling through her nose. Santi looks her way when she trails off. He's always been a good listener and in the years without you being at home, he and Hilary have grown a bit closer. 

"I don't know what I'm doing, Santi," she says quietly rubbing at her eyes with her knuckles. "I feel like I keep fucking up."

He shakes his head, dark hair falling into his eyes. "Hil-"

"The most lucrative thing I've done in the past five years is have a slip and fall case at Walmart that paid out."

Santi is quiet, watching her carefully. Hilary isn't like you, she doesn't enjoy affection. She's a cat personified; only interested if you ignore her. 

"I mean, I haven't even been in a functional relationship. Just one night stands or tindr." 

Santiago shrugs. "That's pretty normal." 

"For you" she says snidely. 

With anyone else she'd have to edit herself, but Santi isn't easily offended. He just smirks, chuckling a bit to himself. 

"I'm so proud of my sister starting her life over there, but sometimes it just reminds me that I'm a huge loser."

"You're not-"

"Santi, c'mon," she says through a puff of smoke. "Look at my life. I'm not exactly enviable." 

"From where I stand you're gorgeous, smart as hell, devoted to the people you love -'

"It doesn't matter," Hilary interrupts, wrinkling her nose. "Love. Stability. That kind of shit is for someone else. My sister, maybe. Not for me."

Santi leans back in his chair, eyes distant. 

"Ever thought of talking to Pip about all this?"

"No," Hilary replies. "Never." 

Hilary brings out another cigarette, puffing away thoughtfully as her cousin looks onto their empty street. He twists his neck to scan her closed body language.

"We're not the kids we were, Hilary," he says. "You can change your future." 

"Easy for you to say," Hilary scoffs, taking another puff. "Golden boy Garcia. Everyone in town talks about the big fancy job you have. How you're out there making a difference in the world." 

He has the good grace to look a little embarrassed, face pinking slightly at the cheekbones. 

"Plus Frankie flying all over, now. Where is he these days? Still in Argentina?"

"As far as I know."

Hilary just sighs, shaking her head slightly. She can't imagine a world in which she has that sort of freedom. She isn't sure she even wants it. Maybe it's just the security she craves. 

"You ever hear from him?" Santi asks, taking the cigarette and stealing a puff before handing it back her way. 

"Frankie? No. Not unless he's in town. Sometimes he'll drop by for a beer but..." She trails off, shrugging.  

"He ever talk to you about your sister?" 

Hilary's attention which had been divided between her cousin and her thoughts now focuses in on his words.  "No. Why?" 

"I think he's in love with her." 

Santi shuffles his feet against the wood porch, the toe of his boots tapping as he considers. 

"I thought they had something going on back when they were younger," Hillary acknowledges with a nod. "But I don't think there's any love left on either side, now." 

"I don't know about that," Santiago offers, eyes hooded from fatigue. 

Hilary tilts her face his way, brows rising. 

"What do you mean?" 

He shifts from the seat, standing to go lean against the porch railing. He takes his time stretching before he swivels to face her, keeping his voice low. 

"We were deployed together a few years ago and Frankie was stabbed pretty bad."

"He mentioned that, yeah. They had to medi-vac him out of there."

Santi nods. "Yep. He was losing a lot of blood, and, honestly, I was really scared for him, Hil. I thought it was over for him. But all he kept saying over and over was your sister’s name. Even when we were helping get him out of the compound, all he kept saying was that he needed her." 

A thoughtful said silence settles between the two of them, iced distant as they both take in what this could mean. 

It's no secret that Hillary is aware something happened between Frankie and her sister. The feelings that Frankie wore on his sleeve that evening he came with flowers. She doesn't know what happened between her sister and Frankie, and their relationship isn't in a good enough place for her to reach out to her sister and ask. 

Santi leaves a short while later with a wave, promising he'll try to call more often. Hilary doesn't believe him, but she smiles and waves back anyway. 

Her mom is passed out, snoring in front of the television when she comes inside. An empty gin bottle is tucked between her hip and the cushion. A smoldering cigarette rests between her nicotine stained fingers. 

Hilary quickly plucks it, extinguishing it on the nearby ashtray.

"Time for bed, mom." 

Her mother makes no attempt to wake and Hilary gives a dark groan when she sees a large damp spot on the lap of her mother's pajama pants. The sharp stench of urine hits her nose and she recoils. 

"Christ." 

This has been happening at least a few times a year now and each time is humiliating. Her mother is too drunk, unable to be roused tonight and Hilary gives up with tears in her eyes. 

"Fuck this." 

She decides to check out the new pub that opened in town a few months ago. Apparently it has cheap drinks and plenty of pool tables. When she gets there it's only half full, mostly with tourists that wear fanny packs and sunburn painted noses. 

Her phone beeps as she heads to the bar. She pulls it out; internally sighing when she sees it's her boss at the hospital. 

Need you in for a double tomorrow. Start is at six.  I'll be there. 

She pockets her phone, eyes shutting as she lowers her head. Why does it feel like she'll never escape this life? This depressing, endless-

"Hi there." 

Hilary raises her eyes at the soft voice, meeting gazes with the man behind the bar. 

He has sandy brown hair and a thick beard. His eyes are a deep hazel, one slightly lighter in color than the other. He blinks before serving a shy smile her way. "What can I get you?" 

"Whatever's on tap." 

"Be right back." 

She shrugs off her jacket, her tight tank top pulled low. Several men walk by and she recognizes them as stoners she went to high school with. 

They wear clothing stained with paint and sawdust, their hands dirty from day labor. One of them winks when he passes - Danny.  

"Here you are." 

Hilary turns back and is struck that the handsome bartender looks at her face instead of her tits when he slides her drink across the glossy bartop.It makes her linger a bit longer there instead of snagging one of the empty booths. She takes a sip, eyes trained on him. The beer is shit, but she doesn't tell him. 

"Thanks." 

"Anything else I can get ya?" He asks her eagerly "Peanuts? Pretzels?"

"Sure. Pretzels." 

She watches him move to the other end of the bar, opening a new bag and pouring them into a small bowl. He brings it back to her proudly, like a cat with a dead mouse, and again his eyes don't stray from her face. 

"Here you are." 

"Thanks." 

She takes another sip of the soapy tasting beer, hiding a grimace. She finds she doesn't want him to move, she enjoys his calm disposition. 

"Where's your accent from?"

The man chuckles. "Oh shit, you can hear one?" 

"Yeah." 

"Canada. Nova Scotia."

Canada? Hillary doesn't know much about the country, but she knows that it's supposed to be cold. 

"Why'd you move here?”

"I wanted a change of scenery I suppose. The sun helps."

"And you chose the asshole of America?"

The man laughs and when he does Hilary observes that his nose crinkles in an incredibly endearing way. He's about to say something else when a group of tourists catch his attention, requesting some drink Hilary has never heard of. 

He moves over to them and Hilary rubs at her temples, head still pounding. After her talk with Santiago, her mom and that work text she's feeling very vulnerable, and irritated because of it. She hates this feeling of being exposed. 

She should just turn her phone off and let herself fully unwind. But she can't, fingers pinching it from her pocket as she begins to type hurriedly. 

Do you ever talk to Frankie?

Her sister doesn't respond right away. It's at least 3 minutes of nursing her beer until she sees her phone light up. 

No. 

Her sister isn't exactly loquacious over text, but she's definitely not normally this brusque. This is a no-star conversation. Hilary pockets her phone and throws back her beer. On tottering heels she moves from the stool and towards the bathroom. 

She looks at herself in the mirror, sees the smudged, eyeliner and the tired expression she wears. She wipes at her makeup, trying to look presentable. On her way out she brushes against a tall guy waiting for the men's room. His familiar cologne makes her tense up. 

Danny. 

He's got a new snake tattoo around his neck, and several markings along his knuckles but she'd know him anywhere. She gives a silent bid to the universe to go unnoticed by him. But of course he spots her when their shoulders graze; an oily grin spreading over his face. He eyes her slowly, like a predator finding prey. 

"Hey Hil. Long time no see." 

"Hey, Danny." 

She goes to move past him when he blocks her way. He smiles, body language open. 

"I didn't know you came here." 

"First time." She speaks sharply, to the point, eyes not meeting his. 

She wants him to know he's inconveniencing her but he's oblivious. Instead he gives her a wolfish grin. 

"The guys and I are heading to Lovett's place after the next game."

"Cool."

"You wanna join us?"

"I'm good thanks." 

"C'mon, Hil," he entreats, fingers attempting to slide up her bare arm. "Could be fun. It sure was last time." 

She slept with Danny and a friend a few years back during a Halloween party. When he suggested a threesome she was up for it, if only to keep the good vibes going. She was buzzed from the punch and good weed her friend Penny passed around. She regretted it the next morning, but the damage was done.

Now Danny stands there staring at her with a look that makes her flesh crawl. 

Hilary cringes, steering away from his touch. "No thanks, Danny." 

Again she attempts to move around him and again he blocks her. She clenches her teeth in frustration. 

"C'mon doll." He motions to the guys around the pool table who are watching the exchange. "My friends wanna meet you. I told em all about you." 

Hilary feels her stomach sink when he says that. She can only imagine the things he's told them about her, the details of their encounter. She sneaks a glance at the men gathered around the pool table. They're smirking at one another, chalking the ends of their pool sticks. 

"You don't have to put on the sweet and innocent routine for me," Danny croons, face nearing hers. "We both know how wet you get when you're double teamed." 

Shame heats her cheeks, humiliation causing her to remain rooted in place. 

"You looked so good that night," Danny whispers against her ear. "Like you were made to take two cocks at once." 

The scent of his cheap cologne mixing with the stale alcohol restarts her body. Her hands curl into fists as her eyes pierce his face and she speaks between gritted teeth. 

"When a guy's dick is small it makes it easier. And from what I recall, you weren't exactly packing." 

The amusement is gone from Danny's face and he backs off, an ugly sneer crossing his face. 

"Fucking slut."

This doesn't faze her. She's been called worse by better. Hilary just rolls her eyes, making her way back to the bar. 

"See you, micro-dick." 

He hisses something at her back, but she's already across the floor seating herself back on the bar stool

"You're back." 

The handsome bartender looks relieved when she settles back into her stool and motions to her empty pint glass. 

"Another one?"

"Sure." 

Why not. It's only $4. With enough of them maybe she'll get a good buzz. One that ensures she can forget her shitty life for a bit. 

Like mother like daughter. 

 Her heart pounds at the interaction with Danny, face warm when she hears the murmurs and ugly chuckles coming from the pool table.

The Canadian bartender brings her back another pint glass and stands looking at her for a moment too long. Like he’s trying to memorize it.

"You were gonna tell me why you picked Florida," Hilary prompts him, feeling the cool beer flood her mouth. 

He leans onto his forearm, a playful smirk on his face. "I kinda just threw a dart at a map." 

"You fucking didn't." 

He laughs, and his nose scrunches again. Hilary grins at the sight of it. 

"I did. I'm kind of a nomad. I like going from place to place."

"Sounds nice ... Kinda."

"Not a traveler?" He asks, starting to wipe down the nearby pint glasses. 

Hilary ponders this. If anything, she should want to travel the world, to move from place to place. But there's something about being settled in one spot that makes her feel safe. 

"I like being in one spot, I think." 

"Mhm." 

She watches as he continues to dry the pint glasses, a small little smile tugged to one corner of his mouth. He smells good, like fresh soap and clean laundry. 

"So you didn't follow some girlfriend out here then?" She says lightly, eyes tracing over his biceps. 

"Nope. No girlfriend. Haven't had one of those in years." He looks at her with seriousness. "How about you?"

"Nope, never had a girlfriend," she quips.

He laughs, a rich, echoing sound. "I meant boyfriend... Husband..." He trails off and Hilary is delighted to see his face flushing.

"Nope. Haven't had one of those in a long time either,” she murmurs before taking another long sip. This beer is weak. She'll need at least four to even hope for a trace of a buzz. 

The two share a small smile before several voices call over to him from the far end of the bar. 

"Yo, can we get some actual service?" 

"Shit. Sorry." 

He excuses himself with a look of regret before moving his way towards them. Hilary scratches at the coaster under her glass and looks at her phone as it beeps. She sighs when she sees her sister's text. 

Why are you asking me about Frankie?  No reason. Santi brought him up and it made me think of you.  Ok.  How's Mom?

This is usually the topic of conversation Hilary and her sister dance around. Pip likes to check in over text, and Hillary thinks it's because it makes her feel as if she's doing her daughterly duty. 

She's fine. Same as always. You? Got a new apartment. Two bedrooms and a view of the needle.

Hilary reads the question she'll never ask; if she'll be in the neighborhood. Two bedrooms means a guest room for visitors. 

Thoughts of going to Pip's Seattle home and seeing everything that Hilary could never hope to accomplish doesn't sit well with her. 

Hilary stares at the message for several moments before she heads outside for a smoke. She needs to clear her head. 

The rough brick bites into her jeans as she leans against the building, lighting her cigarette and looking into the parking lot.She looks at the message from her sister again before she pops the cigarette into the corner of her mouth, texting back quickly. 

Cool. 

She watches a couple moving from the pub towards the car. They laugh together, their bodies close, arms tangled. She feels a strange pain of longing, not for the sex they'll inevitably have, but for the closeness, the ability to be with another person and feel completely safe. 

"Can I bum one?" 

Hilary looks over her shoulder to see the Canadian bartender headed her way, hands in his jean pockets. 

"Don't you have to work?"

"I'm on break." 

Hilary digs into her purse, producing a cigarette and her lighter, handing it his way. He takes them with thanks, popping the cigarette into his mouth and lighting it. The end flares orange in the darkness. 

"Don't worry I wasn't running out on my tab," she murmurs, scanning his large forearms covertly as he returns her lighter. 

He removes the cigarette and blows a tendril of smoke away from her. 

"Already settled." 

Hilary stiffens, eyes casting to the front door of the pub where inside guys like Danny and his friends are playing pool. Undoubtedly he did it to fuck with her.  

"I'll pay it myself. You can refund him." 

"Him?"

She tilts her head in the direction of the pub with a scowl. "The guy with the neck tattoo." 

"He didn't pay for your drinks." 

"Who did?" 

The man swallows, voice a little quieter. "Uh, I did." 

She narrows her eyes. "Why would you do that?" 

He continues twisting his cigarette. "Dunno. Felt like it." 

Hilary doesn't like stuff like this: men who pay to play. Ones who think that once the drinks are bought she owes them something in return. 

"I'm not going to fuck you just because you bought me some shitty beer," Hilary snaps, exhausted from the day, from her life, from gross men. "I'm not some whore-"

"Whoa, whoa," the man replies, hands held up, palms facing her. "That is not... That's not what that was." 

"What was it then?" 

"You just seemed like you were having a hard night," the guy shrugs. "Guess I wanted to cheer you up." He pauses, blinking slowly as Hilary stares at him. "You really think our beer is shitty?" 

A soft, surprised huff escapes her at the question and the man seems delighted by her response. Her anger ebbs in the face of his levity, her shoulders lowering.

"What's your name?" She asks after a beat.

"Justin. Nice to meet you," he says, extending his hand to shake hers. She stares at it a moment before moving towards him. 

His brows rise when her fingers move to grip the back of his neck, dragging his mouth to hers and kissing him fiercely. His hands rest respectfully on her hips, a small gasp escaping him when she begins licking into his mouth. The sound thrills her. 

He tastes like Guinness, that sweet rich chocolate aftertaste making her heady. And when she pulls back from him, he's staring at her with a dazed, half smile as if he's drunk on her. 

She grins up at him, feeling her heart trip. 

"I'm Hilary." 

The following morning the doctor confirms that you don't have a concussion; the wound on your head is healing just fine and you can be discharged as soon as you’re dressed. As you’re leaving he hands you a prescription for painkillers and tells you that you're good to get back to life.

That's exactly what you plan on doing. 

You feel lucky in so many ways. That crash could have ended much worse. That is the thought which takes your breath away. You could have gone to the grave never letting Frankie know the truth. Never letting him know you never stopped loving him.

When you return home via cab the first thing you do is throw yourself into the shower and scrub every inch of hospital air off of you. 

Shortly after, with Rosalita at your side, you kiss your mother's weathered brow, looking at her serene face as she rests in bed. The sunlight is streaming over her face, casting her in a warm marigold glow. 

Rosalita’s weathered hands come to rub at your back in soothing circles. “I am so glad you are safe."

"Me too." 

You feel safer being in this room with Rosalita. You feel emboldened enough to reach forward and squeeze your mother’s limp fingers resting on her coverlet.  You look over at Rosalita as you do this, eyes worried. 

"She's doing okay?"

"Yes."

Your mother twitches slightly in her sleep, fingers curling around yours for a fraction. You smile at her, liking to imagine that she's giving her own kind of confirmation.  

Afterwards you move into the kitchen to find Hilary chopping veggies before dumping them into a fragrant and bubbling crock pot. 

"Justin will be here tomorrow," Hilary informs you casually when she sees you watching. "He likes chili." 

You lean against the door frame, trying not to look like the cat who got the cream. 

"He does, does he?"

"Yes," she replies primly, ignoring the grin you shoot her.

"Good," you answer with sincerity. "I'm looking forward to meeting him." 

"He's looking forward to meeting you too," she says, starting to dice the onions. 

Her response is uncharacteristically warm, even sincere. You wonder if Justin is actually excited to meet you. In the end it doesn't matter. Does it? You're happy to see your sister happy. A chirp sounds on your phone, an alert. 

"My cab is here."

Hillary pauses and looks up from the cutting board, her kohl-rimmed eyes slanted your way. 

"Frankie?"

You nod, taken aback by the toothy smile she sends you. 

"Finally."

THEN

It's late and Frankie's house is pitch-black. The alarm clock beside the bed ticks. The tap in the kitchen drips slowly like it always has. 

Frankie lies on his belly with his arm slung over your middle. His face is half smudged into his pillow, his pouty lips slightly parted. You rest facing the ceiling, having just woken up desperate for a glass of water. 

The two of you had a great afternoon of talking and having fantastic sex and talking some more. It seems like you two can't stop finding things to talk about. At home things are so quiet with Hilary and her monosyllabic way of speaking and your mom's absence.

But here with Frankie his house is full of words and laughing. He makes noise when he cooks, pots and pans banging, the radio playing in the background, his humming when he washes the dishes. And even when the two of you do find yourself in quiet moments, it's rarely uncomfortable. Sitting, staring at the stars, playing cards, passively watching television, all feels comfortable.  

It's just hard when you know you should leave for home. When the hour is late and you don't want to be caught by your mom. You hate leaving because Frankie gets this pinched look on his face; this raw expression of naked anxiety. 

Despite being an independent guy, Frankie doesn't want to be left alone here. You wonder if it's the ghost of his parents in every room or the way the house feels so oppressive in its stillness. Whatever it is, you find yourself sleeping over most nights. Preening under the relieved smile he gives you, snuggling against his chest, wrapped tightly in strong arms, his husky voice at your temple. 

"Night, baby." 

You always rush home before dawn, crawling back through your bedroom window just in time to exit for breakfast. You think Hilary might suspect, but if she does she never rats you out. 

You watch Frankie a little longer this evening, his golden skin painted silver in the moonlight. He looks so innocent like this, so sweet. You smile, fingers tracing along his cheek until he flinches and your recoil.

"Don't leave," he mumbles.

You frown in confusion before you realize he's still asleep and must be dreaming. His leg twitches under the sheets, brows saddling. 

"Pip," he whispers worriedly. His arm wraps tighter around your middle.  

"I'm here," you whisper, pressing a soft kiss to his mouth. "I'm right here, baby."

You've never called him baby to his face. Always too shy, even though it's passed his lips several times before. 

"Don't.... "' he groans, eyelids twitching. "Just stay...."

"I am staying," You assure him, peppering his face with light kisses. "I'm not going anywhere." 

He settles immediately, brow smoothed, worry fleeing from his handsome face. He goes slack with deeper sleep, his breathing slow once more. You kiss his eyelids lightly, snuggling tighter against him. You watch him sleep, your heart swelling in affection. 

"I'll always be here, Frankie." 

Its late afternoon when you arrive at Frankie's and despite knowing exactly what you want to say, you're still shaking as you walk up the steps to his house.  You knock with a trembling fist, breathing heavily through your nose. You wait a minute.

Then two. 

Where is he? 

It's then that you turn to scan the front yard and notice his truck isn't in the driveway. 

He's not home. 

Crestfallen, you give a small cry, head bowed against his front door. Suddenly insecure thoughts go through your head. 

He's with someone else. A woman. One who didn't inadvertently break his heart. The one who left the lipstick tube. 

Or maybe he's hurt. He's been in an accident and you'll never see him again. 

Or he's g-

"Pip?"

Your heart lurches as you hear his familiar raspy murmur, spinning around to see Frankie exiting his truck. In your fearful delirium you hadn't even heard him pull up.

"Frankie," you manage in a choked whisper. 

He walks over to you quickly, keys in hand, a worried look on his handsome face. He scans your face, eyes bouncing. "Are you okay?"

"You weren't home," you murmur by way of explanation. 

"I was at the flight school," he says. He readjusts his hair under his hat without thought, a trait you've always loved, will always love. 

"Flight school?"

"First day back. I'm officially teaching again."  

"That's amazing," you say with a beam. Pride fills you. "I'm so glad." 

Frankie steps closer, so tall you have to tilt your head up. "Pip, why are you here? Is it your mom?" 

"No. No it's..." You realize you don't want to have this talk here on his doorstep. "Do you have a minute?" 

"Of course."

Frankie isn't expecting you there on his doorstep. He assumed Hilary would have texted him when you got out of the hospital. He wanted to be there for you, maybe even bring you flowers. But now you're here and you look so anxious that it makes his guts churn. He opens the door but before he can usher you inside he feels your fingers move to gingerly rest on top of his forearm. 

"Why didn't you stay that day?"

"When I took you to the hospital?"

You nod, looking anxiously up at him. Frankie blinks, his hand still resting on the doorknob. 

"Because Hilary wanted to stay with you and Rosalita wasn't able to come to your mom's right away, so I went and stayed with your mom until she got there." 

You take a deep, steadying breath. You're satisfied with his answer, he thinks.

"Is that what you needed to talk about?"

"No. It's something else," you inform him, mouth thinned. "It's important."

"More important than going home to rest?"

"Yes." 

He swings the door open widely, large hand raised to gesture for you to walk inside but you're already moving past him into the house. 

He watches the way you move through his home as if it's second nature, as if you always belonged here. Longing hits him strong and acute as he thinks of you bleeding in his truck, at the thought he could have lost you in a completely different and much more awful way. 

He follows you to the living room, watching as you pace a moment. Your eyes move to his fireplace several times before you give a small sigh and march over to it. He watches curiously as you reach for a small gold tube he's never noticed before. You look at it for several moments before you turn around to look Frankie square in the eye. 

"I need to know if you're seeing someone." Your breathing is elevated, eyes bright. "Even if it's casual." 

Frankie steps closer to you, puzzled."What?" 

"Are you seeing anyone?"

Frankie is at a loss. None of what you're saying makes any sense. He watches your feet shuffling along his carpet, anxiously awaiting his answer. 

"That's what you came over to ask me?"

You shake your head before brandishing the tube for his inspection, fingers shaking.  

"Whose lipstick is this?" 

Frankie squints at the slender tube between your shaking fingers. He didn't even realize it was lipstick. And you got it from his fireplace mantle?

"No clue," Frankie finally says with a shrug.

"It's been here a long time," you say, holding your breath. 

Frankie thinks back to any group gatherings he's had here in the past few months. 

"One of Santi's girls probably left it here after poker night. I'm always finding their shit here." 

"Really?"

"Really. Last time I found an earring by my sink."

“So you’re not seeing anyone?”

“No.”

He watches relief bloom on your face. The sight makes his heart trip delightedly. Even with a bandaged head you're still luminous. 

"That's...good," you say almost to yourself as you place the tube back onto the mantle. “That's really good.”

"Why?" Frankie asks lightly. 

You pause before suddenly looking away shyly, lashes lowered like you're embarrassed. 

"I thought you might be casually seeing someone." 

You are embarrassed. Frankie feels the hitch to one corner of his mouth. 

"Were you jealous or something?"

It's said with levity, but he's not joking, he's desperately hoping. Because if you're jealous that means something. 

You give him a challenging look that he knows too well. He's about to be told in no uncertain terms that you're never jealous. That you had no reason to be. But then you straighten, head held high. 

"Yes. I was jealous about you being with someone else."  

He's embarrassed at how quickly his pulse quickens. His insides feel hot, body on fire for you. 

"You were huh?" He's smiling wider now, dimple popping. "Thought you hated me," he says with another light chuckle. 

His voice is too breathless when he says it, embarrassing himself. He tells himself it's just an observation about your past animosity. But he's suddenly nervous because you don't seem angry or defensive like he's used to. You're looking at him in a completely new way, soft eyes and open body language. 

"I never hated you," you finally say with a trembling chin. "Even when I wanted to."

The amusement flees from his handsome face, leaving only open curiosity. "No?" 

You scan his eyes before motioning to the couch. You give a soft grunt as you drop onto a cushion, looking utterly exhausted. 

He joins you on the couch cushion, big hand spanning over your kneecap and squeezing gently. He can't help it; he needs to touch you in some way. When you don't pull away he simply rests it there. 

"Frankie... I-"

His heart is thumping steadily, but it picks up its tempo when you look up at him with such sad eyes. "Pip what's wrong?"

You don't look away from him, even though you seem to be in some sort of internal anguish. It makes him long to pull you into his arms, but he remembered what happened last time. How you ran from him and he doesn't want to put that pressure on you. 

"You've been visiting my mom for months. Cooking and cleaning and spending time with her." 

Frankie feels his breathing stutter, thrown at the sudden change in topic. 

Did Hilary tell you? Or maybe your mom?

He supposes he was just hoping the secret would remain one. He thought maybe your mom might say something, unable to remember it wasn't meant to be shared. At the time it hadn't seemed like a big deal, but then again Frankie never imagined you and he would be getting closer this trip. 

"Uh, yeah," he mutters.

"Why did you do it?"

His face goes pink; he can feel the heat crawling up his throat. He rubs at the back of his neck, voice quieter. 

"I was on suspension because of the coke," he mutters, "I had all this extra time on my hands and Santi and Hilary mentioned about your mom and I figured it was a no-brainer. I always liked your mom, she was always nice to me."

You stare at him as you digest what he's telling you. 

"You did that even after I treated you so horribly for so long?" You whisper, eye line wet. 

"Not your mom's fault." 

Frankie wonders why all of this is coming out. Was it the accident? Maybe you do have a concussion after all. 

"Why didn't you tell me?" 

"We weren't really talking, Pip," he says to his feet. "I mean, until this visit I don't remember the last time we had a civil conversation." 

Before Travis' party, he thinks bitterly. Before everything was ruined. 

He releases your knee, moving to rest against the back cushion of the couch. You nod, blinking the tears away as quickly as possible. Frankie stares at you for a long time, body tensed.  

"I tried reaching out to you before," Frankie admits. "Not about your mom, but to check in." 

He feels like this is a time for confessions, so he doesn't hesitate in sharing this. He waits patiently for you to formulate your response. 

"When?" 

"Around your graduation I tried calling your dorm but some guy answered," he mutters. "And you were in the background talking about going to bed..."

You flinch, clearly recalling the moment. 

"That was just some guy from a party my roommates threw. I asked him to sleep over-"

"I don't need to hear this-" Frankie interrupts. He doesn't want to know the details. Hearing this is just making him feel worse. 

"But I couldn't do anything with him," you finish in a rush as you look up at him with wide imploring eyes. "I couldn't because I just kept thinking about you, Frankie." 

Now Frankie is thrown, eyes snapping to focus on your face. You look sincere, but that's not possible. 

"What?"

"Every time he touched me all I could think about was how it felt when you touched me. And I realized how he felt wrong when you always felt right.” 

Frankie's taken aback by your candor. But also uncomfortable. You don't know what this conversation is doing to him. Your eyes go impossibly soft at the edges, matching the gentle murmur of your voice.

"It's always been you, Frankie." 

Now he feels cold seeping into his bones, his expressive face gone neutral. 

"Not always, Pip."

He goes to stand, but you cling to his forearm, wrapping your own arms around his elbow, keeping him in place on the sofa next to you. 

"Wait! That's what I'm trying to explain," you beseech him. "Please, Frankie, you have to listen. That night at Travis' party-"

"Stop, please," he says with a pang in his chest because in the years that followed your betrayal, he was plagued with the question of why you did what you did. 

He always wanted to know why your cruelty had reared Its ugly head that night. But now affronted with the choice to hear it, he suddenly doesn't want to. He doesn't want to go back to that ugly time. He doesn't want to remember another man's hands on you. 

Again he tries to pull away from you but you still haven't let go of his arm, you're pressed up so close to him he can smell the floral of your shampoo. And he's weak because he can barely move in the face of your nearness. 

"Frankie, please, just sit there and don't talk for five minutes. No, not even five. Just two." 

He watches the shaky breath you take in, voice coming out in a rush and he relaxes back, dark eyes narrowed on you. He'll hear you out. 

"That night at Travis' party I thought I saw you and Christy having sex in his parents room." 

The wind is knocked from him. "What?"

“You remember you told me Travis’ parent had a waterbed? That you wanted me to meet you up there?”

“Yeah.”

"Well I went up there and I see these two people, Christy and some guy. They were going at it and I couldn't see the guys face but I could see he was wearing your hat."

At this you make a vague motion to the Standard Oil cap Frankie now wears. Absently he touches the brim, eyes wide as your voice hitches, going low.

"I just... I assumed the worst."

Frankie is quiet, his body gone still. His ears are ringing. Something feels like it's taking over his body, something that protects him when he feels his most vulnerable. 

"Is that why you..." Frankie flinches. "You kissed him?"

"Yes."

Your face drops to your hands as you shake your head. Mortification is clear in your body language. 

"I feel so stupid. I don't know how I could have ever thought you would do that to me." 

"So all this time..." Frankie whispers, the puzzle pieces connecting. "You thought I cheated on you that night and that's why you've been so cold to me since then."

"Yes." 

"So you didn't hate me all this time," he says slowly, he needs to understand fully, he needs the clarity. 

You shake your head slowly from side to side, gaze not leaving his. 

"I couldn't ever hate you, Frankie," you admit in a shaky voice. "I was in love with you."

Frankie thinks back to his time in service, when the flash bangs would go off and leave the room and his ears ringing. This moment is similar to that, that same slightly unreal sensation that makes him feel off-balance. 

"You loved me," he whispers. 

"So deeply that when I thought you cheated on me I was devastated," you say with a flinch. "I was heartbroken."

He remains gaping at you. 

"You loved me," Frankie repeats quietly. 

"Yes." Your voice is trembling. "You're the only man I've ever truly felt like myself around. No one compared to you, even at their best."

You hear the small hitch to his breath, but you're unable to stop. 

"I've always loved you and I'm so sorry for what I did. For never talking to you. For Travis. And even though I know you can't love me after how I've treated you all this time, I just needed to tell you how much you mean to me. I need you to know I always have and always will love you."  

There, the final truth is laid at his feet and Frankie knows he needs to say something, but his body and brain aren't in agreement. Instead he lurches from the sofa, shaking off your loosening grip. He can't even look at you right now. 

He moves from the room in a hurry, feet carrying him to the bedroom, your watery gaze on his back. 

You watch as Frankie moves from you and into the bedroom, the pain in his face unbearable. But that's nothing compared to the brutal stab in your sternum at his rejection. 

I’m too late.

You whimper, eyes closing as tears rush down your cheeks. You're so fucking tired of crying but you can't stop. 

You can hear rustling in his bedroom, drawers being opened. A sickening drop goes to your stomach as you think of him packing up your hat and telling you to leave his home. Erasing every part of you that existed here. 

You're confused when he reappears still wearing his hat and a tense look on his face. In his hand is a yellowed envelope that he extends your way, eyes trained on your face as you stare at it. 

You stand, wiping your eyes with the back of your arm. "What is this?" 

"It was the first letter I was going to send you when I left back for basic." He exhales slowly as he passes it to you. "I wrote it before the party. I wanted to give it to you right before I left."

"Why?" 

"Remember you were giving me shit about writing you bad letters the last time? I figured I'd start out with a really good one." 

You hold the envelope in front of you, tracing your fingertip along the scrawl of your name over the front. "You kept it?"

He rubs the back of his neck, suddenly shy. "Felt weird to throw away." 

You scan his face. "Do you want me to read it?"

"Not right now." 

"Okay." You blink up at him. "Why not now?"

"Because the things in that letter are the same things I've wanted to tell you for years."  He steps forward and you watch as his biceps curl, big warm hands cupping your cheeks. "But I want to say them to your face first."

His dark eyes trail along your face, transfixed. Like he's finding new details he'll commit to memory. Your hands fly to his wrists, holding loosely as you marvel up at him.

"You are the most singular woman I've ever met," he says. "You're funny and sexy and thoughtful. You're kind and you're brave even though you don't believe it." 

Shame floods you at the praise. After everything you’ve put him through?

"Frankie, no," you say shaking your head. "I'm horrible." 

Frankie ducks his head, finding your eyes, his own are warm and honeyed. 

"You gave a boy you didn't know a hat, just because you thought it would make him feel better," he says, stroking your cheek with his thumb. "You scaled a tree to save his kite; you stayed with him when he lost his parents even after everyone left."

Tears spill over your cheeks when his voice gets thick with emotion. 

"One thing I didn't put in the letter is that I love you," he says, raspy voice wavering as his dark eyes scan yours. "I have loved you for years and years and I'm going to keep loving you until the day I die and I needed to tell you that to your face."

Your eyes glisten as your hand finds your sternum, flattening your palm over it as you try to quell the thunder of your heartbeat. 

"You loved me back then?"

"Of course I did," he says through a wet chuckle. He brushes the hair back from your damp eyes. "How could I not?" 

"Because I'm stubborn and I jumped to the wrong conclusion and-"

Your eyes blink brightly up at him, trying not to cry when you see his eyes are shiny. 

"You trusted me to save you from that tree. To carry you when you were hurt," he says in that familiar low rasp. "You gave me your first kiss. Your first time. You've done nothing but show me love and trust from the first moment we met. How could I not love you? How could I love anyone else?"

And Frankie Morales, the boy who didn't even cry at his parent’s funeral suddenly can't hold his tears back from you. They slide down his face no matter how much he tries to blink them away. 

"I'm sorry," you choke out at the sight of them. "I'm so sorry, Frankie,” you hiccup a cry. "We had this perfect, beautiful thing and I ruined it." 

"Oh, baby, I-" he cuts himself off, strong arms pulling you into him.

You sob brokenly against his throat, arms tightly gripping him like he's the guiding light in a storm. You sob for the years missed. For birthdays and Christmases you didn't spend together. For lazy mornings in bed and his shitty French toast you never experienced. For the years of amazing sex and time spent laughing you were robbed of.  

And when you're finally finished crying, when your body feels it might turn to dust, you realize Frankie's still rocking you in his arms, his mouth pressed to your hairline. 

"You didn't ruin anything," he assures you in a rumble you can feel through his shirt. "I'm here. You're here. We're here together. We got here." 

Your arms are sealed around his waist, fingers lacing at the base of his spine. You have this crazy thought that if you don't hold him tightly, if you don't cling to him, he'll float away, gone forever. 

"I don't want you to leave," you whisper brokenly into his shoulder. Your chin is quivering when you speak. 

He makes a noise in his throat, sadness? Disbelief? Whatever it is, he holds you closer, like he's trying to physically move the love from his body to yours. 

"You're the love of my life," Frankie says in a hoarse voice. "And I'm never leaving you again."  

Those words break through the terrified crystallization of your fears, sending the shards falling away, forgotten. Frankie is the warmth, the sun melting them until you're freed from their oppressive hold. 

You feel the motion of him removing his hat, tossing it onto the coffee table. You raise your face to his and your lips are parted to reply to him when Frankie's plump mouth presses to yours. 

You kiss tenderly, lips damp, tongues searching. It's like the kiss from not so long ago but magnified now that your feelings have been shared. And it's just right. That same sensation of homecoming and safety and desire all wrapped up in one. The kiss that every other was compared to. 

"I missed you," Frankie murmurs between sighs, eyes closed. "I never stopped." 

"I never stopped loving you, Frankie." 

Your mouths meet again. Desire surges through you, arms scrabbling to wrap around his neck, mouths kissing furiously as his banded arms hold you against him. Your core pulses with a deep need as the kissing intensifies.

You coo when Frankie begins lowering you both to the couch, his heavy body resting lightly over yours.  He groans against your jaw, voice husky between tender nibbles and wet kisses against your neck.  

"You still smell the same." 

You feel the deep grind of his pelvis against yours and you moan into his mouth. It seems to echo like a plucked violin string, plaintive and mournful.  

"I need you," you murmur, tongue coming to flick gently under his upper lip. The intention is clear, your body melded to his. 

Frankie's eyes are like glossy black marbles when he pulls back. He's flushed; his dark curls have fallen into his forehead. He's never looked sexier. 

"You might be disappointed," he says, thumb grazing your jaw. "I was recently told I have a dad bod that peaked in basic."

Frankie laughs lightly, a tinge of insecurity at the edges.  

You hate that you put it there. 

You push him back slightly so that you can sit up, eyes dragging around his handsome face. 

"You know why I said that?" 

He shakes his head, jaw tensing in embarrassment. You move off the couch, dragging him to a stand before your hands go to the hem of his t-shirt, eyes heavy as you gaze at him. 

"I said that because Benny caught me staring at you that day at the beach," you admit, helping to peel the T-shirt from his body. "And I was staring because you looked so fucking good." 

Frankie flushes delightedly at this, hair fluffed from the removal of his t-shirt and hat. Your ankles cross as you move a slow circle around his body, fingers trailing over his pectorals, feeling the rise of goose flesh under the pads of your fingers. 

"You were standing there with no shirt, the sun on your skin," you recall with a sigh. "And I was hypnotized." 

You come to stand in front of him once more and Frankie watches you take in his broad, muscled shoulders, the thick biceps and tensed belly. 

"Because you're still so perfect," you whisper in quiet awe. 

He gives a shy shake of his head, about to speak, to deny this, when your finger slowly presses against those plump lips you adore, urging him to remain silent. You want to show him that you're not just saying this. That your desire has not waned in the slightest. That in your opinion he's only gotten more attractive, more masculine, more sensual.  

You lean forward and kiss his collarbone, just because you can. Then you move to the base of his elegant neck. His skin is warm; he smells the same as he always has. Old spice, laundry, fresh sweat. 

Frankie.

He makes a soft purring noise in the back of his throat, head tilting back to give you better access. Your nose glides along his throat, inhaling both him and the memories of your combined youth. You suck a soft bruise into the skin just below his jaw and are rewarded with a deep, reverberating groan. 

You love every part of him, from his body to his mind. His compassion and even his temper. You love it all because it is all of him, every piece of him a gift you want to cherish properly. 

You kiss down his warm torso, body trembling under your lips. He's so eager, so needy. You feel it pressed against your belly as you descend. 

Your lips move over the firm swell of his belly, leading a trail of kisses to the top of his hips. You both shiver excitedly when your lips move lower, to where his bronzed flesh disappears under his jeans. 

Your eyes shift now from his skin and back to his face. He's breathing through his mouth, eyes trained on you when you slowly sink to your knees, hands on his belt buckle. You unhook the button of his jeans, drawing down the tongue of the zipper without thought. 

He goes to speak, but you're already bringing him out of his boxers and into your waiting palm. He's warm, thick and throbbing in your eager hand.

"So pretty," you say looking at it with devotion as you begin to stroke slowly. "I almost forgot how pretty."

He hisses as you thumb the damp slit. His fingers reach out to graze your cheek, thumb wiping away a stray tear you didn't even know was there. Your eyes are on his, glued, fascinated. 

"I never forgot how pretty," he murmurs.

The heat of his gaze and the touch of his fingers on your cheek make you feel shy. You remind yourself to stay on task when his eyes go unfocused. 

You stroke slowly, eyes on his, watching when those dark lashes begin to flutter before squeezing shut. 

"You're shaking, Morales," you tease, your movements increasing in pace, watching the pleasurable disbelief cross his face. 

His brows saddle as you tighten your fingers upon your descent, enthralled to see how his hips buck in response before his legs wobble. 

"Can you blame me?" he grunts, hands at his side in useless fists. 

You gaze up at him, tongue coming to lick the rosy head of his cock, delighted when it twitches at the contact. 

"Jesus, Pip," he groans, eyes pitched black. 

You continue smirking as you take a long, languid lick along the underside of him, never breaking eye contact. He stares down at you in awe, fingers twitching. 

You lean forward, lips parting as you take the head of his cock into your scorching mouth.He makes a muffled choking noise, one hand continuing to cup your cheek, feeling the architecture of your jaw as you widen your mouth to accommodate him. 

His eyelids flutter again as you flatten your tongue, tasting every inch you urge him to feed himself further into your mouth. 

"Baby, you're killing me."

You hide a grin as his head tilts down again, chin propped on his sternum so he can watch everything you're doing. 

He shudders as you swirl your tongue around the ridge of the head, savoring the salt and scent of him. He groans under his breath, fingers coming to tangle in your hair and you whine around him at the pleasure his grip sends skittering through your body. 

"God, look at you," Frankie groans, mouth trembling. "Still the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."

You increase the suction, tongue flickering against the sensitive underside in the way you can remember he loves. He arches his back, his hips canting instinctively again before he stops himself. 

"Wait, Pip, wait," he whispers, his voice ragged and broken.

You pull off of him in confusion when he begins to curl over, hands warmly squeezing over yours. You give a look of concern up at him which is wiped away you see the open need in his expression. 

"I need to feel you first." 

You give a small giggle of surprise as he reaches down, pulling you into his strong arms as if you weigh nothing. He holds you in a bridal carry as his mouth finds yours, kissing you deeply. 

"Can we keep going in bed?" He rasps against your lips. "Like that first time?" 

You beam at him, arms wrapping around his neck as he moves to walk you both over the threshold of his childhood bedroom. 

"Yes."

Hours later the two of you sweaty and grinning under the covers. Its dark now, both of you lost track of time after your third orgasm. The window is cracked open a fraction to let the night air in. 

"Like we never skipped a beat," you pant, burrowing against him. 

"I dunno about that," Frankie says, flushed and impossibly happy as he kisses your forehead. "I feel like it was even better than before." 

"Yeah?"

"I mean, it was pretty amazing when we were kids but this? Next level."

You give a soft laugh of surprise. "Next level." 

"Mhm." 

"You're right," you agree after a moment's sincere consideration.   

"Finally, you admit I'm right about something," he teases. The corners of his mouth curve into a gentle smile, the kind he saves just for you. 

"Don't get too used to it." 

You press a kiss to his chest, letting the moonlight paint his golden skin silver. The window is slightly ajar, the sound of cicadas chirping in the distance. 

Despite the satisfaction and relief of knowing Frankie feels the same way about you, an ache remains under your ribcage, prompting Frankie to tap your chin gently with the crook of his forefinger.

"What is it, baby?" 

"How can you forgive me so easily?" You whisper, eyes limpid. 

"I'm not big on keeping score," he shrugs, smiling indulgently at you. "And you're here in my arms. I don't need to over think it." 

You grin back unsteadily at first; unsure if this free flowing kindness is to be believed. But again your brows saddle.

"We could have been like this the whole time," You say, brushing the curls from his face. "I just think about the years we lost-"

"We're here now," he interrupts before you can begin any further self-flagellation. "And that's all that matters." 

You bury your face in his neck, happy tears wetting his skin. His lips find yours once more and for a glorious moment it feels like nothing bad will ever happen again. All that exists is joy and togetherness and safety here in the harbor of Frankie Morales strong arms. 

Beep.

Beep. 

Your phone beeps and vibrates, drawing your attention over to the side of the bed. Your reach down to retrieve it from the back pocket of your denim cut offs. 

Frankie watches you read the text, brows knitted when you give a soft gasp. He jerks up in bed when you hurriedly start to get dressed. 

"Baby, what is it?" 

"My mom," you say with a crazed look in your eyes. "We need to get back right away." 

He doesn't hesitate, simply tugs on his jeans, T-shirt and hat before he ushers you into his truck. He holds your hand the entire way from the truck and across the threshold of your childhood home. 

"Hey," Hilary says in a quiet voice as you both enter the house. Her eyes are red-rimmed, face blotchy. But when her eyes move between the two of you and your linked hands, you see a softness to her expression. 

"About damn time, Fish." 

Frankie ducks his head shyly in reply. 

For a strange moment you feel like this is all a dream. Frankie, Hilary, your mom. Like the world is hazy and not quite solid under your feet. 

Rosalita is there at the doorframe of your mother's room. Her eyes are wet when she looks between your sister and you. 

"It is time, my dears." 

She doesn't say anything more, she simply steps back into your mother's room. 

Frankie squeezes your hand gently and you drop it only so that you can take Hilary's. Her fingers wrap tightly around yours as you feel Frankie's warmth at your back. 

"I'll be in the kitchen if you need me" Frankie murmurs gently, kissing your cheek and moving back into the other room. 

You can hear the quiet, agonized breathing of your mother and the sound terrifies you into taking a step back. Hilary notices, the big sister in her causing you both to stop just outside the door. 

"I can give her a message from you if you don't want to come in" Hilary offers.

Up close you can see her eyes are swollen. You see the fatigue etched into the lines around her eyes and mouth. You see the sister that has always protected you, even when you didn't realize it. 

But she doesn't need to do that anymore. 

"I'm okay." 

You enter into the room with Hilary, the two of you coming to stand at the side of the bed, both staring down at the placid face of your mother.  Her rasping breath rattles in her narrow chest, her eyes closed, mouth parted. 

You watch as Hilary leans forward and presses a kiss to her forehead before her mouth moves to your mother's ear and she whispers something. You'll never know what she said that night, and you'll never ask. 

When she rights herself, you can see the tears that have flooded her face. She wipes them away before looking at you expectantly. 

And despite the fear you've felt at being left alone with your mother, suddenly, it's all you want. A peaceful send-off. 

"Can I have a minute alone with her?" You ask your sister quietly. 

Hillary's surprised, but she nods."Of course."

She squeezes your shoulder as she leaves, closing the door gently behind she and Rosalita. 

You look back to see your mother's breathing is labored, her face waxen. And this is when you want to leave, to rush from the room where it's bright and safe. You want to escape the hard things, just like when you flew to Seattle, when you started over, when you left. 

But as you take your mother's hand for what will be the last time; you do it because for once, you are choosing to stay.

Me when Pip and Frankie reunited

dividers by @saradika-graphics

taglist

@ashleyfilm

@beezusvreeland

@doblasftcisco

@harriedandharassed

@joeldjarin

@maried01

@menshipsandthesea

@peppermintfury

@severelysentientnova

@speaktothehandpeasants

@vickie5446

THEN

Frankie's dad loves to slap the back of his head. Whether it's in jest or disgust, Frankie can usually anticipate a sharp sting at the base of his scalp. 

He was sitting there eating cereal in the kitchen when the sharp snap came. He yelped, hand going to rub the sore spot. 

His father stands next to the table, posture rigid. He has a buzz cut, square jaw chiselled, his shave as close to smooth as possible. 

Frankie touches the brim of his hat as he pops it on anxiously. It's safer that way - his father doesn't usually hit him upside the head when the hat is on. 

"You can't bring that with you to base," Frankie's dad mutters, plopping his heavy body at the end of the table. "No personal items." 

"I know. I'm going to drop it off at a Pip's." 

"Why the hell would you do that?" 

Frankie feels his cheeks get warm. How can he explain that he just wants to see you before he goes? Wants to ask you to write him while he's gone. 

"It's her hat. She just lent it to me." 

His dad makes a scoffing noise as his mother brings a cup of fresh coffee, placing it at his elbow. 

"That girl's whole family is trash," he says with a shake of his head, sipping his coffee. "I'm glad you're getting away from her and that Santiago boy."

Frankie doesn't understand how they can all be so similar socioeconomically, and yet his dad can have so much disdain for people like Pip and Santi. 

"I caught her mother coming out of the liquor store at ten in the morning. She was already three sheets," he says with a shake of his head. "No wonder her oldest is always getting into trouble. Little slut."

Frankie hangs his head, hair falling into his face, feeling like a traitor when he says nothing to stick up for you or your sister. But he's learned the hard way that the less his father knows the safer.

"Jesus, Francisco," his father snaps. "It's a good thing you're headed to basic. You look like a fucking girl with that hair." 

That's the last thing Frankie remembers of his family before he left for basic. The interaction that will stay with him forever. 

Since the funeral Frankie sometimes goes over that last morning with his father. The ugliness in the senior Morales, his mother's turned back at the stove as her husband rained down insult after insult. The thought makes him sick sometimes. 

The first few days back home had been hell. Family, planning the funeral, insurance workers, the bank and everyone with an opinion on what to do with his life and the house. 

But when he saw you that day, felt the softness of support as you sat next to him on that sofa, all he wanted was you. And without the parental figures that haunted this home, it felt he could acknowledge it fully. 

The two of you rested on towels over the grass of his backyard the following week. The day was sunny and sweet and the wind tickled along gooseflesh dotted arms. Cold glasses of lemonade rested at your elbows. 

"Do you think Santi knows about us?"  Your voice is soft and a little tentative. You’re leaned back, face basking in the warmth of the day. 

Frankie moves to rest his head on your belly, eyes closed behind his aviators.

"No. He's so distracted with girls he has no idea."

"You're sure?"

"Mhm." He cracks open one eye, seeing the pinched expression you wear. "Why?"

"I'm just scared of what he'll say." 

You can't relax and he can feel the tension in your tight muscles. He feels a sudden surge of guilt. 

"Is this stressing you out too much?" He asks, his own nerves catching up to him. "Did you want to stop-"

"No."

Your answer is immediate and Frankie has to tamp down the delighted grin his mouth wants to curl into. 

"Me neither." 

He sneaks a glance at you behind his sunglasses, to the small contented smile you wear. 

If only every day could have you in it. 

He wants to hold you and take care of you and atone for all the times his dad disparaged you and your family while he remained silent. He wants to protect you from anyone and anything that might harm you.

He wants a family that was nothing like his own. 

"It's so weird to see your hair so short," you murmur, fingers moving to card through his shorn locks. He makes a soft purring noise, like a contented cat.

"You should grow it back." 

"Can't," Frankie says around a yawn. "Have to keep it short for service." 

He goes quiet for a moment, cheeks warming as he thinks back to so many years ago, the scars of which never seen to heal. 

"Besides, didn't you think my longer hair made me look like a girl?"

He feels you look down at him strangely, but he keeps his attention on something in the distance, shielded by his frames. 

"Of course not," you answer gently. "Your hair is so beautiful, Frankie." You start to stroke his short hair once more. "Everything about you is beautiful." 

He loves you, he acknowledges. He's known for a while but this perfect moment, this mending of his soul makes it so apparent. Soon after he has a thought that makes his body break out in delicious warmth. 

He's going to marry you one day. 

"Pip? Can you hear me?" 

The sound of a deep, husky voice startles you into wakefulness, your heart tapping unsteadily.

You groan, body aching all over. You feel disoriented, eyes struggling to blink open.It takes you a moment to realize you're slumped over your steering wheel. 

When you look closer you see a dark smear of something marked along the edge of the steering wheel. 

Through the spider web of cracks along the windshield you take in the side of the building the truck skidded into from the road. It blocks your driver's side, casting a shadow that makes you winced. Your water bottle and mom’s old prescription bottles have flung everywhere, your purse contents spilled in the collision. 

The tick of the cooling engine is like a frantic heartbeat and something warm is dripping from your forehead. When you swallow you realize its blood. Why are you bleeding? You hiss when a pulse of pain throbs behind your eyes, slamming them closed. 

"Pip?"

The voice is back. 

It’s  raspy and familiar. It soothes you. And you immediately realize who it is. 

You slowly crack open your eyes in the direction of the voice. A familiar shadow is standing there at the passenger’s side of the truck. 

Frankie. 

Everything looks fuzzy at the edges, like someone put Vaseline on the lens of a camera.

You’re dead. This is the afterlife and somehow Frankie is there to greet you. You're scared, but the thought of Frankie being there gives you a sense of calm. 

You raise a shaky hand his way.

"It's you." 

He's beautiful and broad and he's tugging at the door, swearing in frustration. 

"It's me, baby," Frankie says in a choked voice. You can't see much, but you make out his dark eyes which look wet. 

All the feelings you've been biting back for ages are fighting to escape. Like the proverbial floodgates being opened. You need to tell him everything. 

"Frankie I wanted to tell you-"

"Later," he says, eyes intense. "Right now we need to get you out, okay? The doors are wrenched shut. Can you unbuckle and crawl over to me?" 

Yes, you realize after a few moments of fumbling. You can and your do, knees scraping some of the safety glass that landed on the bench seat. 

But you don't care about the pain. All you want is Frankie's arms around you. To be held by him. To tell him everything. The pain of not being with him all these years hurts worse than the scrapes and bruises along your body.

He's reaching through the broken window towards you. You see he's removed his jacket and placed it along the edges to ensure you don't cut yourself. 

"Frankie-"

You're so close, almost about to raise your arms in return when you hear the sound of your own unsteady breathing. 

"I've got you," Frankie's encourages, arms outstretched your way. His fingertips manage to graze your cheek. 

But his voice starts to sound muffled and far away. When you blink it gets darker at the edges until Frankie is a pinprick. 

"Pip, keep going-" 

You try to focus, to respond to Frankie's call but your head is so heavy and the darkness is overpowering. 

THEN

Frankie's throat is caked with dirt, his face smudged with perspiration. He wishes he could wipe at his face with his arm, but the sleeves are rolled down to keep from scrapes despite the sweltering heat. 

On top of that his ballistic helmet sits snugly over his head, his night vision goggles making it easier to see.  

The fatigues he and the rest of his team wear are muted greens and beige that help them blend into the environment. Pope's is in front of him, body coiled tight. He wears the same gear as Frankie, but his is worn and well lived in whereas Frankie's is more meticulous. 

Just like his dad expects.

"Left clear." 

Will and Tom flank Pope, their faces firm lines of intense focus. They've been on several missions together and training at base. Somehow Frankie stumbled upon a group of friends he wasn't expecting. 

He hadn't expected to see Santi sailing into basic a day after he did. Didn't expect the relief he felt at the friendly face. He didn't expect the haughty Tom and the quiet and calm Will to gravitate to them after their first mission together. But soon they were a strange little family all their own. 

Now after a gruelling rehearsal earlier, they are here at drug kingpin Charles Moss' compound in Argentina, ready to take him down. 

The magazines and rifles are held tightly to their bodies. Despite the amount of times they've done this, Frankie still feels that initial hiccup behind his heart. 

These are the moments, these calms before the storm where his mind plays cruel tricks, where his thoughts betray him. Where they distract him from what he should be thinking about.

A dark baseball cap.

A kite in a tree.

Lightning bugs.

Pip.

He hates that you can find her way into his head during moments like these, but you always do. 

He hates it because it causes him to imagine a world where he doesn’t survive his mission. It makes him imagine a world where he never sees you again.

And considering how you broke his heart he should be over that by now.  But he's not. 

Frankie watches as Will raises his left hand, curling a fist and that drags him back to the present. The group of them pause, taking stock of their surroundings and clearing the corners. 

They move swiftly as Tom deploys the first flash bang. They flood the room like a broken dam, weapons raised, voices clipped.

"Left clear."

"Right clear."

"Moving."

Another flash bang is detonated, white light blasting like thunder. The men moved through the ringing aftermath with their heavy rifles at the ready. 

A large man stumbles from a doorway with a hand over one ear. He's disoriented from the flash bang and reaches clumsily for his weapon. 

Will closes the distance in two strides, the butt of his rifle knocking the man out. Frankie is quick with the zip ties, securing him.

The man swears at them in Spanish, spittle flying from his lips. But it doesn't matter; they've come for who they needed. When his goons come sailing in they're all easily taken out by the four soldiers. It's done with calm efficiency and stoic expressions. 

They've done this countless times before. And today's the earlier rehearsal has them prepared. They just have to stay on script. 

Unfortunately Pope has never been particularly adept at playing by the rules. Especially not when the sound of a woman's cry is heard echoing from somewhere deeper in the compound. 

"Left stairs. Let's go." 

"Not the plan," Tom hisses, eyes scanning the perimeter. "Not how we rehearsed. Simple extraction of Moss, which we've done." 

"I don't give a shit," Pope snaps. "I hear a civilian." 

Frankie can see the strain on his friends face from where he stands. But he doesn't defend  Pope because Frankie plays by the rules. And yet as the cry is heard once more, he doesn't hesitate to follow his friend. 

“Let’s go.”

Will and Tom swear under their breath, but Frankie is already trailing after Pope, whispering his name. They round the corners, feet scraping against dirty stairs. Frankie is focused, advancing room by room. Pope is always out front, attention keen. 

He pivots, covering a doorway while an approaching Will moves past him. Tom is nowhere to be seen, likely still with Moss. 

A shout echoes from somewhere ahead. Pope is jogging, gear clinking as he moves. Will is close behind him, sweeping the corners. 

"Hostages located!"

When Frankie pushes into the room after them he can see several frightened female civilians huddled against a crumbling wall. These are drug mules that Moss uses. 

There are at least six of them, all shackled by their feet to the cement floor. 

Pope and Will sweep the room, making sure there are no immediate threats. There's no other door, no windows.

It's safe.

Frankie stands in the center, scanning the room. The adrenaline is already beginning to fade, leaving only exhaustion behind. Will and Pope begin working on the women's metal shackles, blades popping the screws. 

Frankie copies Pope and lowers his rifle slightly when a woman with dark makeup looks up at him from the ground in fear. 

"¿Vas a hacernos daño?". 

Frankie kneels next to her speaking in a calm voice.

"Estamos aquí para rescatarte a ti y a tus amigas."

His rifle is tossed over his shoulder as he reaches down for her shackled feet. She wears many layers, covering the ground under her. 

He looks over at Will who announces he's going to take the first batch of girls with him to a secure location. He watches the women leave after Will, their bodies thin and shaking. 

The sharp pain in Frankie's shoulder catches him by surprise. A painful blast of hot, stinging pain causes him to yelp in pain. 

"Fuck!" 

He looks at the woman in confusion before he twists away, realizing that it’s a sharp blade sinking into his shoulder. He realizes now she's not bound like the other girls in here. She likely works for Moss collecting girls for trafficking and probably enjoys the power of her station. 

She pulls the blade from his shoulder as Frankie kicks her off of him. The woman snarls at him, teeth bared as she raises the blade again. 

"¡No te llevarás a mis hij-"

She doesn't finish the sentence before Pope has her knocked face down in the dirt, securing her wrists behind her. He looks down at Frankie with concern as he ensures she properly restrained. 

Frankie can feel as blood bubbles forth from the wound. It's warm and there's so much of it. His breathing is uneven, starting to come out raspy. 

"You okay, Fish?" 

Frankie is trying to respond but he's starting to feel lightheaded. The smell of gunpowder and old sweat is causing his stomach to churn. 

Outside, helicopters are whirring away in the distance, but they are growing muted. And there he falls onto his back, eyes on the dirty ceiling. 

This will be the last thing he ever sees.

He's going to die now.

He can feel death coming for him like an old friend covering him with a blanket, whispering soothing words. And he's not upset because he's afraid of dying. No, the bone deep  fear is never seeing you again. Never holding you, never kissing you, never forgiving you. 

He could have forgiven you.

He loves you. 

It's getting foggy in his brain, dark at the edges of his vision. Pope is saying something but he's so cold and he's so tired. He can say only one thing as he surrenders to unconsciousness. 

"Pip." 

"Pip."

You hear the sound of tires over gravel. You're in a vehicle and it's moving steadily. But that's Frankie's voice, worried and tight.

"C'mon baby, stay awake."

You feel a seat belt over your chest, the chair pushed back so you're in repose. 

Didn't something happen to you truck? What happened again? 

You try to ask about where you are but it comes out mumbled gibberish. Your tongue re feels too big for your mouth. You close your eyes, slumping back.

"Stay awake," Frankie's worried voice tells you. "Can you hear me? Don't fall back asleep." 

You go to sit up, groaning when a sharp pain slices through your temple at the attempt. Your hand flies to your head, eyes squeezed shut. 

"Fuck!" 

"Relax. Just relax. We're almost there." 

Your eyes flutter open slowly, eyes slanting to the left in the direction of the voice. 

"Frankie? How are - Where am I?" 

"We're almost to the hospital." 

Frankie is driving quickly, hands white-knuckling the steering wheel as he maneuvers through traffic. Your body goes cold, fingers gripping either side of the seat.

"Hospital? What happened? Is it my mom?" 

Frankie makes a soothing cluck under his breath, hand groping for yours across the bed of the truck. His hand dwarfs yours, warm and steady as he squeezes. He doesn't tremble like you do. 

"Slow down. Breathe. Your mom is at home with Hilary." His eyes shift your way and then back to the road "We're going to the hospital for you." 

"For me?" You pause. "What? Why?" 

"You don't remember?"

"No."

"Some asshole blew through a stop sign and totaled your mom's truck." 

Fragments of memory are starting to come back, the sound of the crunching truck frame, the jerk of you against your seat belt. 

“We’re here.”

Your eyes hurt, blinking as the emergency room comes into view. Frankie parks quickly, looking over at you with scrutiny. 

"Look at me for a sec." 

You glance over at Frankie, hissing when his big hand moves from covering yours to brush back the stray hair across your forehead. 

"The cut on your head isn't bleeding anymore. Good." He unbuckles your seat belt and then his own. "Let's go." 

To the ER? While your mother lays dying at home?

Not just that, you think of the insurance that won't be accepted in a Florida hospital. You think of the bills that will await you. 

"It's too expensive-"

"I don't give a shit," Frankie interrupts, tugging his key from the ignition. "We're here and you're going to be seen by a doctor." 

He reaches over, unbuckling your safety belt.

"I can't," you say, briefly shaking your head until the motion makes your skull ache. "They'll keep me all day. I need to get back to my mom." 

"No." 

The single word is a boom in the cab of the truck. You stare at Frankie open-mouthed as he exits the truck, tall form stalking around to your side. His hair is sticking out from under his cap, muscled body held taut under the T-shirt, like he's going to fall apart if he doesn't.

When he flings open the door his eyes are sharp.  "Come out." 

"No. Just take me home," you whine, your head pounding, irritability flooding you. You want to go to sleep in your own bed. You just want to sleep. “Please, Frankie.”

Frankie steps even closer, voice low. 

"I'm not arguing with you about this." 

When he reaches his long arms out to you, you try to angle away from him but his hands are on your hips, gently removing you from his truck. You're too exhausted to fight back. 

His grip is surprisingly gentle as he tugs you out onto the sidewalk. He makes sure you're stable, feet planted firmly on the ground before he crouches, making sure he's eye level with you. 

"Either you walk into that ER right now or I carry you." 

"I can't, Frankie," you whimper. Everything feels too bright, too loud, too overwhelming. "Just take me home." 

His hands cover your shoulders, squeezing ever so gently. 

"Baby, listen to me," he says, voice low and tender. "I'm taking you into the hospital and I'm not leaving until I know you're okay."

He points over your shoulder at the emergency room but you can't look away from his face. From the fierceness in his expression, the burning intensity in his eyes. 

“I have always tried my best to protect you. So go ahead and keep on hating me if you need to." His cheek twitches as his eyes take on a glassy look. "But I'm not losing your stubborn ass, do you understand me? Not this time."

The tone of his voice is intense, but the words border on melodic. His voice holds that power, the rough touching the soft. You gaze up at the man you want nothing more than to care for. At the man you wasted so many years apart from. 

And as he pulls you gently to the emergency room, all you can do is let silent tears fall down your cheeks, the same words going over and over in your mind.

I don’t hate you Frankie. I love you.

THEN

You remember the carnival coming to town one summer. It was one of those cheap things that moved from place to place setting up overpriced cotton candy stalls and rusted rides as tired looking staff, tried to persuade you into paying extreme sums to throw darts at balloons. 

However, growing up with little cash meant you knew to avoid those classic money traps. All you wanted to do was ride the roller coaster, the flashing sight of its neon green track greeting you the entire week you took the bus to and from school. 

Santi promised to take you when you told him about it, and true to his word showed up with an excited look on his young face that Friday night. 

"No rollercoaster," he tells you as you scramble to pull on a light jacket. ""I'll go on any other ride but that." 

Hilary in a rare moment of sisterly tolerance agrees to come that evening as well. She even drives the three of you in your mom's pickup truck, listening to you whine to Santi about the ride. 

"Please, Santi."

"No way, Pip. I hate those things." 

"But Santi-"

"I'll take you on the stupid roller coaster," she says as you sail down the street towards the flashing lights. "Just stop whining about it." 

Frankie and Travis are there at the entrance waiting for you both. Travis seems delighted that your sister has shown up. 

"Hey Hilary."

Hillary is sixteen and has grown into her shape in a way that has you endlessly envious. You’re thirteen and still in that awkward phase where you feel uncomfortable in your own body. 

Frankie greets you both with a muted hello, eyes tired. You don’t overlook the bruise on his upper arm peeking out from under his T-shirt. The humid night means no sweaters. Clearly his dad had been in a mood, something Santi knew all too well. Something the two of them bonded over. 

Sometimes you wondered what it would be like if your mom just didn't drink but beat you every so often as well. You don’t like to linger in that frame of mind. 

Especially not tonight. You're on a mission and weave through the crowd to buy tickets as the group calls out to you. The guys eventually join you, voices loud and obnoxious when a cute girl walks by. You have to fight not to aggressively roll your eyes. 

You're patient though, following the older kids with a spring in your step. You watch Frankie and Travis go on the bumper cars while Hilary and Santi ride on the Ferris wheel. You buy cotton candy and take your time letting it melt on your tongue, fingers sticky. 

Soon the place full of chattering teens and families, the hour growing late. You wait on a bench for the guys to grab mini donuts. Hilary is standing near the ring toss game cultivating the attention of nearby boys in oversized basketball jerseys. 

One of the boys motions to the game and Hilary gives a shrug, as if she couldn't care less. As the boy begins to play, Hilary brings out a cigarette, looking like she practiced it in the mirror as she pops out between her pouty lips. 

"Lines pretty short for the coaster now," your cousin informs you as he draws closer. "Should probably head over there."

"I want to, I'm just waiting for Hilary." You twist around, waving and calling her over.

She shoots you a dark look, moving towards you with a frown.

"What do you want you little turd?" 

"You said you'd go on the rollercoaster with me."

She gives you a dramatic roll of her eyes.

"Jesus, just go on it by yourself.”

"What? I can't go on by myself."

"Why not? You're not a baby anymore." 

"You said you'd go on with me," you whine gently, brows furrowed. 

"Yeah, well, now I'm gonna hang out with that guy," she shrugs, motioning to the young man with baggy jeans and an oversized jersey. 

"But Hil-"

"I'll meet you at the car at ten," she promises.

You watch as she leaves, shoulders slumped and tears stinging your eyes. Travis pauses for a moment before his tone turns coaxing.

"C'mon, Pip," he says. "I'll walk you over. You'll be great." 

"Will you go on with me?" 

You don't want to go on a rollercoaster with Travis. You don't feel safe with him like you do with your sister or Santi... Or Frankie. 

"Nah. Got no tickets left." 

"Oh. Then no, I don’t feel like it." 

He looks at your down-turned face, pausing before reaching into his pocket and rustling inside. 

"Oh wait. Just found one more. C'mon, let's go." 

You're desperate to go on the coaster, even if it means doing it with Travis. And at first as you walk alongside him towards the ride you're excited. But it seems the closer you get, the higher the coaster goes, becoming more and more foreboding.

You pass Santi and Frankie on their way to the pirate ship ride, giving them a nervous wave. They give you a concerned look back, but Travis just smiles their way. 

"Taking Pip on the coaster." 

Frankie frowns and Santi nods, pausing a moment you scan your face before you and Travis keep walking. 

"This'll be fun," Travis promises as you get closer to the screaming passengers. "We can sit right up front." 

You line up behind a large group of giggling teenagers, feeling shy as they look your way and smirk. It makes you wish Hilary was here. 

A screaming group rattles by you on the coaster, some clutching the seat, others throwing their arms up. 

Suddenly your heart is in your throat, the sound of the ride, the group of teens waiting in line, the wooden railing making it impossible for you to leave. And then more people line up behind you, boxing you in. You won't be able to exit without embarrassing yourself. 

When you get to the front you expect that you'll be able to slink off to the back seats. But the group of teenagers has started to amble onto the ride, moving decisively, leaving only the two front seats free. 

A teen in a stained red shirt indicates you should step up and take your seat. You stare at it, eyes widening when you see how unsafe it looks. What if something happens? Travis can't save you! The entire situation is too daunting and you turn to Travis, voice a squeak. 

"I changed my mind-"

"C'mon," Travis insists, not allowing you to move back. His arm blocks your path. "You gotta face your fears, Pip." 

The pimply faced youth running the ride gives you a bored look as you stand there, fingers wringing anxiously. 

"You getting on or not, kid?" 

People in line are starting to whisper, their eyes on you, irritated that you're holding up the line. You want to cry. 

"Travis, please-"

"C'mon," he cajoles, tugging you by the arm. "There's still room in the front."

You allow yourself to be pulled to the front of the roller coaster, a terrified lump in your throat. Travis helps you step into the seat, hands clammy. You notice his hair is damp with sweat. He's looking at you strangely, almost cagey. 

The teen running the ride is there at his elbow, frowning. He looms over you with his hand extended. 

"Tickets?" 

"She's got hers," Travis says, pointing at you. You reach into your pocket, handing it off.

You wait for Travis to do the same, but he just steps back out of the box, shaking his head at the guy.

"What are you doing?" You ask eyes like saucers. "You said you were riding with me." 

"I just said that to get you up here," he grins. "You need to face your fears, Pip." 

"What?"

You look back in front of you at the thick iron track. You can hear the teens snickering behind you. 

"Just ride," Travis is saying, looking gleeful. "Stop being a wuss." 

You're frozen in fear and humiliation body stiff as the teen straps your lap belt. You want to scream but you feel like you're made of ice. 

"I'll meet you at the bottom," Travis tells you, giving you a thumbs up.

"Travis, wait!" 

"You're gonna be great. Just don't puke!" 

Your mouth opens but nothing comes out. You can only sit there, watching him disappear until he's a dot in the crowd. The ride operator steps out, facing the waiting crowd of miserable faced onlookers.

"We have a single rider," the teen calls out, unaware of your distress. "Got any singles who want to catch this ride?" 

Of course no one volunteers which only adds to the wretched lump in your throat. Tears are starting at the corner of your eyes. You can't hide them anymore.  One rolls down your cheek before you can brush it away.

"Holy shit, are you crying?" A voice says from behind you. "How old are you?" 

You don't have to turn to know it's the teen with overly gelled hair.

"It's just a ride," another jeers. 

Your heart is going like mad at the unwanted attention, more tears are slipping down your cheeks and the snickers behind you cause your face to burn. 

"No singles?" The teen asks again. "Okay, let's get this going, folks." 

You're going to be on this ride all by yourself. This terrifying experience will be done solo and the thought makes your stomach twist. Your eyes squeeze shut as you make a frantic silent entreaty to the universe. 

Please let something happen to the ride. A mechanical failure. Let someone throw up right now and have us evacuate. Please don't make me-

"I'll go." 

You know that voice.

Your head spins around just in time to watch Frankie settling into the seat next to you. You stare over at him in quiet awe.

“Frankie.”

He's so tall his long legs keep knocking against yours as he busies himself with the lap belt. The teens who were snickering before all go quiet when he shoots them a dark look over one broad shoulder. And in the moment you're so grateful for him, you think you might start crying again. 

You look at him with a nervous grin, hands gripping the bar lowered over your laps. Frankie does the same, his grin broad. 

"You still wanna do this, Pip?" He asks as the teen starts to lower the lap bars on the cars behind you. 

"Yes." 

You don't hesitate and not because you aren't afraid of the ride, because you are. And not because you want to prove something to Travis. No, it's because you want to do this for yourself and with Frankie Morales at your side, you know you are protected.

The emergency room is blissfully sparse given it's the middle of a workday. But even if it wasn't, it turns out a car crash victim with blood down the side of her face takes priority. 

You're in a private room within minutes, Frankie pacing alongside the hospital bed you lay on. 

"What the fuck is taking this doctor so long?" Frankie says angrily throwing his arms up in the air. "We've been waiting here at least 10 minutes."

"Frankie, please," you say wincing. Your eyes are tired from tracking his going back and forth at the foot of your bed. "It's been maybe 2 minutes."

"Yeah, well you have a head injury from a car crash. I guess I thought that was important enough for immediate care." 

You catalogue his features; the shine to his dark eyes, the plump of his lips, the way his hair is curling under one ear.

"You're still okay?" Frankie asks, fingernail wedged between his two front teeth. "Headache isn't getting worse?"

"Nope."

He rips off his baseball cap, his fingers carting through his curls before readjusting the hat over them once more. 

"Frankie, just... Just sit," you say motioning to the seat next to the hospital bed. It's an ugly mint green color, full of holes. 

He does as you ask, coming to sit the edge of the chair as he rests his large hand over yours on the bed.You stare at him for a moment, reveling in his touch. You can feel him, taking in every detail of your face 

"You scared the shit out of me," he says, thumb tracing soothing circles along your knuckles. "When I saw that truck and all the broken glass." 

It comes back to you in fragments, bits and pieces of the accident. You remember the screech tires, the scent of burning rubber, and a weightless feeling for half a second. 

"How did you find me?" 

"Hilary called me saying you left in a frenzy and she was worried. And then something in me just told me I needed to drive to find you. I can't explain it." 

You go quiet, thinking of Frankie coming across the truck, of you passed out behind the wheel. You can't imagine what you would have done in his place, if you'd seen him slumped over the steering wheel. 

You think of all the things you haven't told him. All the things you might never have been able to voice. You drag your eyes back to his and suddenly notice he's wearing the standard oil heating hat. 

The sight of it is enough to have your chin starting to quiver. 

Frankie, sweet Frankie. 

"I was so scared," you whimper, eyes closing as tears rush down your cheeks. You're so fucking tired of crying but you can't stop. "I was so scared I never got to tell you." 

His brows pinch. "Tell me what?"

"The truth about that night," Your voice is cracked. "That night at Travis' party-"

Frankie shuts down a bit, mouth thinned. You can see the indifferent mask he forces over his features. "We don't have to talk about that."

Before you can insist, the doctor arrives, checking your name and information. But you're distracted, eyes stuck on Frankie who looks pensive.

"I found her at the side of the road, unconscious. Her forehead was bleeding but it stopped pretty quick. I’m worried about a concussion." 

The doctor barely looks up as he makes notes on his computer. "Mhm. Great great." 

He spins back towards you, peering at you before glancing over at Frankie who remains seated there, gazing at you with concern.  

"Sir? You'll have to leave while I examine her."

Frankie jerks to a stand, tapping the brim of his hat absently. 

"Oh. Oh, right." He glances your way. "I'll give your sister a call. Let her know what's going on." 

"Frankie-"

Your hands reach for him in desperation, but he's already gone out of the room, closing the door behind him. 

THEN

Frankie finishes up with the sweeping, head cocked to listen to Jeopardy playing on the TV. He hears the voice of the host and your mother's enthusiastic guess. 

"COMOROS!"

She's wrong about the capital of Madagascar, but she's so damn enthusiastic it doesn't matter. Frankie grins to himself, dumping the latest pile of dirt into the garbage. 

He's been doing this for months, coming by once or twice a week to do some cleaning, making a few frozen meals. Sometimes he comes more often, taking your mom for a walk or bringing brownies. 

He likes having something to do, something to mark his days. He misses flying so much it aches, but when he's here with your mom he feels of service, like he has value. 

When Santi mentioned your mom was struggling and that Hillary was pulling up the slack, Frankie figured he could visit once or twice. Your mom had always been kind to him. He didn't count on how good it felt to be of service to someone else. 

And he can admit that one of the boons of being with your mom means hearing stories about you. Little crumbs of information sate him for days. Where you're living, how you like your job. It's pathetic that he thinks that, but it's the truth.

He doesn't love hearing about your relationship with Greg, but at the same time feels a bit relieved that you're with someone who sounds respectful and kind. 

Over the years his anger has grown less and less. Maybe it's the NA meetings teaching him about forgiveness, maybe it's just the passage of time. Whatever it is, he feels softened. 

The door opens and Frankie glances up to see Hilary walk through the door. She gives him a tired smile. She's not getting enough hours at the hospital, so she's been out all day searching for side jobs. 

"Hey stranger. The place looks great," Hilary says, brows rising when she spots a familiar glossy box on the counter. "Did you bring her brownies?"

"They're her favorite," Frankie smiles to himself, pouring soap into the sink. 

Hillary shrugs off her jacket, hanging it on the hook as she looks over his way. 

"Was she okay today?"

"Oh yeah. Took a walk, had dinner. Now she's watching Jeopardy." 

Hilary nods, moving into the living room where Frankie can hear the little mumble of mutual conversation. She returns shortly thereafter looking a little more relieved. She watches him continuing to tidy, placing plates into the drying rack. 

"You really have to let me pay you for all this, Fish."

"No," Frankie says shaking his head. "No, Hil. Anything extra you make at work just put towards getting a nurse. You need the help." 

And so does your mom, he wants to add.

Frankie can't do the things a nurse can. He can't shower or help your mom use the washroom. He doesn't know medication rules and he doesn't want her in danger because of his inexperience. 

Plus if he gets his license back he's going to return to work the second he can.  

"I think I found someone actually. She was visiting a patient in the hospital and we got to talking. Her name's Rose-something."

"See?" Frankie emphasizes with the point of his soapy hand. "That's who you should be spending money on.""

Hillary nods, leaning back to crack her spine before she opens the fridge, crouching over to scan the contents. He hears her rattle a few bottles. 

"You want a beer?"

"Uh, can't," Frankie says awkwardly, turning to busy himself with some dishes. His face burns with shame. 

"Oh, shit," Hilary mutters. "Sorry, Fish. Totally forgot." 

"S'okay, don't worry about it." 

He continues to do the dishes as Hilary sits herself at the kitchen table with a groan. She pulls a pack of cigarettes out, lighting one between sips of beer. 

"You still seeing that woman from the bakery? Fiona?"

"Nah, that's been over for a bit." 

Fiona is to date the longest relationship he's ever had. Four months that ended when his license was suspended. 

When he had to go into recovery and attend NA meetings Fiona decided that he 'wasn't any fun anymore' and promptly left. It was a blessing in disguise because without her hard partying lifestyle it was easy to stay on the wagon. 

"How about you and Justin?" He asks, thinking of her boyfriend. When she takes a moment to respond he looks over his shoulder to see her head tilted down. "Hil?"

She's got a distant looking her eye, cigarette dangling out the corner of her mouth.

"He's chill I guess." 

Justin is actually the first nice guy Frankie has seen with Hilary who normally draws assholes to her like a moth to a flame. Justin works at a local pub, all smiles, very sweet. When Frankie isn't here and Hilary is slammed he comes by to visit your mom as well. 

"He seems like a good guy," Frankie shrugs. "Your mom likes him."

"He wants to get married and move to Canada." 

Frankie can't help but let out a huff of amusement. "Really?"

"Yeah, apparently he has family there, and where his folks live is way less expensive than here. I mean we can't even afford an apartment out here by ourselves and we're not all going to live with my mom." 

Frankie understands that all too well. With housing prices the way they are the only reason he owns his place because of his parents passing. 

She gives a rueful laugh, shaking her head. "I don't know why he wants to bother getting married anyway. Not like it changes anything." 

"I don't know about that,” Frankie says thoughtfully. "Maybe it's not about the actual marriage, but what it symbolizes."

"Tax breaks?"

"Wanting people to know you chose one another?"

Hillary frowns, taking a long drag from her cigarette. "Seems performative."

"Or he's just proud of the love you two have and he wants the world to know," Frankie shrugs. 

The minute the sentence leaves his mouth Frankie realizes that he shared too much. A sensation not unlike the dizzying effect of being at a tall height overtakes him.

That's exactly how Frankie felt with you moments before the disastrous end of that party. Wanting to ask Santi's blessing, desperate to let everyone know that you chose one another. Relishing with you two had created. 

He goes silent, hating that all these years later he can't stop thinking about you. Knowing that he's never been in love before or after you. Will he ever be able to trust someone enough to let them? Or will he constantly go back to that moment, where the rug was pulled out from under him?

Your mom gives a cough, calling out for a tea. 

"I'll bring it in a sec," Hilary calls out. She crosses her arm, frowning deeply, a crease forming between her brows. "Pip should be here. But no, she gets off scot-free because she's in Seattle." 

Frankie swallows. "Well, she has a whole life there, doesn't she? Isn't she living with some guy?" 

That sentence hurts to say out loud. He knows the guys name. Knows what he does for a living. Tried stalking him on Facebook until he found out the guy didn't have an account. 

"You mean Greg? That loser? She broke up with him a long time ago," Hilary says tapping the ash of the cigarette into her cup. "He cheated on her with some chick from work."

Frankie stills, hand mid-scrub. Greg cheated on you? Since when? He forces himself not to whip around, calms himself from shouting question after question. 

"I'm so glad she didn't marry him," Hilary clicks her tongue, not realizing the bomb she's just dropped. "I never liked him. And she didn't either, not really. I don't know why she stuck around so long." 

Hilary yawns as she stands, tamping out her cigarette in the ashtray on the table. 

"I'm gonna get Mom her tea."

"You just got home," Frankie says shaking his head. "I'll do it."

"I can't ask you to do that-"

"You're not asking," Frankie states, drying his hand and flicking on the kettle. "Just relax."

Some nights like tonight Frankie lingers because he enjoys the warmth of your home even without you in it. He likes the familiar scent of cinnamon from your mom's toast and the cheap perfume Hilary wears and the sensation of the carpet under his feet. It's familiar and comforting. 

He also likes it because this house is alive with voices and television. With the warmth of people living. Something his own house is sorely lacking. 

Sometimes he dreams of packing it all up and starting somewhere new. Somewhere no one knows him. But you exist in that house. The rooms you touched with your laughter or gasps or moans. The windows where the sun cast you in a golden glow. The kitchen table you played cards at. He can’t let that go – it’s all he has left of you.

Hilary remarks that she might run herself a bath as Frankie finishes preparing your mother's tea. He feels her tired eyes on his profile.

"Thanks for everything, Frank." 

She strides from the room, squeezing Frankie's shoulder as she passes. 

He brings the mug of warm chamomile tea to your mother who sits in front of the television on the couch, her feet propped up with fuzzy slippers.

When she thanks him for the tea he can smell alcohol on her breath. She probably has a bottle hidden away in the cushions. He'll tell Hilary about that later. But for now he just smiles and watches as she takes a sip.

"Come and watch," your mother encourages him, patting the empty cushion beside her. He drops down next to her on the couch/

Your mom is slowly declining, not too apparent right now. Most of the time Frankie forgets she's ill until he catches sight of her shrinking body inside her pajamas, or the way her hair started to fall out from chemo that wasn't effective in the end. 

The two of them continue watching as the final Jeopardy question is revealed by a grinning Ken Jennings. 

"The United States’ 3 most densely populated municipalities lie along a 3.5-mile stretch of Palisade Ave. in this state.”

"New Jersey," Frankie murmurs. 

"Oh that's a good guess," your mom nods. "I think that too."

It turns out New Jersey is correct and your mom announces that Frankie isn't only handsome but brilliant as well, which causes him to blush shyly, chuckling under his breath. 

"Pip made us watch it all the time when we, uh, when we were kids," Frankie finishes awkwardly when he realizes what he's just said. You're on his mind so much tonight, it's like you can't stop bringing you up. 

"I remember the four of you huddled around the television after dinners," your mom says laughing gently. "I used to have to tell Santi off for sitting so closely."

She brings the mug to her mouth, blowing gently on the steam. 

"You know I always thought you and my daughter would get together," she says casually. 

Frankie seated next to her feels his fingers tighten around his thighs. "What?"

“That night you came to the hospital to ask for her number I was really hoping…” she trails off, looking somber. “Well, anyway… I really thought you were going to be my son-in-law one day.”

Frankie is quiet, letting this information flow over him like a tide.

"I mean you were always spending time together," your mom continues, eyes on the television. "I figured it was inevitable she'd date you or Travis. I always hoped it would be you."  

"Why's that?"

"You were always so gentle with her, so patient. I wasn't nervous when she was with you." 

She gives a wistful look in the distance.

"And the way she looked at you over the years. Like you hung the moon. My husband and I never looked at each other like that in the years we were married." 

It's hard for Frankie to imagine how the outside world would have viewed he and pip. They kept so many things close to the chest, and yet some things must have gotten through. 

"You still care about my daughter, don't you?" Your mom says quietly.

"I think I always will," he replies.

“You love her?”

Her eyes stay on his face when he nods. 

“Yes, ma'am."

me when no one leaves detailed comments:

dividers by @saradika-graphics

taglist

@ashleyfilm

@beezusvreeland

@doblasftcisco

@harriedandharassed

@joeldjarin

@maried01

@menshipsandthesea

@peppermintfury

@severelysentientnova

@speaktothehandpeasants

@vickie5446