augustine

By the time you left New York, the only thing you had bought purely for yourself was a book.

The Boyfriend Act.

You had found it two days before leaving, displayed on the front table of a crowded bookstore in the Village, stacked in little towers beneath handwritten cards promising sharp banter, fake dating, and the kind of story that still believed two people could make a mess of everything and somehow find their way back to each other. One review called it a love letter to 2000s romcoms. Another insisted it was a breath of fresh air. That was what got you, in the end. Because at that moment, with half your life in boxes and the rest already being spoken for in rooms where you were not always present, the promise had felt embarrassing only because of how badly you wanted it. So you bought it.

By the time you reached the register, the book was tucked under your arm like a small, private indulgence.

The girl at the register smiled the moment she saw the cover.

“Oh, I absolutely loved this one,” she said, scanning it before giving the book a small, affectionate tap with her fingers, as if it were less a product than a friend she was sending out into the world. “You’re going to have such a good time.”

You looked down at the bright cover, suddenly and inexplicably self-conscious, as if the book had announced something about you before you were ready to admit it. “That good?”

“So good.” She slid the receipt from the machine, then paused, her smile turning conspiratorial. “Can I give you a very tiny spoiler? Not plot. Just… atmosphere.”

You laughed, because the seriousness with which she asked made it impossible not to. “All right. A tiny one.”

“Do you like Jane Austen?”

Your face softened before you could help it. “Of course. I love Austen.”

The girl’s eyes lit up as though you had given the correct password to some small, secret society. “Okay, perfect. Then you should know Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley are in this.”

You blinked at her.

“In this?” you repeated, glancing down at the paperback as if two Regency gentlemen might somehow be hiding between the glossy illustrated people on the cover.

She nodded solemnly. “Yes.”

You stared for half a second longer. “Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“In a contemporary fake dating romcom.”

The girl’s mouth twitched. “Technically.”

You narrowed your eyes, amused now. “Technically?”

She leaned closer over the counter, lowering her voice as though she were about to reveal something far more scandalous than it was. “They’re cats.”

For one second, you only looked at her. Then a laugh slipped out of you, surprised and warm enough that the girl grinned in triumph.

“They’re cats?” you asked.

“Very important cats.”

“Oh, seriously?”

“Extremely seriously. Honestly, I think Mr. Darcy has more emotional intelligence than half the men in the book.”

“That feels very Austen appropriate.”

“Exactly.” She tucked the receipt neatly between the pages, then reached beneath the counter. “Actually, wait. I think we still have some promotional bookmarks.”

She produced two of them and laid them beside the book with the solemnity of someone offering sacred objects. The first was printed with tiny illustrated cats in bow ties and little judgmental faces, arranged over a pale patterned background. The second was softer, pink and cream, decorated with strawberries, tiny white flowers, and a slice of strawberry shortcake that looked almost too pretty to be real.

You picked up the cat one first. “I assume this is for Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley.”

“Naturally.”

Then you lifted the strawberry one, turning it over between your fingers. “And this one?”

The girl only grinned.

“What?” you asked.

“Nothing.”

“That is not a nothing face.”

“It’s not,” she admitted, slipping the book into the paper bag before tucking both bookmarks carefully inside. “But I’m not ruining it for you.”

You laughed softly. “So the strawberries matter.”

“They matter enough.”

“That’s very cryptic.”

“I know.” She pushed the bag toward you, pleased with herself. “You’ll get it when you get there.”

Now, weeks later, sitting barefoot on the balcony with the book open in your lap and the late afternoon heat sitting golden and slow over everything, you had to admit the girl had not been wrong. If anything, she had undersold it. The book had become dangerous in the way good books were dangerous: you had meant to read one chapter after lunch, perhaps two, and instead the day had loosened around you. Water had gone warm in the glass beside you. The cushion beneath your legs had molded itself to your body. Time had moved somewhere beyond the edge of the page and stopped expecting you to follow.

By then, there was only the chapter you had been waiting for since Augustine—the author—first let you taste the promise of it, sweet and brief, only to pull it away again and leave you turning pages for more.

The flashback of the Halloween party.

Finally.

Frankie Morales had spent eighteen chapters avoiding that night so stubbornly that by the time the book finally came back to it, you were almost annoyed with him. Every time someone got close to saying something useful, Frankie changed the subject, left the room, or shut down so completely that you wanted to reach into the page and shake him.

So when his sister appeared at his bedroom door and told him to get dressed, you sat up a little straighter against the balcony cushion.

Of course Frankie did not want to go but his sister, thankfully, did not seem to care. You liked her immediately. There was something comforting about the way she loved him: not gently, exactly, but stubbornly, as if she knew gentleness would only give him more room to hide. And then there was his father with the almonds. You had to press your lips together at the image of him standing in the hallway, eating them one by one because his wife had started seeing a nutritionist and he had apparently decided that being supportive meant taking nuts very seriously. It was such a small, silly detail, but it made the whole thing feel real.

But when Frankie walked out dressed as Zorro, you stopped reading for a second because a memory came before you invited it.

You were little again, sitting on the living room carpet with a bowl of popcorn between your knees, far too close to the television because your mother had already told you twice to move back and you had moved exactly three inches out of principle. Behind you, she was on the couch with a basket of laundry beside her, pretending to fold it while very obviously watching the movie over your head. Every now and then she would pick up a shirt, smooth it over her lap, then forget what she was doing the moment the music swelled again.

The room was dim, blue and gold with the light from the screen. There were horses, swords, candlelit rooms, Catherine Zeta-Jones in a beautiful dress, and a man you had never seen before in a black mask who seemed to know exactly what he was doing every time he smiled. You remembered almost nothing of the plot now. Only flashes. The cape. The dust. The dramatic music. The way he moved as if trouble had been invented specifically to follow him around.

But you definitely remembered him.

Antonio Banderas in that mask, with that grin, that mustache, that little goatee, looking so pleased with himself that even your small, serious heart had understood something important was happening, though you had no idea what.

You turned around on the carpet. “Mama?”

Your mother hummed, still looking at the screen. “Mm?”

“Why does he look like that?”

She glanced down at you, amused already. “Like what?”

You pointed at the television. “Like… that.”

Your mother followed your finger, saw exactly who you meant, and laughed softly. “Oh. Him.”

“Yes. Why?”

“Because he has charm.”

You frowned. “What’s charm?”

“That,” she said, nodding toward the screen.

You looked back at him, trying very hard to understand. “Because of the mask?”

“The mask helps.”

“And the sword?”

“The sword definitely helps too.”

“And the horse?”

“Oh, the horse helps a lot but no.”

You turned back to her, impatient now. “Then what is it?”

Your mother leaned forward a little, lowering her voice as if she were telling you a secret of great importance. “Honestly?”

You nodded.

“It’s the mustache.”

You looked at the television again. For a few seconds, you considered him with all the seriousness a subject like that deserved. The mask was good. The sword was good. The horse was obviously important. But the mustache did seem to be doing a lot of work.

“Yes,” you said at last, eyes shining with fascination. “I think it is.”

Your mother laughed so hard that the shirt in her hands slid from her lap onto the floor, and you remembered feeling proud, as if you had somehow understood something grown up and ridiculous at the same time.

Unfortunately, looking down at Frankie Morales in a black mask all these years later, you had to admit she might have been right. And now, on the balcony, you smiled down at the page despite yourself.

Frankie had escaped to the rooftop. He had gone looking for a cigarette and a place where nobody needed anything from him, which was the sort of thing men in romance novels did immediately before the universe punished them by sending a woman who would accidentally become unforgettable. She arrived dressed as a vampire and locked the door behind her by mistake, and the scene changed at once with the strange, perfect awkwardness of two unhappy people being trapped somewhere just private enough to stop performing. You leaned a little closer without realizing it, thumb holding the page open near the spine. The chapter had started to feel different, tighter somehow, like the book was finally done pretending it did not know exactly where it was going.

“Oh, Frankie,” you murmured, smiling down at the page. “You’re so screwed.”

“Sweetheart?”

Peter’s voice pulled you out of the rooftop so abruptly that the page seemed almost to blink beneath your eyes.

You looked over your shoulder with one finger still holding your place, because if the universe expected you to lose the exact line where Frankie and the vampire girl were about to stop pretending not to notice each other, then the universe had badly misjudged you.

Peter stood in the open balcony doors, still in the middle of getting ready. His shirt was pale blue, soft enough in the evening light to look almost silver, and only half buttoned, the collar open at his throat, cuffs undone at his wrists. His hair was damp from the shower and brushed back, though one stubborn piece near his temple had already started falling out of place. For a second, he looked less like the man the town would meet tonight and more like the one you had first known: handsome, tired, ambitious, standing in the doorway of a bedroom too late at night with his tie half pulled loose and a takeout container in his hand, laughing because everything had gone wrong and the only decent response left was to sit on the floor and eat noodles with plastic forks. Then his gaze moved over you: bare feet, loose dress, hair still untouched, book open in your lap, the glass of water beside you gone warm and ignored.

“You’re not dressed.”

You looked down at yourself, then back at him. “I was about to start.”

“We’re leaving at seven.”

Your eyes flicked toward the clock inside the bedroom. “Peter, it’s six thirty.”

“I know.”

“The party starts at eight.”

“My father wants us there early.”

You kept your finger tucked between the pages, careful not to lose your place. “Why?”

“He wants to introduce us to a few people before everyone else arrives.”

You nodded, but your eyes had already dropped back to the book, pulled for one last second toward the rooftop, the cigarette smoke, the girl with the little bat wings, the door that had just shut behind her. “Okay.”

But Peter did not answer and the silence made you look up again.

“Are you listening to me?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“You’re still reading.”

“I heard what you said.”

“That isn’t the same thing.”

You closed the book halfway around your finger, enough to show him you were trying, not enough to surrender the page. “I still have time.”

“You haven’t chosen a dress.”

“I will.”

“You haven’t done your hair.”

“I know.”

“And if you leave it too late, you’ll feel rushed, and then you’ll be upset before we even get in the car.”

You looked at him, then down at the book again, the narrow slice of paper still held beneath your finger like a small, ridiculous claim.

“I just want to finish the chapter.”

Peter’s mouth tightened, then relaxed almost immediately. “Tonight matters.”

“I know.”

“I need you to understand that it really matters.” He stepped onto the balcony with a purpose that made the space feel smaller. “My father wants me to speak with Richard Wickham before the lawn gets crowded. He and his partners are interested in the old sawmill property.”

“The old one outside town?”

“Yes.”

“You said that was only a possibility.”

“It was. Now it’s closer than that.” He came to stand near the railing, restless enough that he did not sit, and looked out over the trees for a second as if the whole town had become something he needed to prove himself to. “If it works, it could be the first project here that feels like mine.”

The word softened you despite yourself. His. You understood that. You understood wanting something that belonged to you without explanation, without inheritance, without someone else’s name written faintly beneath it. Peter’s life had been made easier by George Craven in ways neither of you could pretend not to see, but ease and freedom were not the same thing. Some doors had been opened for him so forcefully that no one noticed he still had to walk through them while being watched, measured, and compared to the man who held them open.

You let out a quiet breath. “Peter, I’m happy for you. I am.”

“I know.”

“And I’m going with you.”

His eyes returned to you. “But I need you with me.”

“I will be.”

“No.” His voice stayed calm, but something in it settled. “I need you with me. Not half in some book, not annoyed because I interrupted you, not rushing through getting ready because I had to pull you back into the evening.”

You looked down. The book felt suddenly heavier in your lap. Only a paperback, only paper and ink and a chapter that would still be there later, but for the last hour it had belonged to no one but you. No George. No investors. Just the page, and your hands, and a story that had asked nothing from you except attention.

“I can be ready by seven,” you said.

“You can be dressed by seven. That isn’t the same thing.”

You looked up sharply.

Peter seemed to hear himself then. His expression shifted, softening around the edges before you could fully decide whether to be hurt. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“How did you mean it?”

“I mean I don’t want us arriving flustered. I don’t want to walk in and have people see you still trying to settle yourself because we left everything to the last minute.” He paused, and when he spoke again his voice was quieter. “I want tonight to go well.”

“So do I.”

“Then put the book down.”

You held his gaze and for a second, nothing moved. The evening air was warm against your bare legs. Somewhere inside the house, the clock kept its quiet, indifferent rhythm. Beneath your finger, the page waited exactly where you had left it, and the absurdity of wanting one more minute nearly made you give in out of shame alone.

“In a minute,” you said.

Peter’s jaw tightened.

“Now.”

The word was not loud. That was why it reached you the way it did. A louder man would have given you something to resist. Peter only stood there, composed and certain, and the certainty made the balcony feel suddenly less like a place you had chosen and more like a room with no door.

“Peter,” you said carefully, “I’m asking just for one minute.”

“And I’m asking you not to make me ask twice.”

You looked at him, and for a moment the two of you seemed to be staring at different versions of the same scene. In his, he was tired, pressured, trying to get you to take the evening seriously. In yours, you were barefoot with a book in your hands, being asked to give up the last small piece of time that had belonged entirely to you.

“I’m not trying to upset you,” you said.

“I know.”

“I just want to finish the chapter, baby.”

“I know that too.”

“Then why does it feel like you’re angry with me?”

Peter looked away for half a second. When he looked back, his face had smoothed again into something gentler, almost apologetic. “I’m not angry. I’m stressed.”

“Okay.”

“I need help tonight.”

“I said I’d help.”

“No, you’re just making this harder than it has to be.”

You did not answer and Peter seemed to regret it almost immediately, or perhaps only the way your face changed. He came closer, lowering his voice. “Sweetheart.”

You kept your finger inside the book.

“I’ll give it back in the car,” he said, reaching for it.

Your hand tightened. “Peter, no.”

“I’m not taking it away from you.”

“That’s exactly what you’re doing.”

“I’m just helping you get ready.”

“I’m not a child.”

His expression changed. Neither of you moved at first. Then Peter reached down and took the book from your lap with a firmness that left no room for pretending it was still a request. You could have held on. You could have made him pull harder, made the ugliness of it visible. But he knew you wouldn’t. And worse, so did you.

You looked at him.

“Give it back.”

“You can finish it later.”

“Peter.”

“I said later.”

You reached for the book.

He moved it back. “Don’t.”

You reached again but Peter caught your wrist. His fingers closed around the narrow place above your hand with a firmness that had a purpose and nothing more. Just enough to stop you. Just enough to make your arm go still between you. Just enough for your pulse to wake in a sudden, stupid panic beneath his thumb.

You looked down.

You knew that hand. You knew the shape of his fingers, the warmth of his palm, the faint pale scar near his knuckle from a broken glass in New York, the way his cuff sat just above the wrist bone when he was dressed for dinner. You had watched that hand sign checks, lift wineglasses, smooth napkins over restaurant tables, tuck your hair behind your ear with gentleness. You had felt it at the small of your back in crowded rooms, guiding without pushing, claiming without seeming to. It was not your father’s hand. It was not a fist. But it was Peter’s hand and it was holding you still against your own will.

“Listen to me,” he said.

You tried to look at his face and failed. His thumb was resting over the inside of your wrist, right where your pulse had started betraying you. It beat against him wildly, embarrassingly, as if your own blood were making an accusation your mouth had not agreed to yet.

“I need tonight to go well,” he said, and his voice was low now, controlled with the kind of care people mistook for calm. “I need you beside me. I need them to see that this isn’t just another opportunity being handed to me because of my last name. I need them to see that I’m building something here. That I’m serious. That we’re serious.”

His grip shifted then, no longer only stopping you but pressing hard enough for pain to flicker through your wrist. Then your eyes lifted at him. His face was tense—yes—but not ugly with anger. He looked tired. Strained. A man at the edge of an evening too large for him. A man asking for help in the only way he knew how, badly but sincerely. A man who had been raised to inherit and was terrified, perhaps, that everyone in them could still tell he had not earned the key.

“Do you understand?” he asked.

You heard the question. You understood the question. But all you could feel was his hand still closed around your wrist, the pressure of his fingers turning sharper the longer you stayed silent.

“Peter,” you said.

His eyes searched yours, waiting for agreement, for reassurance, for the version of you that always knew how to make things easier.

Your throat tightened.

“You’re hurting me.”

For a second, nothing moved. Then he looked down. His fingers loosened at once, then hesitated, then opened fully, as if release were not a single action but a series of decisions he had to remember how to make. You drew your wrist back against your body and covered it with your other hand before you could think better of it. There was no mark worth naming. Only warmth. Only the beginning of red where his thumb had pressed, already fading beneath your gaze. Peter stared at your wrist. Then at you.

“Oh, baby.”

The softness in his voice went through you with such precision that, for one awful second, you wanted to comfort him.

You shook your head. “It’s fine.”

“No.” He set the book down on the table immediately, carefully, as though tenderness toward the thing he had taken from you could travel backward through the last minute and alter its shape. “No, it’s not.”

“It is.”

“It isn’t.” He moved closer and then stopped before touching you again. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to grab you like that.”

“I know.”

“No, I need you to know.”

You looked at him then because he sounded as if something in him had opened without permission. Shame sat plainly in his face, but there was fear too, quick and bright behind the careful blue of his eyes. He was seeing himself from your side of the balcony. You could tell.

“I know,” you said again.

For a moment, his mouth opened and nothing came out. It was strange, seeing him without the next sentence ready. Peter always had the next sentence. He knew how to step into silence before it could become awkward. He knew how to make a room feel held. But now he only stood there with the book abandoned on the table and your wrist cradled against your body, his face suddenly too young for the man he was trying so hard to be.

“I didn’t mean—” He stopped, swallowed, tried again. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

You said nothing and that seemed to undo him more than anything else could have.

“Baby.”

His voice broke softly over the word.

“I’m not scared,” you said, though your voice trembled badly enough to betray you before the sentence was finished. “I’m not.”

Peter looked at you then and you felt your fingers tighten around your own wrist.

He lifted his hand, stopped halfway, then let it fall as if he no longer trusted himself to touch you. “I’m sorry,” he said, and the words came out too quickly, almost stumbling over each other. “I’m so sorry. I was—” He swallowed, eyes flicking once toward the bedroom, toward the evening waiting beyond the walls, then back to you with a kind of panic he had not managed to hide. “I was thinking about tonight. About my father. About all of it. And I took it out on you.”

You said nothing and that seemed to frighten him more.

“I took it out on you,” he repeated, lower this time, like saying it again might make it less slippery in his own mouth. “I know I did. I know.”

There was something almost unbearable about hearing him say it so badly. No clean explanation. No careful sentence. Just shame—fear—and the awful sight of him realizing what he had done while you were still standing there with your wrist held against your chest.

“You’re nervous,” you said.

The bridge was there before you could stop building it. Peter’s face shifted at once, gratitude and misery moving through him so quickly they became almost the same thing.

“I am,” he said. “I am, but that doesn’t—” He stepped closer, then stopped again, his hands opening helplessly at his sides. “That doesn’t excuse it. I know it doesn’t. I’m not saying that. I’m not.”

“I know.”

“No, I don’t think you do.” His laugh came out short and empty, and he dragged a hand through his damp hair hard enough to ruin the careful shape of it. “Or maybe you do, and you’re trying to be kind, and God, that’s worse.”

You looked down. The red mark was barely visible now, a small line of warmth fading above your hand. It looked too slight for the weight it had put in the room.

Peter followed your gaze, and his face tightened.

“Can I see it?”

You hesitated.

His eyes closed briefly, as if the hesitation itself had landed somewhere painful.

“Please,” he said. “Just let me see. Please, baby.”

You gave him your wrist. Peter took it with both hands, careful to the point of awkwardness, as if even the wrong angle of his fingers might make you pull away again. He did not close his hand around you this time. He supported your wrist lightly, leaving your skin more air than touch, and turned it toward the fading light with a concentration so wounded it made your throat tighten in spite of yourself.

“It’s nothing,” you said.

His eyes stayed on the mark. “It’s not.”

“It’s already going away.”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“It wasn’t that bad.”

Peter looked up sharply.

For a second, you thought he might argue, but whatever rose in him broke almost immediately. His mouth opened, closed, and then his face folded in on itself in a small, controlled way that somehow hurt more than if he had lost himself completely.

“Baby, don’t.”

The words came out rough and you went still.

“Please don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Don’t tell me it was nothing.” His thumb hovered near the mark but did not touch it. “Please. I can’t—” He stopped, breath catching hard through his nose. “I can’t stand here and listen to you comfort me when I’m the one who put my hand on you.”

“Peter—”

“I grabbed you.” The words came out flat and ugly. “You told me I was hurting you, and for a second I still had my hand on you.”

The room went very quiet.

His face had gone pale beneath the strain, the careful color of the evening drained out of him. He shook his head once, not at you exactly. At himself.

“I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me.”

The sentence landed hard because it did not sound like a confession. It sounded like fear.

“You were stressed,” you said quickly.

“I was holding your wrist.”

“You didn’t mean to hurt me.”

“But I did.”

You swallowed. Peter looked at you, and there was nothing composed left in his face. No charm. No calm. Just a man who had done something ugly and needed, desperately, for you to tell him he had not become ugly with it.

“I saw your face,” he said.

You felt your fingers curl slightly.

“I saw it.” His voice dropped. “For a second, you looked at me like you didn’t know who I was.”

You had not known you were looking at him any particular way.

“I didn’t mean to,” you said.

“No, don’t.” He shook his head quickly, almost panicked by the apology. “Don’t apologize. Please don’t apologize to me for that.”

The please almost undid you. Peter lowered his head for a moment, still holding your wrist with that excessive care, as if his gentleness now could somehow reach backward and undo the pressure from before. When he looked up again, his eyes were bright in a way you did not want to name.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry, baby. I swear to God, I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“I know.”

“No.” His eyes held yours, pleading now, all the polish gone from him. “I need you to believe me. Please.”

You did. That was the terrible part. You believed he had not meant to hurt you. You believed he was sorry. You believed the panic in his face was real, and the care in his hands was real, and the shame in his voice was real. But your wrist still hurt and both things stood in the room together, and neither one knew where to go.

“I believe you,” you said.

Peter exhaled unevenly, but relief did not soften him completely. He kept looking at you, waiting for something more, something you understood before he asked for it. Not because he deserved it. Because he needed it. Because if you did not give it to him, he would have to stand there alone with what he had done.

Your hand rose to his cheek and his eyes closed at the touch.

“I forgive you,” you said.

The words seemed to move through him physically. His shoulders lowered. His face turned into your palm before he could stop himself, before the need in him could become too visible. When he opened his eyes again, they were bright and grateful and too young for the man he usually tried so hard to be.

“Yeah?” he whispered.

You nodded.

“I forgive you.”

Peter bowed his head over your wrist. He did not kiss it immediately. For a second, he only held it there between his hands, breathing as if he had been running from something and had finally been allowed to stop. Then he lifted it slowly, watching your face the whole time, and pressed his mouth to the inside of your wrist. The kiss was barely there. Warm. Careful. Apologetic.

“Thank you,” he murmured against your skin.

You nodded because there were no good words left. Peter drew you into his arms with the same caution he had used to take your wrist back into his hands. He did not pull. He made space, and you stepped into it, because refusing would have given the moment a shape neither of you was prepared to see. His half-buttoned shirt brushed your cheek. His hand settled against your back so lightly it almost felt like a question.

He was being so gentle and careful with you now…

And because he was all those things, you let your eyes close.

“I’m sorry,” he said into your hair. “You matter more than tonight.”

The words settled between you. Beautiful words. The kind women were supposed to remember years later.

Peter drew back just enough to rest his forehead briefly against yours. “You know that, right?”

You opened your mouth and discovered, strangely, that answering felt harder than it should have. Because you did know it, right? Or at least you thought you did. The trouble was that knowing a thing and feeling it were not always the same.

“Yes,” you said.

His eyes moved over your face, searching for the rest of the answer and you gave it to him because he needed it.

“I know.”

Peter breathed out, and his hand rose to your jaw, thumb brushing once along the curve with a tenderness that almost undid you. “Are we okay, baby?”

“Yes,” you said. “We’re okay.”

His answering smile was small and grateful. There he was again. The man you knew how to love. The man who could step wrong and then step back. The man who could look at you as though your forgiveness was not owed but given, precious and undeserved. The man who made the bad moment feel less like a warning than a mistake already being folded carefully away.

“Come on,” he said. “Let me help you get ready.”

Your gaze drifted to the book. Peter followed it. For one second, something unreadable passed through his face. Then he picked it up from the table and held it out to you. You took it with more relief than you meant to show.

“I can read in the car?” you asked.

“In the car,” he agreed. “Not at the party. If my mother sees you reading during cocktails, she’ll decide you’re either brilliantly eccentric or deeply unwell, and I’m honestly not ready to find out which.”

The laugh escaped you before you could stop it. Peter smiled at the sound, pleased but not smug, and for a moment the balcony warmed again. The air thinned less cruelly. The book was back in your hands. His eyes were on you, only you, and it was easy—dangerously easy—to believe the room had simply stumbled and righted itself.

You carried the book inside and placed it on the nightstand, face down but carefully, as if the characters might be bruised by the interruption too. The bedroom was cooler than the balcony, dimmer in the half-drawn evening light. The kind of room that never looked lived in, only occupied. Cream walls. Pale curtains. A neat glass tray on the dresser holding perfume, earrings you had not chosen but had learned to wear. Two dresses lay across the bed where you had left them earlier with the vague intention of deciding later.

One was ivory, clean and soft, the kind of dress that would make people call you elegant. The other was blue, delicate and cool, deeper than Peter’s shirt, with thin straps and a skirt that would move prettily when you walked. You reached for the ivory but Peter reached the blue first.

“This one,” he said.

You looked at him. He was smiling faintly.

“You didn’t even pretend to consider.”

“I considered it earlier.” He lifted the dress by the straps, his eyes moving over the fabric with quiet satisfaction. “It goes with my shirt.”

Only then did you really see it. His pale blue shirt, still open at the throat, and the dress a shade deeper, soft enough not to match too obviously but close enough to make the intention clear. Peter stepped toward you and held it against your front, his eyes moving from the fabric to your reflection with quiet satisfaction.

“See?”

You looked past his shoulder into the mirror. Your hair was still loose. Your afternoon dress was wrinkled. Your wrist looked almost normal now, the mark fading into something anyone else could miss. Peter stood behind you with the blue dress held carefully to your body, and for a moment the two of you looked exactly the way he wanted you to look: considered, harmonious, easy to understand.

“It’s pretty,” you said.

“It’s perfect.” Peter lowered the dress. “May I?”

You nodded. He came behind you, and this time every movement was careful enough to be felt as care. His fingers found the tie at the back of your dress and worked it loose slowly, pausing once before drawing the fabric down your arms. You held the front against your chest while he helped you out of it, and neither of you said anything about the way his hands avoided your wrist. The blue dress came over your head cool and light. Peter waited while you slipped your arms through the straps, then smoothed the skirt where it settled at your hips. You watched him in the mirror because looking at him directly felt more intimate than letting him dress you. The color did what he had known it would. It softened your skin, caught the last of the evening light, and made you look like you belonged beside him.

His hands moved to the zipper at the small of your back. For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then the zipper began to rise. Peter stood close enough for you to feel the warmth of him behind you, one hand guiding the zipper while the other rested lightly at your waist. He was focused, almost solemn, as if getting this right mattered more than the dress itself. Halfway up, he bent and kissed the side of your neck.

Your eyes lifted to his reflection. His were already there. The kiss was soft. His mouth touched beneath your ear, then lower, where your pulse had not fully settled, and his thumb moved once over the blue fabric at your waist with a gentleness that made your throat tighten. The zipper reached the top. Peter stayed close, his mouth near your neck, his gaze still on you in the mirror.

“See?” he murmured. “Perfect.”

You looked at the two of you: Peter in pale blue, you in darker blue, his hands resting carefully at your waist. A beautiful picture. The kind people believed without asking what had happened before it was taken.

So you smiled because he was smiling. Because the party was waiting. Because the mark on your wrist was fading. Because nothing terrible had happened and yet, for reasons you could not have explained even to yourself, your lungs still felt full of air you had never managed to breathe out.

── .⋆♱ ⋅🦋⋅ ♱⋆. ──

Joel stood in the middle of his bedroom in nothing but his underwear, hands on his hips, staring at the black dress pants laid across his bed like they had done something to offend him personally.

Jeans, at least, had the decency to become honest. They started stiff, sure, but then they softened. Learned a man’s shape. Gave a little at the knees, the thighs, the waist, wherever life had worn them down. Denim minded its own business, but these pants looked like they had never minded their own business a day in their life.

Joel had avoided them for two years.

Frank had bought them after a clergy meeting in Cheyenne, which Joel still maintained had not required dress pants. He had shown up in dark jeans, boots, and a clean button-down. Clean, he had pointed out. Mostly ironed too, if a person was feeling generous. He had been on time, awake, and had not, unlike Father Jud, spilled coffee down the front of his cassock ten minutes before the meeting and insisted no one could see it from the back row. In Joel’s opinion, that put him well above standard.

But Frank had disagreed.

He had disagreed in the parking lot, one hand pressed to his chest like Joel had personally wounded him.

“You can’t keep doing this.”

Joel had looked behind him, just in case Frank had found someone else to bother. “Doin’ what?”

“The jeans, Joel.”

“They’re dark.”

“That does not make them formal.”

“They’re clean.”

“Also not formal.”

“They got pockets.”

“So does a fishing vest, but I don’t want you wearing one of those either.”

“They cover my ass. I’d call that a success.”

Frank went very still, then glanced down with theatrical restraint. “For the record, they do an excellent job of that.”

Joel turned his head slowly. “Do not.”

“I’m only saying, if there were a clerical ranking for best ass in denim, you’d be a serious contender… Second place, obviously.”

Joel stared. “Second?”

Frank smiled. “After me.”

“You need professional help.”

“I need you to own proper trousers.”

“I own trousers.”

“No, you own funeral trousers.”

“When was the last time you wore them?”

Joel opened his mouth and closed it.

Frank folded his arms. “Exactly.”

“Could’ve been a wedding.”

“Was it?”

“No.”

“Funeral pants, then.”

Joel had tried walking away, because sometimes the only way to win a conversation with Frank was to physically leave it, but naturally, Frank followed.

“Next clergy meeting, no jeans.”

“Ain’t God seen denim before?”

“God has seen many things. That doesn’t mean He approved of all of them.”

“You sayin’ denim’s a sin now?”

“I’m saying yours are approaching a pastoral crisis.”

Joel stopped beside his truck. “My pants are not a pastoral crisis.”

“Your pants, your posture, your refusal to smile unless legally compelled to do so—”

“I smile, Frank.”

“Not in a way that reassures people, Joel.”

“You rehearse this shit?”

“In the shower sometimes.”

“That tracks.”

“Joel, you just cannot keep attending diocesan events looking like you’re about to fix someone’s porch.” Frank closed his eyes briefly. “I am begging you, as your friend, your colleague, and a man who has watched three elderly women stare at your backside during coffee hour with the reverence usually reserved for relics of saints—buy proper trousers.”

Joel’s face went blank, and Frank, tragically, continued.

“Miss Bates nearly dropped the lemon bars last Sunday.”

“Frank.”

“And Agnes said you have, and I quote, ‘a very sturdy walk.’”

Joel opened the truck door. “I’m leavin’.”

“I didn’t even tell you what Judith said.”

“Good, let’s keep it that way, please.”

“It involved the word firm and a sigh I found very inappropriate.”

Joel paused with one hand on the door and looked back at him. “Frank.”

“Yes?”

“I am askin’ you, as a Christian man, to stop talkin’ before I forget I’m one.”

“That’s between you and Judith, Joel.”

“Frank.”

“I’m just the messenger.”

Joel told him to go to hell with such heartfelt sincerity that Frank laughed all the way to his own car.

Three weeks later, the pants had appeared in a garment bag hanging from Joel’s office door, with a note pinned to the front in Frank’s slanted handwriting.

For the love of God, basic tailoring, and my blood pressure.

Underneath, because Frank was apparently incapable of mercy, he had added:

Do not make me hear Judith sigh about your ass ever again.

Joel had thrown the note away.

Then, ten minutes later, he had taken it back out of the trash, folded it once, and shoved it into a drawer, because there were certain people a man got used to being irritated by until, one day, the irritation became part of the affection, and even their stupid notes felt too special to lose.

The pants, however, had remained in the wardrobe.

Until tonight.

Joel looked at them now and breathed out through his nose. The Fourth of July event at the Craven country club was exactly the kind of place where jeans would become a topic without anyone having the honesty to make them one. Someone would smile too kindly. Someone would mention how refreshing it was that Father Miller was so unpretentious. Someone’s wife would decide he needed help shopping. Joel could survive all of that, probably. He had survived worse than rich people with opinions. But he was tired. Tired enough not to give them denim.

“All right,” he muttered. “Fine.”

He picked up the pants and stepped into them with the caution of a man who did not trust the evening, the fabric, or Frank’s taste in anything involving his lower body. One foot, then the other. He pulled them over his calves and thighs, already irritated by how aware of himself they made him. Jeans could be dragged on without ceremony. These trousers required participation. They slid too smoothly, sat too deliberately, and by the time he worked them up over his hips, his frown had deepened.

Joel looked toward the mirror.

The man looking back at him was broad, bare-chested, and half dressed, standing in black trousers with the expression of someone preparing to argue with his own reflection. The pants held his thighs instead of hiding them, followed the weight of him through the hips, and sat cleanly at the waist. His stomach had softened some with age, not much, but enough for him to notice and resent noticing. The mirror did not flatter him, but it did not spare him either: chest, arms, thighs, grey in his beard, the stubborn shape of a man who had lived hard and had not managed to disappear from it.

It looked good, but then his eyes dropped lower and Joel froze.

Because apparently the mirror had one more announcement to make, and it was that Father Miller had been hiding a package under all that denim and black fabric for years. Not a small one, either. No. Of course not. God forbid his body have the decency to be subtle about anything tonight.

He could already imagine the headline in the weekly paper.

Extra, extra! Father Miller not only has a cock like the rest of the sinners, but apparently the Lord saw fit to make it thick!

“For the love of God,” he told his reflection.

But the reflection, traitorous and silent, revealed everything.

Then he took one cautious step forward and stopped. The fabric moved with him, too smooth and too close, and the weight of his cock shifted beneath the black wool.

Joel looked down.

Even soft, it was impossible to ignore. The trousers sat higher than his jeans, closer through the hips, more precise through the crotch, and they held the shape of him with a blunt honesty that turned his stomach. The dark fabric did not expose him, not exactly, but it refused to blur him the way denim did. It showed enough: the thick length resting forward and slightly to one side, the private weight of his body made visible by good tailoring and terrible luck.

“Fucking fantastic,” he said flatly.

He shifted again, hoping the fabric might settle, but it did not.

For one ridiculous second, the situation should have been funny. Somewhere, Frank would have collapsed with laughter if he had known. Joel could hear him already, bright and delighted and impossible.

Relax, Joel. It’s not exactly breaking news. God gave me one too. What’d you think happened? They give you the collar and take it away?

Joel would have thrown something at him.

Probably the pants.

But beneath the absurdity, shame opened low in his chest.

For years, that part of him had belonged to nothing but function. Pissing in the dark. Washing in the shower. Existing in the same dull, necessary way as knees, teeth, old scars, the ache in his shoulder when rain was coming. He had trained himself not to think about it. Not to acknowledge it. Not to remember it was there unless necessity demanded otherwise.

Because before the collar, he had spent years trying to escape himself through his own body. Fists. Whiskey. Pills. Violence. Strangers. Whatever worked. Whatever was loud enough. Whatever could keep Sarah’s name from finding him for another night.

Sometimes there had been women. Too many to count. Too few to remember. He rarely went to them first. That was part of the shame too. He let them come close. Let them mistake his silence for mystery, his roughness for confidence, his emptiness for something they could touch without being touched back. He let them put a hand on his arm, lean into his space, look at him like they had found something worth wanting, and for one ruined second he would believe it.

Not love, never that, but something close enough to fool a desperate man in a bad light.

He had slept with them because grief made him restless. Because anger made him careless. Because being wanted for an hour was easier than being alone with the night. Because the nights were the worst.  Because Sarah’s absence waited wherever he stopped long enough to feel it, and sometimes another body beside him was enough to delay it. A hand on his chest. A voice asking if he wanted a drink. Someone breathing softly in the dark.

For a few hours, he could pretend he had not been left alone with all that was missing. For a few hours, he could pretend the hollow place inside him was occupied. For a few hours, there was another heartbeat in the room. But then morning came and they always left. Afterward, he was always still there. Still empty. Still ashamed. Still father to a dead girl.

But the church had not made him pure. God had not reached into him and removed the years he had spent treating his own body like something already ruined. The collar had only given him distance. Rules. Structure. A shape other people could understand. A way to become Father Miller instead of the man who came before him.

And now here he was, standing half dressed in front of a mirror, undone by the simple fact that his own cock still belonged to him.

Joel closed his eyes.

“Get it together.”

There was no choice but to fix it.

With his jaw clenched tight enough to hurt, Joel slipped one hand inside the open fly. The contact made something twist low in his stomach. His fingers closed around himself briefly, mechanically, moving him lower beneath the fabric. The familiarity of it felt worse than the inconvenience. There was nothing foreign about it. The same body. The same flesh. The same man. Joel adjusted his cock once, then again.

The second attempt worked, and the front of the trousers settled.

He withdrew his hand immediately and stared at the far wall, breathing through his nose as if he had just completed some unpleasant medical procedure.

For now, the problem had been hidden. Not solved. Hidden. That seemed to be the theme of most of his life.

He zipped the trousers, buttoned them, and reached for the black shirt waiting on the chair.

Button by button, skin disappeared.

Button by button, Father Miller returned.

The black fabric narrowed him. Disciplined him. Turned flesh into silhouette and silhouette into something people trusted.

Then came the collar.

It waited on the dresser, small and white and absurdly powerful.

Joel picked it up.

The funny thing about the collar was that once it sat at his throat, people stopped seeing a man. They saw a priest. The grieving came closer. The guilty confessed. Children stared at him as if God occasionally shared useful information, but nobody looked at Father Miller and saw the man who had spent years trying to outrun himself.

Joel fastened the collar, and the mirror changed. Black shirt. Black trousers. White collar. Father Miller looked back. The body remained underneath. So did the shame. But the uniform lied well enough for most people. And tonight, that would have to do.

In the bathroom, he wet his hands and pushed them through his hair. The front refused to cooperate. The comb improved matters only slightly.

He glanced at the bottle of cologne sitting beside the sink. One of the church ladies had given it to him at Christmas. He used a little, regretted it immediately, and stared at his reflection.

“Great,” he muttered. “Now I smell expensive.”

That almost made him smile.

He switched off the bathroom light and stepped back into the bedroom. Everything practical was done. He should leave now, but instead, he went to the nightstand.

The drawer stuck, swollen slightly by summer heat, and Joel tugged once until it gave with a small wooden complaint.

The watch lay inside.

For several seconds, he only looked at it. Touching it too quickly felt wrong somehow, as if the thing itself needed warning before being brought back into the light. The leather strap was worn soft from years of use and then years of careful avoidance. The face was cracked clean across, a jagged break running through the glass. The hands had stopped the night Sarah died. Time caught on the worst hour of his life and refused, with more mercy than anyone else had shown him, to move beyond it.

He had never had it repaired.

People had suggested it at first, before they understood. Before they learned that some objects were not broken in a way meant to be fixed. A new glass, a new battery, a little polish, and the watch would run again, sure. But Joel had never wanted it to run. Repairing it would have felt like asking the thing to lie. Like forcing time to continue neatly across a place where his life had torn in half.

The watch belonged to Sarah as much as it belonged to him.

More, maybe.

She had given it to him with the fierce, nervous pride of a child trying to act casual about something that mattered. He could still see her face when he opened the box, the way she shifted her weight from one foot to the other, trying not to ask if he liked it because asking would reveal too much. He had teased her, because tenderness had always come easier to him when disguised as a joke, and she had rolled her eyes in that bright, relieved way that meant she knew she had done well. After that, she checked his wrist every morning for weeks. Just a quick glance while he poured coffee, while he grabbed his keys, while he bent to kiss the top of her head on his way out. Sometimes she would tap the face and ask, “Still works?” like she had built the damn thing herself.

Still works, babygirl.

Until it didn’t.

Joel reached into the drawer and lifted it carefully.

The weight settled into his palm like a memory given shape.

He did not wear it every day. He could not. The uglier truth was that Joel did not feel worthy of wearing it every day. A father should wear his daughter’s gift with pride. A good father—a whole father—would have kept it on his wrist like proof of love that outlived death. Joel had tried, once. Years ago. But the weight of it every morning had become too much. Not because he loved her less. Because he loved her so much that the broken face became an accusation.

You were trusted.

You were supposed to keep her safe.

She gave you this and you let death take her anyway.

So he kept it in the drawer most days.

Cowardice, maybe.

Survival, if he was feeling kind.

But on certain nights—the lonely ones, the ones where the world outside seemed built entirely out of families he did not belong to anymore—he took it out. Wore it under his cuff. Let the cracked glass rest against his pulse. Let himself pretend, for a few hours, that Sarah was walking with him somewhere no one else could see.

Tonight was one of those nights.

The Fourth of July always had a way of making the missing worse. The town would be bright and loud and ordinary. Children would run across the lawn with sticky hands and sparklers, their parents calling after them with exasperation they did not understand was holy. Little girls would tug at their fathers’ sleeves. Teenagers would pretend to be bored while secretly waiting for the fireworks. Parents would complain about lemonade spills, bedtime negotiations, parking, the noise, the heat, all the living things Joel would have given anything to complain about with them.

And Joel would stand there blessing everyone in his collar while envying them so fiercely it made him feel sick.

If they only knew…

The thought came with a bitterness that shamed him even as it formed.

If all those sweet church ladies and respectable fathers and smiling young couples knew what lived behind Father Miller’s polite nod. If they knew that every time a little girl called “Dad” across the church yard, something in him turned sharp enough to draw blood. If they knew he sometimes had to look away when fathers rested a hand on the back of their daughters’ heads, or when mothers fixed a child’s collar, or when families argued over nothing because they had been granted the luxury of ordinary irritation. If they knew he listened to them complain about homework, mess, tantrums, children growing too fast, and had to swallow the urge to say, be grateful, be grateful, be grateful until the words cut the inside of his mouth.

He sat on the edge of the bed and fastened the watch around his wrist. The leather settled against his skin. For a second, his throat closed so quickly he had to stop moving.

“Hey, babygirl,” he whispered.

The room went terribly still around the words.

Joel looked down at the cracked watch face, thumb resting lightly along the broken glass. “Been a while, huh?”

His voice sounded rough, unused in that particular way. The voice of a father speaking not to God, not to a congregation, not to anyone who expected him to stand upright under grief, but to a girl who had once made faces at his singing and stolen fries from his plate.

He swallowed.

“Got this thing tonight.” A faint, tired breath escaped him. “Country club. Fancy people. Lotta talkin’. Bad chairs, probably.”

He could almost see the look she would have given him.

The thought nearly undid him with its sweetness.

“You would’ve hated it,” he said.

Then, after a beat, he shook his head.

“No. You would’ve said you hated it.”

That was truer.

Sarah would have complained from the moment he told her they had to go. She would have asked if rich people put weird stuff in potato salad. She would have rolled her eyes at whatever dress she had to wear, then checked herself in the mirror when she thought he was not looking. She would have mocked his pants immediately and without mercy.

Dad. What are those?

The sound that left him then was almost a laugh.

“Frank’s fault,” he said, looking down at the trousers. “You’d like him. Too much, probably. Both of you would gang up on me, and I’d never hear the end of it.”

The smile broke before it fully formed because the room was empty. Because Sarah had not met Frank. Because there were whole people, whole years, whole versions of his life she had never reached, and every imagined conversation was only Joel throwing his voice into absence and waiting for grief to answer back in hers.

He bent over the watch slightly.

“You’d be twenty-five now,” he whispered.

The number came out quietly, and still it changed the whole room.

Twenty-five.

Not twelve. Not the age in the photographs. Not the age in his nightmares. Twenty-five. Old enough to have graduated college, maybe. Old enough to have rolled her eyes at him for calling too much or not calling enough. Old enough to have a first apartment with furniture she insisted she liked even though none of it matched. Old enough to have opinions he could not predict, a job she complained about, friends he did not know, a life that belonged to her in ways he would have had to learn to respect.

Would she have gone to college close to home or as far away as possible just to prove she could? Would she have called him the first night in her own apartment because something made a noise in the wall and she was too proud to say she was scared? Would she have sent him pictures of a couch she found on sale and asked if he could come help carry it upstairs? Would she have painted the walls without permission? Burned dinner? Kept a plant alive for three weeks and declared herself a genius?

He just wanted one stupid phone call from his grown daughter asking if he owned a drill. One text complaining about rent. One photograph of her in a cap and gown making a face because formal pictures made her feel awkward. One evening where she showed up late, kissed his cheek too quickly, and told him he was being dramatic about some problem she had already decided to solve without him.

Just one ordinary piece of the life she should have had.

His hand closed over the watch.

“Would you have liked it?” he asked, so quietly the question barely survived the air. “Bein’ grown?”

A pause.

“Hope so.”

His thumb rubbed once across the cracked glass.

“You were always in such a hurry.”

His voice thinned there.

He saw her at seven, laughing at something stupid on television. At ten, mad at him for no reason she could explain because being young made everything too bright and too sharp. At twelve, trying to act older than she was and still falling asleep in the truck after insisting she wasn’t tired. He saw her in the kitchen stealing toast off his plate. Saw her in the yard, hair tied badly, cheeks flushed from running, calling him old when he complained about his knees. Saw her small, too, because grief was cruel and refused to keep one version at a time. Sarah with missing teeth. Sarah with scraped knees. Sarah asleep against his shoulder, trusting him completely.

He had been trusted.

That was the knife.

Joel bowed his head over his wrist.

“Stay with me tonight, okay?”

But the room did not answer. He nodded anyway, once, like it had.

“I know. Stupid thing to ask.”

A pause.

Then, softer, almost ashamed, “Askin’ anyway.”

He sat there for a long moment, dressed for a party and speaking to a broken watch because grief had stripped him of enough dignity over the years that he no longer cared what name a thing had if it helped him get through the door. Outside, the town was moving toward celebration. Cars starting. Children being told to hurry. Women fastening earrings in mirrors. Men complaining about parking while secretly pleased to be going somewhere with their families. All of it bright, ordinary, alive.

Joel breathed in slowly—held it, let it out—and the watch stayed warm against his pulse.

“All right,” he said at last.

He stood and adjusted his cuff. For a second, he covered the watch completely, hiding the cracked face beneath black fabric. Then he changed his mind and drew the cuff back just enough for the edge of it to show. Not much. Enough for him. Enough to know she was there. Or to pretend she was there. On nights like this, the difference could go to hell.

He took his jacket from the chair and put it on.

In the mirror, Father Miller looked finished. No one at the party would know. They would see the collar, the jacket, the restrained expression, the man who knew when to nod and when to speak and when to let silence make him seem wiser than he was. They would not know he had stood half naked in this room hating his own body. They would not know he envied them. They would not know he had asked his dead daughter to come with him because he did not trust himself to walk into all that light alone.

Joel looked at himself one last time. Then his eyes dropped to the watch, and his voice softened.

“Let’s go, babygirl.”

He turned off the light and left the room before loneliness could ask him to stay.

── .⋆♱ ⋅🦋⋅ ♱⋆. ──

By eight o’clock, the country club had stopped looking like a place preparing to be seen and had become, with unsettling ease, a place that was looking back.

For nearly an hour, you had been seated on one of the terraces with Peter at your side, George Craven across from you, and three men whose names had been offered with enough importance to make forgetting them feel like a social crime. They spoke of expansion plans, private donors, development opportunities, and the old sawmill property in the peculiar language of men who described land as though it had personally asked to be improved by them. You smiled when Peter’s hand touched the back of your chair, laughed softly when George made a remark that was less a joke than a reminder of where he stood in the world, and answered politely whenever someone remembered, with faint surprise, that Peter’s future wife might have opinions of her own.

Every smile arrived when it was supposed to. Every question came wrapped in manners. Every mention of the wedding was followed by an approving glance toward Peter, then George, then you, as though the marriage itself were another promising arrangement being discussed under warm lights and climbing ivy.

And Peter had been good. Charming. Attentive. Careful. He drew you in when someone spoke around you, brushed his thumb once against your knuckles beneath the table, and smiled at you from time to time as if to say, See? We’re all right.

You wanted that to be true badly enough that you smiled back every time.

Around you, the club filled slowly. Workers disappeared into the edges of things as guests took their place. Jackson arrived in currents: women in summer dresses touching cheeks without quite kissing them, men shaking hands with the loose confidence of people who had known one another’s fathers, children darting across the lawn until someone hissed their name. Laughter rose and folded itself into the music. The terrace filled with perfume, linen, heat, and expectation.

That was when you began to feel the looks.

Not many at first. A woman near the bar glanced over while pretending to listen to her husband. Two older men paused long enough for their eyes to move from George to Peter to you. A girl around your age leaned toward her friend and whispered behind the rim of her glass. Across the lawn, someone smiled at you as if you had already been introduced, though you were certain you had never seen her before in your life.

The future Mrs. Craven.

You could almost hear the title passing from mouth to mouth.

There she is. That’s her. Peter’s fiancée. George’s future daughter-in-law. Pretty, isn’t she? Quiet. Very young. No, not young exactly. Just—

George was speaking again. Something about a benefactor from Denver. Peter laughed at the right place. You smiled half a second late.

One of the investors turned to you. “You must be very proud of him.”

You looked at Peter automatically, and he was already looking at you, his expression warm, encouraging, full of expectation.

“I am,” you said.

Peter’s smile softened. The investor seemed satisfied. George looked satisfied too.

And for some reason, that was when you felt smallest.

Then a woman’s voice cut through the conversation with the clean precision of a silver knife.

“George, if you have bored this poor girl to death before dinner, I will never forgive you.”

Every man at the table turned.

Margaret Craven stood at the edge of the terrace, one hand resting lightly on the back of an empty chair, the other holding a champagne flute. She looked, as she always did, like a woman who had never entered a room by accident in her life.

George’s mouth curved. “Margaret.”

“No, don’t Margaret me.” She smiled at the investors with such warmth that the reprimand somehow sharpened. “Gentlemen, I’m sure you have been dazzling company, but if you have spent the last hour explaining municipal development to my future daughter-in-law while there is champagne, music, and at least one tray of crab cakes within walking distance, I may have to reconsider my opinion of all of you.”

One of the investors chuckled, lifting both hands. “Mrs. Craven, we were only enjoying her company.”

“Of course you were,” Margaret said pleasantly. “The poor girl has been sitting here so long I was beginning to wonder if she’d been taken prisoner.”

Peter laughed under his breath.

You looked down quickly, but not before Margaret’s eyes moved to you. There was amusement there, yes, but something else too. Assessment. 

“Up,” she said.

You blinked.

She extended her hand, rings catching the light. “Come along. I have come expressly to rescue you before your spirit leaves your body and takes a taxi home.”

The table laughed.

Peter leaned back, looking between you and his mother with fond resignation. “Do I get a say in this?”

“No,” Margaret said. “You and your father have had nearly an hour of say. That is more than enough for one family.”

George lifted his glass. “I am wounded.”

“You are thriving,” Margaret replied. “Don’t be greedy.”

Peter looked at you then, and for a second the noise around the table seemed to narrow. “You okay?”

The question was quiet enough to belong only to you.

You nodded.

His gaze lingered, searching. Then he smiled and let you go.

“Peter,” Margaret said, still offering you her hand, “it is now your turn to sit beside your father and look serious about money. I am stealing her.”

Peter’s smile tilted. “Be nice.”

Margaret placed one hand over her heart. “To whom?”

“To her.”

At that, Margaret’s expression softened so briefly someone less desperate for kindness might have missed it. “I intend to be.”

You rose from your chair. Peter stood automatically, one hand moving to the back of it, not touching you, only making space. His eyes met yours. There was still apology somewhere in them, buried beneath pride and nerves and the performance of the night.

You smiled because he needed you to.

Margaret slipped her arm through yours before anyone could reclaim you.

“There,” she said, turning you gently away from the table. “Now you can breathe.”

You did. A real breath. Deeper than you expected.

Margaret glanced sideways, not with pity, thank God, but with the discreet recognition of a woman who knew precisely when not to make something worse by naming it.

“Do not worry,” she said as she guided you along the terrace. “Tonight is not your formal introduction.”

“It isn’t?”

“Good heavens, no. If it were, I would have warned you. There would have been at least two more fittings, three handwritten notes, and someone would have offered you a pill.”

You looked at her.

Her mouth curved. “I’m joking. Mostly.”

The lawn opened before you, green and gold under the lowering sun, threaded with white tables and lanterns not yet lit. Guests moved in clusters between the terrace and the grass, and everywhere you went, people looked. Not rudely. Just enough to remind you that arriving beside a Craven did not make you invisible. It made you newly legible.

Margaret kept your arm tucked neatly in hers.

“That,” she said, lowering her voice once you were far enough away, “was your first escape of the evening.”

You glanced back before you could stop yourself. “Was it that obvious?”

“To me? Yes.” Her smile remained pleasant, fixed toward the lawn as if the two of you were discussing nothing more dangerous than flower arrangements. “To them? Not at all. Men like that rarely notice when a woman wants to leave. They only notice when she actually does.”

Despite yourself, you smiled.

Margaret gave your arm a light pat. “Don’t worry, dear. You’ll get better at it.” Then her tone gentled without becoming soft. “You have done beautifully.”

You looked away over the lawn, toward a group of women near the fountain who were trying not to stare and failing with astonishing commitment. “Have I?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t have to say that.”

“I very rarely say things I don’t have to say, dear.”

This time your smile stayed.

Margaret angled you away from the densest part of the crowd, toward a stone path bordered by lavender and low white roses. “You were gracious. You listened. You did not interrupt George, which I realize is less a social skill than an endurance sport. And unless I am very much mistaken, you did not once ask an investor whether money is the only thing he knows how to discuss, which already places you ahead of where I was at your age.”

“You did that?”

“No, but I thought it. That is why I developed this line between my eyebrows ten years earlier than necessary.”

“You really think I did well?” you asked.

The question came out smaller than you intended.

Margaret slowed, not enough to make it a scene, only enough to give the answer room. “Yes,” she said. “I do.”

You swallowed. “I felt like everyone was watching me.”

“They were.”

“That was supposed to be comforting?”

“No. Accurate.” Margaret glanced at you briefly, then back toward the lawn. “You’re new, beautiful, and engaged to a Craven. Around here, that makes you dinner and theater.”

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.

Margaret smiled. “There. Better to know the room is staring than to spend the evening wondering if you’ve lost your mind.”

The path curved past the fountain, where water caught the last of the light and broke it into trembling pieces. For a moment, the sound softened the party behind you. Margaret seemed to know exactly how far to take you from the center before it became exile.

“You look beautiful, by the way.”

“Thank you.” You glanced down at the blue dress. “Peter chose it.”

Margaret’s mouth curved. “Yes. I gathered.”

You looked up.

“He always did like a coordinated picture.”

Margaret gave your arm a light squeeze and went on before you could become emotional in public, which you understood at once as a kindness.

“If it helps, I was much worse my first evening here.”

“You?”

“Oh, dreadful.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“You should. I was twenty-four, overdressed, and very determined not to look terrified.” She kept her eyes ahead, though something near her mouth softened with the memory. “George brought me to a party very much like this one. His mother wore an enormous hat. Feathers, netting, some tragic silk flower pinned to the side.”

You tried not to smile.

Margaret noticed immediately. “It was worse than you’re imagining.”

“I’m sure it was lovely.”

“It was not. It brushed a chandelier.”

You looked at her.

“I had two glasses of champagne on an empty stomach because I thought it made me look composed,” she said. “Then the hat touched the chandelier, and I laughed into my napkin so hard I nearly choked.”

“You laughed at your future mother-in-law?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“Oh no.”

“Oh, very much yes.” Margaret lifted her brows. “And then, twenty minutes later, I was sick in the garden fountain.”

You stopped walking.

She did not. “The old fountain, not this one.”

That was what broke you.

A laugh slipped out before you could stop it, real enough that you had to cover your mouth.

Margaret looked deeply pleased with herself. “There you are.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It was a terrible fountain.”

── .⋆♱ ⋅🦋⋅ ♱⋆. ──

You were still laughing softly when your eyes began to sting.

It was not quite humor anymore. More like relief. Or the shock of being taken aside instead of presented, of Margaret Craven—elegant, terrifying, impossible to read—offering you something that was not comfort exactly, but a moment to breathe.

For a while, she said nothing. She only kept your arm linked through hers and guided you past the fountain as if the party could manage perfectly well without either of you.

Around you, the club carried on in soft music, polished glass, white flowers, and people pretending not to notice everything they noticed. Behind you, the terrace remained a warm little orbit of importance: George’s voice, the low laughter of men, the clean clink of glasses.

Peter stood beside his father in pale blue, one hand in his pocket, the other curled around a drink he had barely touched. When you looked, he was already looking back. His smile was small. Private. Almost tender.

And God, how quickly you took it.

You took it because the last hour had left you feeling handled and displayed, because your wrist still remembered the shape of his hand even though the mark had faded, because his smile seemed to say: there you are, you’re doing well, nothing is wrong enough for anyone else to see. So you let yourself believe it. Or you tried to. You let the sight of him soften the balcony into something manageable: stress, nerves, a bad moment before an important night. He had apologized. He had looked ashamed. He had given the book back. He had kissed your wrist like remorse could live there until it became proof.

Now he was smiling at you in front of everyone, and something inside you moved quietly back into place. Not healed, but arranged.

Margaret followed your gaze, though she did not comment on it at once.

“My son can be very serious when he’s afraid,” she said at last.

You looked at her.

She was watching Peter too, but not in the simple, adoring way you might have expected from a mother. There was affection in her face, yes. There was also knowledge. Weariness. A history you did not yet know how to read.

“He gets that from George,” she added. “Unfortunately. I have spent thirty years trying to cure both of them, with very little to show for it.”

You managed a small smile. “Is that why you rescued me?”

Margaret looked back at you, and for a second the humor left her face completely. Then she patted your arm, composed as ever, and let the mask return.

“I rescued you because every woman deserves a moment to breathe before someone asks her to be charming again.”

The words landed more gently than you expected.

You looked out over the lawn—the bright windows, the flowers, the careful faces, Peter still standing in the distance—and felt the evening loosen around your ribs by a fraction. Not enough to make you free, but enough to keep walking.

“I should tell you,” Margaret said after a moment, her voice calm again, “I am slightly offended.”

You looked at her. “By me?”

“Yes, dear. By you.”

“What did I do?”

“You moved to Jackson and have not come to church with us once.”

A breath escaped you, almost a laugh. “I’m not very religious.”

“No?”

“Not really.”

Margaret hummed, considering that as you continued along the path. “Well, that is hardly a crime. Inconvenient for church attendance, perhaps.”

You glanced at her, uncertain whether you were supposed to apologize.

She noticed at once. “Don’t look so alarmed. I’m not recruiting you for the choir.”

That made you smile.

“I only mean you should come one Sunday,” she said. “Not because you must believe anything in particular. Half the town comes for habit, guilt, or Mrs. Bates’s chocolate cake.”

“Is that supposed to convince me?”

“That chocolate cake has converted better people than me.”

This time, you laughed softly.

“But the church here is lovely,” Margaret went on. “Small, stubborn, drafty in winter, but lovely. The stained glass is beautiful in the morning.”

You looked down before she could read your face.

“I’ll have to see it sometime,” you lied.

Margaret hummed, soft and unreadable.

“You should,” she said. “In fact, I think you ought to be a believer.”

You looked at her. “Why?”

“Well,” Margaret said, lifting her glass slightly toward the terrace without quite pointing, “God has been more than generous with you, wouldn’t you say?”

Your eyes went back to Peter.

He was laughing now, his head dipping for a second before he looked toward you again. And there it was once more: that small smile, threaded through the distance, meant only for you.

You held onto it.

“Yes,” you said softly.

Margaret glanced at you, and you realized too late that you had answered aloud. Heat moved into your face.

“I mean… Peter is good to me.”

Margaret did not correct you. She did not tease. She simply looked at her son across the lawn, her expression unreadable in that elegant, terrifying way of hers.

“He adores you,” she said.

You kept your gaze on Peter because it was easier. “I know.”

“He does,” Margaret said, and there was something firmer beneath it now. “He can be difficult, but he loves very deeply.”

Peter lifted his glass slightly, a small toast from far away. You smiled back before you could decide whether to.

Then Margaret’s arm tightened around yours.

“Careful, dear.”

You did not understand at first, because you were still looking at Peter, still holding onto that smile as if it were something warm pressed between your hands, still letting it smooth the balcony into a misunderstanding.

“Look where you’re—”

You felt it before Margaret could finish.

Something caught at your ankle, not hard enough to hurt, not sharply enough to make sense, only with that small, precise cruelty necessary to stop one foot while the rest of your body kept moving. Your heel slipped, your balance disappeared, and for one dreadful second you understood with perfect clarity what was about to happen. You were going to fall. Not stumble prettily. Not recover with a charming little laugh. Fall. In front of Margaret Craven, in front of half the country club, in front of women who had already been pretending not to stare and men who looked capable of turning a woman tripping over her own feet into a family anecdote by dessert.

Perfect. Absolutely perfect.

You closed your eyes before impact, because apparently your body had decided that if you were going to humiliate yourself in front of the local ecosystem, you did not also need to watch the ground rushing up to meet you.

But the ground never came.

A pair of arms caught you before you hit it, firm and immediate, stopping the fall so abruptly that the breath left you in a small, undignified sound. “I’ve got you,” a man said, low and close, and your hands had already found him before you had time to make any sensible decision about it. Somewhere between losing your balance and not eating stone in front of George Craven’s investors, your first instinct had been to grab onto whatever had saved you, and now your palms were pressed against a man’s chest, fingers curled into the front of his black shirt as if you had been trying to climb him rather than avoid a concussion.

His chest was firm beneath your hands. Warm through the fabric. Solid enough that, for half a second, your brain supplied absolutely no useful information beyond the fact that you had not hit the ground and were now clutching a stranger’s shirt in public.

“Oh my God,” you said, breathless, one hand still twisted in the front of his shirt. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what happened.”

“Hey, easy now.”

His voice was low and close, steady in a way that only made your own panic feel louder. One hand held your arm, firm enough to keep you upright, not firm enough to trap. The distinction reached you before thought did, and that, somehow, made the heat in your face worse.

“I wasn’t looking,” you said quickly. “I thought something caught my foot.”

“It’s okay,” he said. “Just don’t move too fast.”

That was when you realized you were still holding on to him.

You let go at once.

“Sorry.”

“You were fallin’.”

“I know, but I still don’t usually grab strangers at public events.”

“Could’ve been worse.”

You glanced up only as far as his collarbone. “Could it?”

“You could’ve taken me with you.”

Despite yourself, a breath of laughter escaped you. “At least then I wouldn’t have been embarrassed alone.”

“Real generous of you,” he said dryly.

Margaret, who had remained beside you with her champagne flute impossibly upright, made a soft sound that could only be described as delighted restraint.

You looked down at the path.

Nothing.

No wire. No loose stone. No fallen ribbon. No obvious, merciful explanation for why your own body had decided to betray you in the middle of a country club lawn.

“There was something there,” you said.

The man followed your gaze. “Don’t see anything.”

“I know. That’s the problem.”

“Could’ve been the edge.”

“It wasn’t the edge.”

“You sure?”

You stared at the perfectly even stone beneath your shoe, offended by its innocence. “No. But I’m choosing to be.”

This time he almost laughed.

Almost.

But you heard it anyway.

Your eyes narrowed before you remembered you were speaking to someone who had just stopped you from humiliating yourself in front of half of Jackson. “Are you laughing at me?”

“No, ma’am.”

“That sounded dangerously close to a laugh.”

“Must’ve been the wind.”

Margaret took a sip of champagne and looked away, which was deeply unhelpful.

You finally lifted your gaze properly, ready to apologize with whatever dignity you had left.

Then Margaret spoke first.

“Well,” she said, smooth with relief and unmistakable amusement, “what a divine intervention, Father Miller.”

Father Miller.

The title struck you before his face did.

For one suspended second, your mind tried to arrange the information kindly. Father Miller. The priest Matilda had mentioned. The man Margaret knew well enough to tease in public. The man who had apparently just saved you from making intimate contact with the stone path.

Then you looked at him.

And every thought stopped.

Dark hair. Grey in his beard. Severe mouth. Warm hazel eyes that looked just as wrong on him now as they had behind the church, only this time there was a white collar at his throat and black fabric doing very little to make him look less like trouble.

No.

Absolutely not.

Not him.

Not the rude man from behind the church.

Joel looked no happier about the discovery.

For one second, neither of you moved.

Then you both stepped back at the same time.

His hand dropped from your arm. Yours folded in front of you before you forced them apart, because you did not want to look as if you had been caught doing something wrong, even though nothing had happened except a near fall, a shirt grabbed in panic, and a previous verbal assault in a churchyard that suddenly felt much less previous than it should have.

Margaret looked from you to him.

Then back again.

Her eyebrows lifted by the smallest, most dangerous amount.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Do you two know each other?”

“No!” you and Joel said at the exact same time.

Too fast.

Too loud.

Too much like people denying a murder.

You turned to him.

He turned to you.

Margaret went very still.

You laughed, which was a terrible decision. “No. No, of course not. I don’t know why we said that like we’d rehearsed it.”

“We didn’t,” Joel said.

“Obviously.”

“Good.”

“Great.”

Margaret looked between you again. “Fascinating.”

Another silence.

Worse than the first.

Margaret’s smile began slowly.

You immediately regretted having a mouth.

“I mean,” you said, attempting recovery and choosing instead to step directly into disaster, “I’ve never seen this man before in my life.”

Joel looked at you from the corner of his eye.

“And if I had,” you added, because apparently panic had taken the wheel, “I’m sure I would remember.”

His expression barely changed, but something moved at the corner of his mouth. Not a smile. Worse. The suggestion that he had heard every part of that sentence and intended to make you suffer for it.

“No, ma’am,” he said, voice even and dry enough to scrape. “We ain’t met. I’d remember somebody who makes this much trouble standin’ still.”

Your mouth fell open.

Margaret laughed into her champagne.

“I’m sorry?” you said.

Joel looked at you properly then. “You heard me.”

“I could have hit my head, so perhaps a little less judgment would be appropriate.”

“I’m not judgin’.”

“You just said I make trouble standing still.”

“That was an observation.”

“No, that was an insult.”

“That was me bein’ accurate.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah. Really.”

You stared at him.

He stared back.

For one second, it was almost impressive how quickly the two of you had returned to disliking each other.

Your eyes narrowed. “Are you always this compassionate with people in distress?”

“You’re not in distress.”

“Oh, trust me,” you said, before you could stop yourself, your gaze making the fatal mistake of taking him in properly now: the black shirt, the white collar, the hard line of his shoulders, the infuriatingly severe mouth. You looked back at his eyes a second too late. “I am very much in distress right now.”

Joel’s eyes narrowed.

“That so?”

“Yes,” you said, lifting your chin because apparently dignity had decided to die standing. “And I’m beginning to think it has less to do with the fall and more to do with you.”

The words landed.

Hard.

Joel went still.

Only for a second, but you saw it. The tiny break in him before his jaw tightened and whatever had flashed across his face disappeared behind something rougher, safer, more irritated.

Margaret’s champagne flute paused halfway to her mouth, and you realized, with a sudden rush of heat, exactly what you had said.

“I mean,” you added quickly, “because you are being very difficult.”

Joel looked at you.

“Right.”

“You are.”

“Me.”

“Yes.”

“I caught you.”

“And then immediately became impossible about it.”

His mouth shifted, almost a smile and not nearly kind enough to count as one. “Darlin’, if this is you in distress, I’d hate to see you comfortable.”

Margaret made a small, delighted sound.

You stared at him, pulse kicking hard enough to feel foolish. “Do not call me that.”

“Call you what?”

“You know what.”

“I don’t believe I do.”

“Oh, wonderful. A priest and a liar.”

His brows lifted.

Margaret lifted a hand, though whether to stop the exchange or bless it was unclear. “Before this becomes a parish incident, I suppose I should thank you for saving this terribly clumsy woman from a very public fall.”

Joel’s eyes did not leave yours at once.

“That thanks belong to her?” he said.

“Oh?” Margaret looked delighted. “Does it?”

You felt the challenge before you fully understood it.

Joel’s mouth was still, but his eyes were not. There was something there—dry, impossible, almost daring you. As if he knew perfectly well that you had already apologized six times and still somehow had not thanked him.

Heat climbed your neck.

Fine.

You turned back to him, lifted your chin, and gave him the sweetest smile you could manage.

“Thank you,” you said.

Joel’s brows rose slightly, waiting.

You let the pause stretch half a second longer than necessary.

“Father.”

The title landed between you with all the innocence of a lit match.

Margaret went very still beside you.

Joel looked at you.

Really looked.

At your smile. At your mouth. At the faint color still high in your cheeks. Then back to your eyes, slower than he should have, and something in your stomach pulled tight before you could stop it.

His mouth moved slightly.

For one second, you were certain he was going to answer. Something rude. Something low. Something that would sound harmless to Margaret and mean something else entirely to you, but he caught himself.

You saw it happen.

His eyes flicked, barely, to the collar at his throat. Or maybe you imagined it. Either way, when he looked back at you, whatever he had almost said had been locked behind his teeth.

“Anytime,” he said at last. Plain and polite, but not safe at all.

“Well,” Margaret said, pleased in a way that made you immediately nervous, “if no one has had the sense to introduce you properly, allow me.”

Joel went still.

You looked at her.

Margaret placed one elegant hand against your arm. “Father Miller, this is my son’s fiancée.”

The change in Joel was small.

Almost nothing.

His eyes dropped to your left hand.

To the ring.

It had been there all evening. It had been there while Peter chose the dress, while he kissed your wrist, while he smiled at you across the lawn. You had grown used to its weight because people grew used to anything they wore long enough.

But under Joel’s gaze, you felt it again.

The diamond caught the light.

He looked at it for one silent second, and when his eyes lifted back to your face, something in him had closed.

Margaret continued, unaware or choosing not to notice. “Dear, this is Father Miller. One of the most respected men in our community.”

Joel’s jaw shifted once.

You could not look away from him.

“And,” Margaret added, pleased with the neatness of the introduction, “the man who is going to marry you.”

For a second, the world kept going without you.

People talked. Glasses touched. Somewhere near the terrace, a child shrieked with laughter and was gently scolded. The band played something soft enough to be forgotten. Peter stood on the lawn, smiling at someone you could no longer see.

All of it continued but you're looking at Father Miller.

The flannel-wearing asshole with the axe.

The man who looked at you like you were a problem he had no intention of solving.

The man whose eyes you had remembered in Peter’s arms and hated yourself for remembering.

The man who had caught you before you fell.

The man who would stand in front of Peter, in front of everyone, in front of God, and ask you to promise your life to someone else.

The thought moved through you with such quiet violence that your smile disappeared before you could save it.

Joel’s was already gone.

Then you felt it again.

That strange pressure around your ankle.

Not a pull this time.

A tightening.

As if something thin and unseen had been looped there all along, wound carefully around the delicate bone, waiting for the exact moment to make itself known. It gave one final squeeze and then vanished like it had already done what it came to do.

.⋆♱ taglist: @stephtuckerwriting, @madisonauroraxx, @pattwtf, @ess-evo, @taniamiller, @capuccinodoll, @sunnytuliptime, @pedrofan, @mossunderthenightsky, @nothinglefttogive, @angelryex, @billionairecowgirl, @daniel-bruhhl, @wildthyng, @politeolive, @isabellaboo2025, @speaktothehandpeasants, @morganlolitta, @joelmillersbabygirll, @hazzzy418, @gingerwitchm, @jasminedragoon, @delulism, @cuteanimalmama, @slowdivinqs, @menshipsandthesea, @vanishintoyoubby, @allissah, @devilfruitsdaughter, @mcthsman, @vickie5446, @lurrrrrrrking, @chyannealaniz

Even when clocking out from his shift, he'd beat you coming first by a mile, because, by the way he casually stands against his truck, you can tell he's been here for quite some time.

"Coffee?"

The gesture warms you like the liquid inside the cup. It's oddly considerate for a man who'd rather stand forty-eight hours straight in the ER than be with you in the same room. Which, funny, because he'll be your roommate for the next couple of weeks.

"For my shift or for this?" you motion the entrance of the building.

Jack makes that smirk, the one where only one half of his mouth curves up, as if he's deciding whether to show amusement or throw in a sarcastic retort.

"Both. You didn't sleep, did you?"

There are tinges of concern laced on his words you try not to dwell on. If he wants to be amicable, he can be. You're going to be seeing each other's faces on a daily basis from now on, so there are no other intentions behind his question other than being polite.

It's courtesy, relax. A bit of small talk and a free coffee won't kill you.

"I couldn't," you answer. "I gave up by eleven and started packing instead. You know, for our big move in."

He chuckles. "Can hardly wait. Well, I spent it bouncing back from Triage to Trauma. How's that sound?"

"You win, nightcrawler."

He scoffs, taking a sip of his coffee to hide a smirk.

"It's supposed to be cool. You make it sound like..."

"...A slur?" your lips curl up.

He lowers his head, shaking it.

"Jesus, woman. You need help."

"Agreed," you raise your cup on a fake toast.

"Do I need to remind you that used to be you not too long ago?"

Your smile falters a bit.

"Whatever. I'm day shift material. Normal sleep schedules and no silly motivational speeches. That's where I belong."

And, yet, you remember joking with Shen about wanting vacations that lasted forever. Setting up a tattoo appointment with the tattoo artist Ellis referred you to. Letting Lena lecture you about how energy drinks were destroying the youth as she plead you to go back to coffee, no matter how shit the hospital's was.

You also remember Jack.

The unsolicited advice you scribbled down anyways on pink ink in your note block. The encouragement words he'd throw your way when your hands trembled while treating a patient. How he'd keep a creamer on the break room because you couldn't pass the burnt flavor of the shitty coffee.

But you also remember the stairs, the yelling, and the way he said it:

"You have no idea what you're doing."

Spat out, like an insult. It might as well be: because Jack Abbot, the man who trusted you enough to give you cases bigger than your responsibility as an intern should've let you, was talking you down like a kid who knew no better. Yes, an insult to your pride, ego, and confidence. To the respect you held for him and to your supposed friendship.

He feigns offense. "Well I'll be damned. I thought you liked it."

"What can I say," you shrug, "I'm a good actress."

"I hope you're nearly as good in your role as a mother."

You take a big sip of your coffee to mask a nervous gulp.

"Can we go inside now?"

"Hey," he raises his hands, "I have no rush on being a father, but you do you."

The place inside is bustling with too much energy for a weekday at seven o'clock. Social workers and kids of all ages everywhere, the rare nanny here and there. After you give your names at the reception, you enter the room full of children and wait.

You can't help but wonder their stories, why they ended up in here. If they had been with sad eyes waiting, for how long. When you see baby Jane Doe isn't the only one of her age there, your heart breaks.

"You're an empath, Lola. Like Dr. McKay."

"And that'd be a compliment, I hope?"

"Take it as you wish."

And then, Jack, saying your name softly like breaking up to a child that Santa isn't real:

"You can't save everyone."

His voice sounds again. This time, just not in your head.

"You good?"

You nod, curtly. Finally, a woman who seems to recognize you shows up, baby in her arms.

Since the Fourth of July shift was kind of insane, you barely had time to check on her. Now, up close, you can see her cheeks and big, round eyes that look at you with certain curiosity.

"Oh, there she is," you extend your arms as the social worker hands her to you. "Hi, sweet girI."

"I wanted us to meet, but you seemed busy at the funeral," the woman, Alexandra (as read on her name tag), says. "I'm sorry for your loss."

You smile tightly, focusing back on the baby.

"Thanks."

You craddle her in your arms, face close to your cheek like you'd done with your nieces in the past. Your brother says you're a good aunt―a natural, and by the way she gurgles and smiles instead of crying at the stranger holding her, you know he's right.

"Oh, honey. It's so good to see you," you coo. "You're good now. With us. You're safe."

Maybe your sadness rubs on her. Maybe your brother was just overly glazing you, because she starts crying.

"I know, I know," you hush, rocking her lightly. "You want UncIe Jack?" he raises an eyebrow at the new earned title. "Here. There's UncIe Jack."

You pass him the baby despite his eyes that tell you not to. He sighs, accepting his fate to calm her down.

"Hey baby. It's okay, little Jane Doe. Don't... Don't cry. Please."

You snort. "You're really bad at baby talking."

"Do you see kids I could gain experience with?"

"No ER kids?"

She keeps crying. Jack rocks her slowly.

"Isn't that your only experience?"

You shrug, "I'm a natural."

"Then take her from me because I feel her crying get louder."

Watching Jack temperance Abbot with shaky, nervous mannerisms is certainly a view.

You take her back, sticking out your finger for her to hold. Her crying turns to small whimpers, until all that's left is wobbly lips.

"I shouId get her home."

He shakes his head. "I will. You're going to be late for your shift."

"No, I will. We will," you insist. "I used some of my pending vacation. You know, to settle down and have a few days to figure out shit."

Abbot gives you a certain look. "And you didn't bother to tell me?"

"I did. I texted you."

"I changed my number. Lost my phone during a raid."

"Great," you roll your eyes, "now someone in Pittsburgh knows I'm on vacation. Well, at least they know I'm free. Think they'll take me on a date?"

He scoffs. "Glad you still can joke."

"To see you scowl?" you laugh, "Anytime."

"Let's just go. I want to sort some things out before I start my shift."

"Aye, aye, captain," you butt in with sarcasm.

He doesn't say anything, guiding you out with a hand on your back that doesn't feel out of place.

"We need to estabIish a sIeep scheduIe. It's very important."

He mutters something.

"What did you say?"

Jack, who's entertaining the baby playing with a box of blocks you found packed in bags, assuming Robby recently bought it, looks at you when you question him.

"I said he didn't think this through."

"Of course not," you sigh, crossing your arms. "Did... Did Robby say anything to you before he left? He didn't teII me anything."

"Not at all."

You roll your eyes. "This is not the kind of thing you forget to mention."

''Hey," Jack reenacts, "I have a mother on Central 10 and had a code blue that's now upstairs in OR. Oh, by the way, if I die, I'm going to leave you with the kid I adopted today."

Despite your reluctance, a breathy laugh escapes you.

"It's messed up," he concludes.

"Tell me about it," you add. "A baby isn't... Some package you order from Amazon and receive when you're back home."

Abbot runs a hand through his face, a sign of distress. "Well, Robby wasn't a pIanner."

"Sure he isn't if we are the plan."

He let's out an unguarded laugh, deep from his belly. It's impossible not to join in, with how carefree and light it sounds, despite the present situation.

"You wanna waIk me through it?" he asks after laughter dies down. "Are we supposed to Iive in this house together? Share the pIace, both sIeep-deprived? Sounds Iike a compeIIing psych experiment Dr. Jefferson would love to carry out."

"Ugh, Caleb," you scorn. "He's been texting me non-stop since Robby passed, asking if I need help. I don't know how much longer I can ignore him."

"But do you?" Jack questions, "Need help."

Your lips purse into a thin line.

"That's none of your concern."

"It is now that we live together. Who knows? Maybe you have a penchant for getting shot at."

You wince, remembering your own words. Still, you don't deter.

"Stick to your business, Abbot."

"Deflecting, classic Y/n. Alright then, let's talk about how we're not going to be able to pay for this pIace."

"Noelle said the mortgage is covered."

"Have you apologized to her?" you shoot him a murderous look that doesn't faze him. "I'll ask again, so you better do it. Anyway, what about the upkeep? Or the utiIities, the taxes? You have any idea how much money this is?"

"You're an attending and I have a decent salary while I finish my residency. Then, I'll get paid more."

"Sounds like a long term plan."

You scoff. "A kid is a long term plan, Jack."

"By then, she's probably no longer with us."

Your eyes darken. "Why wouldn't she?"

"Oh my God. You still see this as temporary!"

When he doesn't answer, you feel yourself getting angry.

Because suddenly, you see it on his face; in that obvious expression, in that slightly arrogant look that lets you know that, for him, the decision is already made.

"Isn't it?" Abbot raises his voice. "Don't tell me you seriously thought we'd raise her until eighteen?"

"It's what Robby wanted!"

"But is it what you want?!" he retorts. "It doesn't matter if you're good with infant patients. They're not yours. When you're done, they go. Now, this baby," he points at her, looking engrossed in sucking her hand and throwing blocks on the carpet, "She isn't ."

"You're so opposed to raising her. What's your problem?"

"Because babies are hard to raise. They're not a house plant you turn into compost if they die."

She begins to cry.

"Look! You scared her."

He scoffs. "She's not even one. She doesn't understand."

"She feels."

"You're ridiculous," he jabs.

"You're soulless. We can't leave her to fate!"

Jack looks exasperated, like he isn't paid enough to withstand this. Well, he isn't being payed at all.

"Just yesterday, you went as far as offending nurse Hastings because you refused to take her in, and now I'm the villain for continuing a conversation you brought up? What changed your mind, huh? Your savior complex or your inability to let go of Robby?"

That... That one hits low. But you refuse to let him see you cry. Never again, not since that day.

The baby cries louder, like she senses your emotions again.

"Okay, honey," you talk sweetly. "Hi, sweetie."

"Pick her up and calm her. I can't take a nap like this."

You roll your eyes, "No."

"I know you hate me, but this is low."

Oh, not the jab he threw in earlier and most likely won't apologize for. Got it.

"It's not personal. You can't pick her up, she has to learn how to self-soothe."

He raises an eyebrow. "What?"

"SeIf-soothe. You know, soothe herseIf! I just read it, Abbot. It's important, let's just give it a minute. Everything's okay," you reassure. "Happy, happy girI."

But she keeps crying. You wince at the piercing sound.

"You know what? Let's just sing a song. We'II sing a song."

"Sorry to break your heart, sweetheart," he chuckles, "but I'm not a singer."

You elbow him.

"Just follow my lead."

He sighs, defeated. "When I said I wanted to do karaoke this weekend, I didn't mean this."

You clear your throat and start with the first nursery rhyme that comes into your head.

"The wheels on the bus go round and round. Round and round..."

You look at Jack, who appears to be the most mortified he's ever been as he joins in.

"...Round and round. The wheels on the bus go round and round, all through the town..."

You continue until your brain forgets how it goes. Last time you sang this, you were still in preschool. While you pride yourself in your memory, it only goes that far.

"The- I don't know..." you trail off.

"And The Pitt save the bus, save the bus," Jack cringes, improvising the lyrics.

With wide eyes and a barely hidden smile, you rejoin.

"...Save the bus. And then The Pitt save the bus..."

"...And everyone lives." Jack claps his hands, startling you. "That's aII I got."

"Good improv skills, Dr. Abbot. Didn't know you had it in you."

"Thank you. But apparently, someone isn't that impressed."

He points to the still crying baby. At least, her loudness has tempered down to sobs.

"Okay. Maybe she's hungry," you pick her up. "Come on. Let's go eat, come on."

Jack scoffs. "I thought we weren't picking her up."

You ignore him, heading to the kitchen.

"Robby better have something edible in here," you mumble out loud.

You look into the cabinets, where an almost depleted box of protein bars lays abandoned. When you open the fridge, there's only a sad lonesome banana inside the fruit basket and cartons of probably spoiled milk. You don't even want to check the state of whatever is inside a container on the corner.

"Wow," Jack laughs behind you, "it's worse than I imagined."

You roll your eyes. "There's a banana."

As you try to reach for it, the baby continues wailing. Between trying to rock her and make something to eat with what little (or nothing) there is, your hands are too full to do both.

Jack, always aware, sighs.

"Give her to me."

"You said she was going to die," you eye him while hugging her closely.

"But I didn't say I was going to kill her," he extends his hands, "C'mon."

Fine. Five minutes or less in Jack Abbot's arms shouldn't be that bad.

You hand her over, "but I'm keeping an eye on you."

"Just prepare the damn banana."

You mumble some insults he doesn't get to hear (or pretends not to) under your breath, taking the banana out. You sniff; luckily, still edible.

You remember that shift Langdon wouldn't stop ranting at the breakroom. Well, truth to be told, it happened almost every day―the Golden Boy thought everything he had to say was important enough to share out loud. So he shared things he found on the Internet his little Penny, a six month old then, freshly out of breastfeeding, could eat. It's hard, he said, but I like to think I'm helping Abby handle the kitchen by myself. Back then you scoffed at him thinking he was some kind of savior for taking over cooking duties, but now, one or two things your memory's dusted off can come in handy.

You take out a bowl and start mashing the banana into a sort of puree. Jack watches with an attentive eye.

"Stop staring. It's rude."

"I'm impressed."

You can't read his tone, so you say. "I just smashed a banana."

"No, that you managed to make something out of Robby's shitty stock."

You can't help but laugh.

"I mean, I knew he had terrible eating habits, but it's logical, right? He wasn't going to be here for three months, so."

It feels weird to talk about Robby like this. Like an anecdote; a memory, rather than a person: one that had things to do, things to say. Things he'd never get to finish.

"Three months?" Abbot chuckles.

"His sabbatical," you answer, as if he didn't know.

"After adopting a baby? With a new attending he clearly disliked? Right. Sure thing," Jack replies, balancing the baby who now sniffles only. "If you think he'd last that long away, then you didn't know Robby."

It lands sharp. Maybe he meant it as a side comment instead of a remark, who knows?

It still fucking hurts.

How could you not know the man who took you in the first day, like seeing a good thing that deserved to be protected. That helped you study for your exams, lying about your whereabouts and turning off your pager so you could sneak into the alley behind the ambulance bay to review some things.

How could you not know the man who's eyes seemed to soften when speaking to you on the hallways, on the phone, on his couch. The one who told you things without saying them, things he'd probably never confess to anyone else out loud.

Because he knew you. And you knew him.

"Shut up," is all you say. Defensive, cutting.

You slam the bowl a little too hard on the counter.

"What did that poor bowl do to you?"

You decide to ignore him, and start looking around.

"You aren't going to feed her?"

You grant Abbot a look he doesn't deserve, but it's enough to notice his question doesn't come from annoyance but rather discomfort.

(The slight wince he hides but leaves his eye twitching. How he changes his weight to the left. The tired grunt that falls past his mouth after doing so. The slight limp and dip of his shoulder when he was tired of pretending.)

"Give her to me," before he can roll his eyes at your distrust, you add, "Is it your leg?"

He's surprised you remember, or maybe that you look concerned enough to care.

"Yeah. Just... Give me a minute."

He sits on the kitchen island's chairs. There are two, and he wonders if every time Robby saw it empty, he felt lonelier.

He hears you groan.

"I said a minute."

"No," you clarify, "Robby didn't buy a feeding chair."

He doesn't want to tell you it's quite obvious he wouldn't do it because you look stressed enough already. Then, an idea comes to his head. He tilts it slightly, in the kitchen island's direction.

"What? No. I am not sitting her in there."

He raises an eyebrow. "Would you rather put her in a chair and have her fall?"

You hate when Jack Abbot is right. You loathe the smug grin he wears when he realizes you give up.

"Just because there is no other choice."

As soon as touches the surface, she starts testing it with grabby hands, all previous signs of a tantrum vanishing in seconds.

"So no cool songs calm her but a foreign surface to touch."

"I'm sorry she didn't appreciate your songwriting skills," you grin.

He snorts, "You're not sorry at all."

The atmosphere turns lighter as you feed her with spoonfuls of the puree, some falling off her mouth. She looks adorable, and you feel your chest warm. For a moment, a rather silly thought crosses your head: you look like a family.

"What are you thinking on? Me?"

Oh, you'd rather die before admitting that out loud.

And by God, how much you hate when he acts this way. Flirty. Like saying and asking things like these is natural, by how effortless he makes it look. One time he said a healthy dosage of banter never hurt anyone, and in the ER, where death lurked every corner and exertion could drown a person, throwing in a pick up line could distract you from imminent burnout. So you know he doesn't mean it, but your brain forgets it and makes the tip of your ears burn, anyway.

"You think too much of yourself, Abbot. My head is filled with logistics."

"That would be her parents' problem," Jack replies in an instant.

You drop the spoon against the sink, the noise loud enough to cut.

"We are her parents," you answer between gritted teeth.

"Her guardians, and for now," he interjects. "Because, do teII me: you want to pursue a fellowship in UPMC, in Pedes. Where does she fit into your plans?"

It's a valid question, really. But right now, all you can think is how this baby needs you and how your heart sinks.

"I can't leave her, Jack. I won't," you pick her up. She buries her face in the crook of your neck. You hold her close, as if you can shield protect her from hurt. "I'm not giving up on her just because the rest of the world has. I refuse to abandon this baby like she's not worth at least trying. As long as I'm here, I'll never leave her alone."

There's a certain wetness over your eyes that has nothing to do with empathy. The crack in your voice speaks of a truth that's been years fraying around the edges of the mask you've carefully interwoven, each thread one secret unspoken you've told no other.

For a moment, he sees eyes full of fear; they are not the baby's.

He sighs, finding it's useless to keep on with this conversation for now. He'll find a way to make you reason, eventually.

"Do you honestIy think we're the best thing for her?"

"What I think," you whisper, voice gaining back that practiced strength. Fake it 'till you make it, "is we need to buy a feeding chair."

"Noted," he pretends to write a checklist in the air, "but what I really think we need to do, is give her an actual name. Fuckin' Robby... Couldn't take five damn seconds to think of one..."

"I thought I might find you here."

You like the stairs. They're silent, unlike the ones at high school: always full, the kissing couple here and the kids plotting mischief there. A couple joint smokers. Some guys who'd fallen asleep. But in The Pitt, no one has time for silly teenage dreams: if it's not because the elevator isn't working or it's full, the stairs descended or ascended―two by two, they're reserved for panic attacks. Not that frequent to be full, enough to be empty to be your place. If Robby and Abbot had the roof, you could take the stairs for yourself.

"Can you please tell me what was that back there?"

You run a hand through your face, chuckling tiredly.

"I've been told being R2 is a bitch. I think I underestimated it."

He can see the crack among your laugh. The little 'tsk' you do with when you've given up; to contain crying under sarcasm and witt.

He tilts his head, "That's not what I asked."

You look up. He wears that annoying smirk and stare that say he already knows you're lying yet will push you to spill the truth by yourself.

"What do you want me to do? Apologize? Say I'm sorry for yelling at that parent? That it was insensible?" you snort. "Because I won't."

He sighs tiredly, probably at your defiance. If it wasn't clear by now, you've proven to be quite the stubborn thing. To your surprise, his eyes glint with amusement.

"I knew you wouldn't," he confesses, sitting next to you. His joints creak and he groans at the effort, "I just want to know why."

"You're thinking too much about this. Shift caught up to you, chief?"

"I told you to stop calling me that, Robby's fine. And for your information, I'm perfect, which is why I can tell you're lying."

You scoff. "As if."

"You think I don't know my favorite resident well? She hides in the stairs when everything gets overwhelming. She also laughs a little too loud at Dr. Langdon's jokes and hides to study in the ambulance bay," you open your mouth to speak but he cuts you, "don't even try to lie about it."

A strange set of butterflies flutter in your chest at these things he's noticed. You're pretty sure your face heats.

"Someone's been paying attention."

He chuckles, a rare sight. "Someone's hard to ignore."

It's low, as if he only wants you to hear it―a gift. You feel the butterflies fly up your throat, choking you with feelings you can't name.

"Well, you aren't paying enough attention. Obviously Langdon and I are nothing but friends. Should I ask about you and Collins?"

He grins, crows feet in full display. "Woah, I see what you're doing. Don't worry, you're still my favorite resident."

"I hope you still remember that when she's in bed with you."

As soon as those words come out of your mouth, you hate them. Especially after his smile dims.

"Shit, I'm sorry, that was-"

He raises a hand to stop your incoming flurry of apologies, because you always rambled on when nervous.

"Abbot was right. You're pretty good at deflecting."

That leaves a sour taste in your mouth.

"I guess not that good if you can tell."

"I got carried a little bit by your game, so it works. And don't worry, me and Heather are nothing."

"You're on first name basis and want me to believe you're nothing?" you snort.

"I told you to call me Robby."

"Everyone does. It's not special," you pout your lips.

He shakes his head, hints of a laugh bubbling up his throat. "You're... something else."

"I hope that's a compliment, Mikey."

The laugh Robby let's out rattles you to the very marrow of your bones. It's a deep, grave sound that envelops you in velvet. It makes the creases on his face fade away, and for a moment, he's not Dr. Robinavitch, the man who carries the weight of the world on his shoulders: he's just a simple man laughing over nonsense like he's allowed.

"Nope, that's not happening."

"Why not? It's cute."

"It's embarrassing," as if to double down on the statement, his ears turn pink at the tips, "and a disruption to the system I've already established. Stick to Robby, like everyone else."

"I thought favorite residents had privileges."

"And I thought they had trust enough to tell me when something's wrong."

You blink, taken back.

"Wow, that was... Good. You got me there."

He says your name softly.

"I mean it," he reassures. "You can tell me anything, like why you told parents you'd call CPS."

"It's protocol."

"I don't remember it being kicking them out of their child's room while threatening to do it."

You breath shakily like a weight suddenly landed on top of your lungs.

"It reminded me of things," you gesture vagely, "that I rather not remember."

He tries to coax it out of you, "I know you're an empath but-"

You cut in harshly, "This has nothing to do with empathy-"

"... I need you to follow protocol. It exists for a reason-"

"Fuck protocol, I don't care. I knew what was right."

"You knew? Oh, spare me that bullshit!" he barks, "you can't just gut feel your way through the ER. Do you know how expensive a hunch could cost?!" his voice raises. "This hospital's credibility, your licence, lives!"

"I don't want him to end up like me!"

It's like the air leaves the room, leaving behind no space to breath―just an uncomfortable tightness that makes the walls look closer than they are.

Robby waits a beat to ask. Whispered, as if you're a little animal he doesn't want to scare.

"Like you...?"

You swallow the lump in your throat.

"Abandoned."

His eyes widen before softening.

"Do you... Do you want to talk about it?"

You hug yourself tightly, like that'll keep your falling pieces in place.

Where would you even start?

Crying on the doorstep, left behind. The big flurry of families walking, never choosing to linger around. Holidays watching people walk by, happy and together, envy coursing as you sat by the window―alone. On the last names that didn't felt right.

Because your mother left when you still needed a hand to guide you through life. Because there was never a father around. Grandparents who in shame, walked out; the others probably never found out.

You were like a ghost, who hid in corners to not disturb the living. Whose eyes haunted with a grief so big for a small kid who only wanted to be loved. Who never made any friends, hallways at school whispering with pity. What a sad story.

Medical school was different. Even if you'd never left Pittsburgh, it wasn't like back at your town. Here, you could steer away from being the abandoned child to someone who could make a difference, someone who could help.

"My mother left when I was six. She had no family that I knew of, so I ended up in foster care. I grew up alone, like these kids, even if their parents are around. I know neglect, I've felt how it can fuck you up. I made it out, but not everyone can say that. I just...," your voice breaks, like you've rehearsed this speech in your head a thousand times but never faced the consequences of saying it out loud, "...I want them to know they're not alone. That not everyone has given up on them."

Every time you saw their scared eyes, you saw yourself. You wanted to help them like you wished someone did for you. Jack had called it naive, but it sounded demeaning.

Instead, Robby says:

"I was abandoned too, by my mother."

You whip your head so fast, you might have cracked your neck.

"Don't look at me like that, it's true," he laughs bitterly. "I was eight when she left. Grandparents raised me. So, I guess, I'm lucky in a way."

He sounded everything but grateful saying that, like a part of him still resented the outcome. His hands play with the necklace under his clothes, fidgety.

"Do you believe in something?" he asks, suddenly.

"In people," you answer. "Some will call it naive."

He doesn't ask who. Doesn't say it is. Just whispers your name in a way no one has done before: like it's fragile, but not out of weakness, rather than it's the most precious thing and he wants to take the best care of it.

"You have a good heart," it beats fast at his words. "And while I'm against disrespecting rules that exist for a reason, I can't ask you to stop feeling. Try to... Reason it. People like you? We need them around here. Because saving people gives hope, but when there seems no way out, it's in hands like yours to remind us why we're here in the first place."

Up close, you can see the freckles and bags under his eyes, the slight crook of his nose, the grey hairs scattered across the dark. His wrinkles, and those brown orbs that seem in equal parts brave, others scared.

"To help?" you ask, dumbly.

He laughs. "I hope my improvised speech gave it away, but yeah. To help. Now," he stands up, joints silently aching again, "let's go. You won't be able to help anyone if you hide in here."

He extends his hand your way, hopeful. You look at it with certain apprehension.

"C'mon, kid. Don't leave me hanging."

You look at him, at the sincerity he oozes. A part of you falters.

"Alright. Let's do this," he sighs. "I'll promise you something."

You stare at him, dumbfounded, heart loud and pounding inside your ears.

"As long as I'm here, I'll never leave your side," he speaks so certain, your face and eyes burn. "I know it sounds crazy, inappropriate or like a love confession," you roll your eyes. "It's none. Just, us fucked up kids have to stick together, right? To prove we can have someone look out for us too."

Your lips wobble, and the eyes of today's kid that came with a burnt and parents who had no idea how it happened or where even there flashes in your head. Look at me, they said, I'm still your kid. Care for me. Love me.

"You want to love everyone, but you deserve to be loved too."

You don't realize you're crying until his own eyes shine too.

"It's too early to be crying, don't you think?" he laughs, blinking fast. Swallowing it down. Just like that, the vulnerability fades, and in front of you stands Dr. Robinavitch, the ER attending. Long gone is the man who almost shared a tear but didn't let himself do it, the one who promised to stay when many had chosen to leave.

He might as well never existed.

But when the hand reaches out again, the will of the promise sparks on his fingertips that reach to pull you out.

You want to love everyone, but you deserve to be loved too.

You wipe your face with the sleeve of your sweater before taking his hand in yours. It's warm, calloused from years of holding pens and patient's hands before they die.

"There we go. Better?"

You shrug, "Trying to get there."

"That's a good start." Robby looks like he's going to open the door, but stops himself. "Just so you know, I meant it before."

It's not quite a smile, but your mouth curves.

"I know."

"And there's also nothing going on between me and Collins, at least not anymore."

You bite back a smile at the change of topic and the importance he gives it, like you'll think less of him for whoring around the ER.

"Thanks for your confession. Perlah and Princess owe me some money now."

"Glad to be of help. Anything else?"

"Drop the subject. I told you it's fine, why do you keep insisting?"

"I don't know," but his eyes tell a different story. "See you out there?"

"Just give me a minute to gather myself."

He chuckles. "Alright, just don't keep me waiting."

And when Michael Robinavitch exits through the door, it's like a new world has opened in front of your eyes.

Piercing; loud. As if your wounded heart logged itself on your brain with it's broken fragments, dying pulse beating like a drum inside the confines of your worst enemy: your head.

Lola, look at me. Breathe.

You blink back tears at the memory. How much you'd give for him to come now, hold your trembling body down with his steady grip on your shoulder, speaking in that low voice of his for you to calm down, to come back to him. Look at you with those soft eyes he'd rarely show anyone else; bring you back from dark to light.

It's okay, just focus on me. Breathe.

The rasp and the fondness. The small chuckle at your hasty reply assuring you were fine.

Good. Can't afford to lose my best doctor.

You'd throw in a Take that, Langdon! for good measure, just to hear him laugh. Unguarded, like he didn't carry the weight of the world in his hands.

For a second, amid the chaos of the room, it was just two people in the staircase, sharing a laugh like the worst wasn't yet to come. As if you mattered enough to pull him out of the ship's helm, because saving all those people wasn't as rewarding as talking you out from the demons inside your brain.

You're good. Too good.

And you believed him like a lighthouse amid the storm; he was the anchor holding down this place from falling apart.

But he's not here anymore. You'll never feel the warmth of his comfort again.

Instead, all you feel is cold. So cold.

The ringing continues, crushing your skull down with the weight of raw, unprocessed feelings. You can feel them on your skin, all damp with sweat and dried streak of tears, that no amount of water can wash away.

The world doesn't stop spinning, not even when a familiar face shows up in the center, concern written all over her face.

"You alright, kid?"

You want to speak, but it's like there's a big knot on your throat pushing down all words. So you just shake your head softly, like any major effort will make you break apart.

She nods, comprehensive. Dana's always been like that.

"I miss him too, you know?"

You don't dare to say his name. It will only make it real.

That when you cross those doors, he won't be there to click his tongue with disapproval at the overly sweet coffee in your thermos. That he won't make fun of the Taylor Swift and pink stickers inside your locker. That in rooms, you won't be able to search his eyes again, won't find them staring back with a silent pride as you prove useful inside the ER.

And still, tomorrow would be another day and another shift at The Pitt; the sick don't rest. All the same but so painfully different.

Because life goes on, and yet, you can't imagine going back to a world where he isn't around.

Your voice comes out raw from the screams that never made it past your mouth. Tired of the sleepless night after the call.

"What are we going to do?"

She gives you half a smile. "What we always do: Find a way to make it work out."

You hold back a sob with a shaky exhale. She extends her arms in a silent offer.

So you let her hug you, trying to swallow the truth:

Dr. Robinavitch was gone, and there was nothing in this world that could bring him back.

"Imagine being abandoned twice at this age."

"Trinity!" Javadi calls out between her teeth, "don't say that."

The baby coos, looking adorable in her little black dress (courtesy of Dana's daughter) for a moment so grim.

"What? It's not my fault." She holds her finger out and the baby takes it, gurgling. "I'm not the one adopting knowing I'm going to kill myself."

Javadi's eyes wide in shock. Dennis gives her a hard look.

"It was an accident."

"Kahit anong sabihin mo," she mumbles under her breath. (whatever you say)

Whitaker crosses his arms. "I hope that means you're sorry."

"No. It means Congratulations, you just won a sad bachelor pad by default."

Before he can reply, Javadi elbows him. He looks confused and angry at the interruption for a perfect jab back before realizing what, or rather who, she meant.

"Glad to see your humor is still intact."

Trinity jumps slightly at the new voice that's joined.

She smiles tightly as she greets you. "Hey, Lola."

They all share a look. It's Javadi who dares to ask.

"Are you okay?"

You sigh, tiredly. "Been better."

They nod slowly, like any rougher movement might frighten you; shatter that mask that's holding back a broken woman. They most likely had seen you and Dana a few minutes before.

You avoid their careful gaze and look around. There are a lot of faces you recognize, some out of respect, like Dr. Adamson's family and Dr. Garcia; others devoted despite it all, like Jake and Langdon; conflicted, as Samira and Baran; bittersweet, like Collins, who drove all the way from Portland as soon as she got the news. Loving, like Dana: people who saw all your flaws and decided you were still worth of being cared for.

You wonder in which category you fall.

That's when you see him, the one you hadn't even dared to think about.

He moves through the crowd, greeting both coworkers and strangers alike, showing the manners of a perfect gentleman while wearing a face that says nothing except a composure years in the making, carefully crafted to keep every emotion in bay before buried wounds and old feelings drown him.

"Excuse me," you say as he makes his way to your group, fleeing the scene. You're glad none of the trio asks, much like the rest of the staff.

Golden Rule of The Pitt #12: Whatever animosity goes on between you and Dr. Jack Abbot, it's none of their business.

Theories have flown here and there, mostly from Perlah and Princess, but not one was close to reality. It was, if anything, a simple truth: opposites don't match well.

You thought his coolness didn't paint him as an emotionally intelligent man but rather a detached, unapproachable one. He viewed your optimism, naive and felt your need for control was a disrespect to the hierarchy and interrupted the seamless flow of teamwork. His purposelessness outside the hospital in which he carelessly and emptily lived his life made you think of him less. He found your need for approval pitiful, how you'd lie and hide your ambition behind false humbleness.

Jack knows he can't save everyone, even if he tries his best with every live that walks into the ER. You think you can, not only to prove him wrong, but because you've always thought that way.

You see Langdon by the food, trying to quiet down his kids by bribing them with the tray of pastries while Abby mingles with a group of people nearby.

He balances Penny on one arm while trying to stop Tanner from raiding the brownie tray Princess baked.

"Need some help?"

Langdon raises his gaze to meet you, eyes softening. You wonder if it's your palpable grief or the bond that despite everything that happened the last 10 months, hasn't been broken.

"Suit yourself."

You choose to carry Penny, because dealing with a toddler that'll cry if you say no isn't a thing you want to add to today's list of stress.

"How are you doing?" you ask before he gets the chance to question you first.

"Trying to swallow it," he admits, running a hand through his hair. "I mean, I just came back... It's hard to believe. There's so much I wanted to say, but now he's-"

He trails off, reality speaking for itself.

"I know," you force the words out. "It's not easy."

"And how are you doing? I know this is..." he cuts off, trying to find an appropriate word. You avoid his gaze by bopping Penny's nose and attempt to distract yourself with her tiny infectious laugh.

"I'm fine," you interrupt smoothly.

"If you say so," he crosses his arms. "Hey, who do you think will replace Robby?"

No one. Never.

Other one of the things you rather not dwell on. Anybody else on his shoes feels... Wrong.

It's probably all over your face by the way he backtracks.

"I meant his position", Langdon clarifies. "You and I know that place needs an iron grip so it doesn't fall apart."

He gives you a look that's meant to measure you.

"Think Al-Hashimi is going to step in? Heard she petitioned for two attendings for the day shift, though. For better control or something like that."

You raise an eyebrow.

"What are you implying, Dr. Langdon?"

"All I'm saying is there's three senior residents about to finish their residency. Any chance administration might fish from their pool?"

"You're delusional," you snort, "there is no way you catch up to Cassie and me."

He raises his hands in mock surrender.

"I'm fast."

You chuckle, "All right, McQueen. Hit those breaks, will you?"

Frank doesn't desist. "Maybe Collins? I don't know if she got a job in Portland, but do you think they'll call her back? You know Gloria always favored her."

"Jealous?" you quip.

"Slightly." Langdon sighs. "Or hey, maybe it's you."

A small pressure settles in your chest.

"Me?"

"C'mon, Lola. No need to be humble," the young man teases. "Robby respected you. I wouldn't be surprised if he placed your name on his will somewhere," he jokes. When you don't laugh, he sighs. "I'm being serious. He mentioned you to administration almost on a daily basis. Hell, he probably already wrote your recommendation letter."

He says it with a bitter undertone, from his memories. It also brings some of yours too.

But they're fresh, exactly from two nights ago.

People are afraid of hospitals. You, having spent half your life in them, aren't. What you're scared of, is the dark. When the voices inside get too loud. And, a place you never thought you'd step a foot on if you could help it: a police station.

"I'm here for Dr. Robinavitch," you say, trying to keep your voice steady and emotions in bay.

You knew it from the start, that ugly feeling that sank right into your stomach. You came as fast as you could, interrupting your well earned bath after another week at The Pitt, trying not to think on anything and anyone.

But when the officer's face settles into a trained expression, your fears come true.

Motorcycle. An accident. Death.

"We found this among the wreckage. Our agent on the scene guessed it felt from his backpack," he sighs, "it's got your name on it."

In ink, the promise he made. One he'll never voice out. You don't know what hurts more: that he wrote it by hand or that these are his last words for you.

This wrinkled piece of paper: his last gift without meaning to.

No goodbyes. You know he hated them, but it'd be nice to get one.

To see him one last time. Maybe convince him to stay―try harder. Make up a case you need him on so he didn't go. Anything.

Anything if it meant Michael Robinavitch lived to see one more day.

"I'm sorry," is all the officer says.

When he finds you, your grief and shock have settled into silent tears. He calls your name softly, like that one time years ago.

You don't know what compells you to do it: the weight of emotions or the fact you're the only two people Robby had in the world, both contacts logged under emergency on his phone. Maybe you don't want to deal with this pain that cuts right through you alone.

So you fall into him, arms snaked around his body. He's strong; steady. And when he hugs you back, tentative and weary at first, fully when he realizes you need it, you think his hold is the reason you don't fall apart and break into million pieces right now.

"It's okay," Jack whispers, soothingly. His grip doesn't waver once. "We'll be okay."

"Maybe Dr. Abbot takes his place."

That snaps you out of your thoughts. You tried hard not to go back to it, but you did. Probably this is the real reason you didn't want to find him particularly today: you're embarrassed you fell into the arms of a man you hated because you were vulnerable. It doesn't matter it was just a hug.

The face you make must be very transparent, because when Frank replies, he says:

"Sorry, remembered you two aren't exactly friends."

The change of topic works to lift the pressure in your chest a little, annoyance overtaking pain. Regardless, you shoot a murderous look his way.

"He's fine in the night shift. Don't see why he'd be moved to ours."

You'd never hear the end of it if anyone in the hospital found out. You willingly hugged Jack Abbot, even if you weren't exactly completely clear in the head.

You did, and that's that.

(You obviously won't mention the fact that his smell―of clean laundry and wheat soap, had rubbed off on you, smelling him hours after that horrible visit to the Central, strong enough to soothe you into sleep. Or that his arms had caged you, letting you bear all your weight on him, despite initial reluctance on his side. Nope, you're taking it to your grave)

"Okay, princess, relax. Did using the F word piss you off? My bad."

You lean to Penny, whispering. "Your dad is being dumb."

She laughs because your breath tickles. The eldest too since the word dumb sounds fun.

"Don't discredit me in front of my kids!" he loudly whines.

It is then when Abby rejoins you, probably drawn by the sound of laughter. After small talk with her, she takes Penny from you as you excuse yourself.

This time, you walk to the front yard. Most people are inside, mostly coworkers, some patients even. You sigh, unpacking a box of cigarettes and lighting one with trembling hands.

You take a drag while looking back at the house. You wonder if Robby ever felt alone, between walls so big and empty. If when he bought it, he thought about a wife and kids.

"Didn't know you smoked."

You turn around, finding Jack staring at you, hands on his pockets. He looks weird, seeing him only on scrubs so far, maybe the military attire once or twice, as he now wears a plaid formal shirt and black slacks. The top strains on his arms and over the middle, due to his muscles and thick body.

You want to say Thank you for helping me set this up, or anything remotely similar to express your gratitude, but no words push past your mouth. Except a quick, dry retort.

"Just in emergencies," you reply cooly.

He nods. "I see. Didn't pin you for a smoker, thought."

You take a drag. "Is that so?"

"You love control," he chuckles dryly. "My idea of an addiction is quite the opposite."

"I said it was occasional," you bite.

He shrugs, "Never said otherwise."

You're about to argue back when you realize the day's already been as awful as it is and you don't have the energy to keep up a fight.

"What will happen to the house?" you ask.

He tilts his head, taking in the big suburban building.

"Probably will go on sale. It's too expensive," Jack says. "Must be written on his will."

"What the hell was Robby thinking about when he bought it?" you muse out loud.

Jack chuckles. "Only he knows."

You think of the times you've been here: the way the living room catches the first rays of sun on its wooden floorboards, the kitchen full of too many compartments for a single solitary man, the garden with plants he did water but only because you set an alarm on his phone, or the bedroom door that creaked each time it got stuck. The soft thick sheets of his bed.

"Perhaps because it felt like a home," you say softly, throat tight.

Jack chooses wisely to not add anything to your comment. But it sits right there, at the tip of his tongue. Before Abbot gets to even open his mouth, another person disturbs your one on one time.

"Thank God I found you. Someone told me you'd be here."

You both turn at the same time to where the voice comes, from the front door.

The woman smiles, wide, like no amount of misery could kill her professional image.

"Just the two people I was looking for."

You exchange a look.

"Can we talk inside?" she asks.

Abbot replies. "After everyone leaves. Do you think we can do that?"

She shrugs. "I have time."

"Good," the older man smiles, all ease and manners. "Do you want a brownie?"

Noelle Hastings isn't a bad person, but you can't bring yourself to like her.

Her presence unnerves you: because where others see reassurance in her confidence, they see ego behind your own. She was an excellent case worker and you were just a resident who thought of herself a little too high.

And she doesn't like you either, judging by how, as she talks, she only addresses Jack. Rarely throws a look your way; it's fleeting at best.

"I'm sure this is a very difficuIt time for you, obviousIy. Everyone at PTMC," she motions with her hands, "We'll miss Dr. Robinavitch very much."

You squirm in the sofa. As of now, its soft leather isn't providing any comfort.

"Now. you must have many questions."

"Why you?" you cut in, brash. "Robby must've had a lawyer."

"He did. Does," she winces after correcting herself. "They just thought it would be better to have a familiar face deliver the news."

You laugh under your breath in disbelief. She ignores you.

"The house," Jack speaks first, not before shooting a look your way that reads Behave.

"Right, finances. The estate will cover the mortgage, and since Michael had some savings of his own, well, I think that'd make easier the custody."

You both nod, understanding.

Wait.

"Did- Sorry, did you just say custody?"

"Don't worry, I have aIready arranged for her transfer. After today, her foster famiIy will take her until next morning. Then bring her to CPS."

What. The. Fuck. Is. Happening.

"Child Protective Services?" you gasp, brain running a mile while trying to process what she's talking about.

This better be a joke. A sick joke, but a prank nonetheless.

Yeah, in any minute, Mateo will jump from the big plant pot near the door and Santos will laugh as she records from her phone. Javadi will upload a TikTok making fun of you. There's no baby or whatever Noelle is saying. Nothing can get any worse.

"They feeI she'II adjust best in her own environment... So, first, she needs to be picked up and brought back in here."

You remember the baby on the crib as you interrupted the trio. Was that the one Noelle is talking about?

"I'm sorry, Noelle, but I have to stop you right there," Abbot, who had been awfully quiet, resumes. His voice sounds even, not quick like your own, panicked. But, on the color of his eyes, you pick up the all too well glint of adrenalinen; the way he's containing his rage, surprise, confusion and like your own, fear.

"Why? Is there a problem?"

It's you who speaks, "This doesn't make sense."

She gives you both a look that's too much like concern, and then settles back on her couch as if she just figured something out.

"Oh, wow. Okay... I see."

As she fixes her hair off from her face, Abbot speaks again.

"Can you enlighten us, if you're so kind?"

"I'm sorry. Did Robby not tell you anything about this?"

You're afraid of the answer. "Tell us what?"

"Guardianship arrangements."

Okay, this day could definitely get so much worse.

Guardianship? Baby? Robby involved? Jack and you on the mix?

There better be an explanation that's not you going insane from grief.

Your answer comes at the same time: "No."

She presses her lips into a thin line.

"Well, according to his lawyer, Robby sat him down earlier this week to fix his will, about who would take care of the baby in the, um, unlikely event that, you know... He passed."

A heavy silence settles. She breaks it.

"Well, he named you. Both of you."

It's a nightmare. When you wake up and walk into your shift, a text from Robby and where his motorcycle has taken him will arrive. No mention of a mysterious baby or anything crazy like that.

"But, Noelle..." Jack's voice pauses, like his brain too is stuck trying to function and at the same time, understand what's going on. "Robby- He didn't have any kids..."

For the first time, she addresses you directly.

"Do you remember baby Jane Doe? From about four days ago."

"Baby Jane Doe?" Jack parrots.

Your brain scrambles for information.

Baby. Triage. Bathroom. Pedes. Dana asking who could foster her.

"Shit," you curse. "Wait, what does this have to do with her?"

Abott throws his arms up with exasperation.

"Who are we talking about? Seriously."

"Day shift shenanigans," you fake disinterest, pretending to check your nails. Then, you ask Noelle. "What about her?"

"Robby adopted baby Jane Doe."

You feel you're about to throw up.

"I know this is overwheIming, beIieve me. Even I advised him against it-"

"When did this happen?" you interrupt.

Noelle sighs.

"Before he left for his sabbatical. He probably didn't want her to end up going to any family, I don't know. So he started the adoption process, at least enough to leave her under his name so she'd stay in foster care while he was away but guaranteed she wouldn't end up going anywhere else."

Jack nods silently. Your hands clasp over your lap with a force so tight, your knuckles are turning white.

"You know what I told him before he left?" she speaks again, "see you in a week. I knew he'd be back, and perhaps sooner because of the baby. And now, he's-"

She doesn't finish the sentence. It's better for everyone. Taking a deep breath, she forces herself back into professional mode.

"But there are options. You can say no, because this is a big deaI. This is a chiId. Big commitment."

"No shit," you snort. "Tell that to Robby and his altruistic bullshit or whatever compelled him to pull this trick."

Abbot looks at her, as if telling Noelle to focus on him and ignore you.

"Options. You mentioned them. What are some other options?"

"His parents could be a good one," she suggests.

"Perfect!" you clap your hands together, like that ends the conversation and transfers the problem to someone else.

But Jack shakes his head slowly, heavily sighing.

"I'm afraid that can't happen."

You want to ask why, but it feels invasive to. While he knew a lot about your life outside the ER, Robby never really spoke about his. It's a topic you learned to avoid since you saw how his face hardened when you reminisced fondly of your family, like he was holding a long grudge or grief he didn't know what to do with.

"Cousins? Any other family?"

Jack shakes his head again. Noelle and you look equally surprised.

It falls in the room, heavy: both of you never knew who Michael Robinavitch really was.

"What if..." you break the silence, "one of us, on our own, by ourseIves... Chose to honor Robby's wishes?"

Jack adds, "Or both of us. HypotheticaIIy."

You roll your eyes. Not only is the prospect of having a baby in less than 24 hours very much real but also Jack Fucking Abbot wants to insert himself in the picture. With you. Side by side. It's ridiculously infuriating.

"They named you," Noelle explains, "so I just set up a court hearing. In the meantime, may I suggest something?"

You snort, "Can't be any worse than what I've already heard."

"I imagine, logically, your apartments aren't child safe. So, can I suggest the two of you move in here in the interim? For the baby."

Alright, you've had enough. By the way Jack's hand find your thigh and pats it, he probably can tell you're about to explode. It's amazing he remembers the telltale signs after three years.

"You want us to Iive together? Here?" your eyes widen in disbelief at the nerve as you laugh, incredulous. "What makes you think Robby's sad bachelor pad is any better than our places?"

"He had started making the modifications," she replies, defensive.

"Oh, wow. Did he also tell you the color he'd paint the baby's room? So we can buy the correct shade."

She ignores you. "It's the best for the baby, or at least, until you decide what you want to do."

Noelle grabs her briefcase and pulls out a neatly graped file.

"All you need to do is sign here."

It tumbles out of your mouth before you can even regulate it.

"You're fucking crazy if you think I'm going to sign it."

"Lola-"

Why the fuck did she call you that? It feels a profanity to the nickname. Did Robby tell her the story behind? On his bed or just passing by?

Your grief―the sadness you've felt all day now turns into something uglier, meaner.

"No, I'm sorry. You're not guilt tripping me into doing this because Robby decided to have a last minute heroic moment," you scoff. "What kind of sick fucking cruel farewell gift is this?"

Noelle adopts the tone she uses when patients are being stubborn.

"I think we should calm down-"

"Calm down? Calm down?!" you shout. "You are about to drop a baby on me and expect me to be understanding and sweet?"

"I said you could not-"

"Right. So then I have everyone up my throat because I didn't respect Robby's last wish? Because I let a poor baby end up with God knows who?" you spit. "And why do you keep calling her Jane Doe?"

"Not all her papers were done by the time he left," she answers flatly.

You feel frustration bubbling up your throat.

"Oh, okay," you laugh bitterly. "So, Robby has time to fill out paperwork that legally dumps this burden on us but can't bother to name her?"

Jack says your name like a warning.

"No!" you reject his order to calm down. "I'm a senior resident, weeks away from finishing my residency. I barely have time to take care of myself, let alone a baby," you speak with quick, angry words. "A-And Jack here- He's fifty. He works the night shifts and has a penchant for getting shot at on his second job as a SWAT physician."

"Stop talking like I'm not here," he cuts in, tone neutral. Still, the icyness in between doesn't go unnoticed by you and Noelle.

"What I'm trying to say," you focus back on her, "is that we're not fit for this. We don't have time or the necessary skills to do it."

"I think," she speaks carefully, "that he chose you both for a reason."

"The fucking reason being he didn't have anybody else!" Jack tries to make you sit down, but you roughly swat his arm away. "Don't you see? They're trying to put a baby on us like it's just another one of his sad stupid house plants to water. This is a kid, for God's sake. That's- At least eighteen years taking care of someone!" you burst. "Like, a person. A whole ass person. And you want me to sit here, smile and accept it like I'm some martyr? Fuck you," you spit, "whatever this circus is, I don't want to be part of it."

Noelle stands too.

"Those were his wishes, Lola."

Not only does she use the nickname again, but this time with a tone that oscillates in between demeaning and condescending. It gets under your skin.

"Forgive me I'm not a saint for accepting a child with open arms," you scoff. But it doesn't stop there. You feel the venom pour out, little having to do with today's emotional burnout. "Also, why do you care? Because he fucked you a couple of times?"

Jack's voice cuts through the air like thunder.

"Enough!" he shouts. You'd never seen him this angry before. Not even in the ER, back to when he was still your boss, able to keep calm among the chaos. Now, there's a vein on his forehead and disapproval written on his face to the point it darkens his features. He's even angrier than that time, three years ago. "I know you're frustrated, but this isn't the right thing to do. Noelle isn't to blame."

She looks like she silently thanks Abbot's intervention. Out of shame, you refuse to meet her eyes, but you catch the shade of red humiliation on her face anyway.

"If you don't want to follow what's stated on his will, you'll have to go to court, like I said" she speaks firmly. "That's the way it is."

At your silence, Jack takes the floor for both of you.

"Thanks for speaking to us. We... We will talk about it," he stands up, offering his hand for her to take, "and I'll let you know when we're ready to have a proper conversation."

He casts a sideway glance at you.

"Right now... Maybe it's not the best time."

She nods curtly, taking his hand.

"Of course, just let me know. You have my number."

Noelle walks out the house with Abbot following behind. Then, she stands at the door and looks back one last time.

"I'm sorry."

Before you ask her for what, Hastings is gone.

Jack sighs, closing the door. He then turns to you.

"Do I need to tell you how unprofessional and rude that was?"

You get up, making a beeline to where Robby kept his stash of whiskey.

"Save your lectures for someone who cares, Abbot."

You feel it coming back, but you push the throbbing to the back of your head.

"There was no reason for you to lash out on her like that. She's not to blame."

"She'll survive a few mean words, Noelle's a big girl," you scorn. "Besides, it's not her life that's getting ruined."

"You didn't want kids?"

You take a long sip from your drink. "Not like this, and not with you. No offense."

A faint smirk adorns his lips as he raises his hands in mock defeat.

"Can't blame you."

A beat passes before he continues.

"So, what do you think?"

"That even when gone, Robby keeps finding ways to fuck me up," you mumble through a humorless laugh.

Your eyes sting. The left side of your head begins to pulse.

You can't breathe, falling from light to dark. Jack's face becomes blurry, and all you see through tear stained eyes is him, frantically moving, trying to get to you.

But you're far, deep inside. You can't speak, chest constricted, as if you're underwater.

You're drowning.

Because nobody tells you one day you'll say goodbye to a person without knowing you'll never see them again. That one day they're here, and next, they're gone.

That you'll have to organize his funeral because he's got no one else left in this world.

That you'll have to take care of a baby he decided to adopt without knowing he'd die before he even got to name her.

That the one person you thought you could trust didn't tell you this.

If you can't relate to him, then who are you related to?

You're alone in this world, left to rot―let it fester in a city where his face haunts every corner.

"Hey. Hey! Focus," he calls you. "Look at me!"

Your eyes blink, taken back by the scream, and there he is.

Among the fog: Jack Abbot. A light. Steady in ways he shouldn't be. Forcing himself to act strong because you can't, even if the fear circles inside his eyes, and someone has to.

You feel his hand on your shoulder, with the warmth of a mentor. A friend.

"I told you we'll be okay before, and I mean it." Jack takes your hand in his and whispers your name like a promise. "We'll get through this."

Nobody tells you what to do when there's light at the end of the tunnel, but you know you won't make it.

When you can't compartmentalize your feelings any longer because things keep getting worse.

When those feelings explode and you're left a crying mess, gasping for air on a world that doesn't let you breathe.

But, most importantly, nobody tells you that, one day, the only person who sees you, is the one you hate: The one who cradles you into his arms because you'll fall apart if someone doesn't hold you, and whispers in your ear assurances like he means them, as if hugging you is natural and not a favor.

As if he cares about you enough to forget all diatribes and snarky comments. To forget he once used to be your mentor before it went sour. Before the bitterness and the distance. Before you changed nights to days. Before you forgot how easy it was to read him and know what went in his head. When he could tell what went through yours.

It's good he's forgotten or chosen to: Dr. Jack Abbot must not know this might be the last thing keeping you sane on Earth.

When Jack pulls away, standing as if to put some distance after being too close twice this week, you feel a tiny flutter store itself between your ribs.

"C'mon," he extends his hand your way; a second chance, "we have to prepare this house."

Lucky for you, a wedding is exactly the kind of bustling event that can keep your mind occupied with other things.

You can't afford to get distracted by work, or by your latest manuscript, which has been giving you a massive headache these past few days. Nor can you dwell on what will become of you after all this is over. The choice between staying in Austin or moving back to New York has haunted you for the last week, and you were just about to sit down and make a pros and cons list.

But you can’t think about that. You shouldn't, really.

Weddings are fun if you know how to make the most of them. Especially if you aren’t the one getting married. The truth is, after spending weeks tagging along with Yov and Santi here and there, listening to all the wedding prep, you actually considered taking an anxiety pill.

Having a planner helps, it helps a lot. But some things just can't be allowed to slip through your fingers. At the end of the day, the bride and groom have the final say, which means things can get incredibly stressful, incredibly fast. But in the end, it will all be worth it.

Austin, October 8, 2026

I wonder if Mr. Darcy will recognize the smell of home right away. I wonder if I’ll realize just how much I’ve missed it these past few months.

I want to see everyone.

Everyone.

"Oh my gosh, you’re finally here!"

Emma crashed right into you, wrapping her arms around your neck before you could even flash a full smile. Her hair smelled like coconut.

"I'm here," you laughed, hugging her back. "I've missed you so much."

"Me too," she squeezed, tight enough to fuse her ribs with yours. Then, resting her hands on your shoulders, she stepped back just an inch. "You smell amazing!"

"I was literally just thinking the same thing about you!"

Emma laughed.

All around you, people streamed in and out of the airport, hauling heavy suitcases and overstuffed bags. It was a gorgeous day; the sky was clear and bright, the air surprisingly crisp. Nearby, a couple was reuniting with a warm embrace and a few perfectly public appropriate kisses. It was a sweet scene, but not enough to pull your eyes away from your friend's face.

The drive home was quick and fun. Inside Emma’s car, it smelled clean and citrusy, and a Lana Del Rey song was going through the speakers. She had picked up two coffees, one for each of you, and you sipped yours while hearing her repeat you can be the boss, daddy, you can be the boss over and over again, wrinkling her nose every time her sunglasses slid down the bridge.

In the back seat, Mr. Darcy was sitting in his crate, remarkably quiet and relaxed. You could already tell he’d turned into a true New Yorker.

"Darcy is gonna be so happy to be home. Here he can climb up onto the kitchen window sill. I'm sure he misses watching people walk by on the street," you said, and the image of the cat pressed against the glass in the warm sunlight flashed through your mind.

"Mhm, that’s true. In New York people probably looked like tiny little ants, didn't they?"

You smiled. "They did."

Emma’s cheeks bunched up into a soft smile, and she glanced over at you for a second.

"Okay, and what did you miss?"

"Now that I’m actually here? I feel like I missed everything. I didn’t really notice it over there." You looked out the window, the rush of air brushing the strands of your hair against your neck. A deep sigh escaped your chest. "Have you heard anything about Francisco?"

You had managed to keep your simmering curiosity under wraps during your entire stay in New York. You hadn’t asked about him when Emma came to visit a few weeks ago, nor had you brought him up to Santi (or anyone) over the phone.

You mastered that control for months, all through the flight to Austin, and during the first twenty minutes after Emma picked you up. But as the landscape grew closer and more familiar, you simply had to ask.

You turned to look at her almost immediately.

"Frankie?" she asked.

You offered a faint smile. "I doubt I know any other."

"Right, who else?" She rolled her eyes playfully. She paused for a few seconds as the traffic light ahead shifted to red, bringing the car to a smooth stop. "He’s doing good. He's here in Austin, actually."

Your stomach did a complete flip. "Already? When did he get back?"

Emma pursed her lips to the side. "Like, a month ago?"

You raised a single eyebrow. "Really?"

She sighed. "He moved back to Austin last month."

"Emma."

"With Luna and Jamie."

You pressed your back against the seat, watching the scenery flash past the window as a hundred different thoughts raced through your mind. Yet, you didn't let yourself dwell on any of them for too long, only managing to say,

"Well, that makes sense."

"It does," Emma agreed.

"And where are they staying? With Helena?"

"At first, yeah, all three of them. I think Luna and Jamie are still there with her, but Frankie already moved out."

"Oh, he didn't go back to his place?"

She shook her head. "No. He actually put his house on the market and found a spot out in Circle Ranch. The guys helped him move in last week."

Okay. Recalculating.

Recalculating…

"Oh. I… That's… nice. Circle Ranch?"

"Yeah," Emma smiled, glancing over at you with raised eyebrows. "I never pinned Frankie as the type to go for the whole white-picket-fence and a dog kind of vibe."

"Does he have a dog now?"

"No," she laughed. "But it’s that kind of neighborhood, you know?"

You smiled and turned your gaze back to the window.

"Maybe he got used to the Boston suburbs and wanted something similar," you suggested.

"Maybe."

Whatever the reason behind Frankie's move, you felt good about it. You knew his old house was a bit crowded with painful heavy memories that he probably didn't care to relive. You knew he was completely sick of his next door neighbor too, Clint, who always parked right in front of his driveway and blasted his music way too loud. Or the dog from across the street that constantly wandered into his front yard to do its business on the freshly cut grass.

You were genuinely happy for him.

"C'mon, baby, c'mon out."

As you unlatched the little door to Darcy’s crate, you watched his curious eyes take in the surroundings. His tiny nose twitched upward, his eyes narrowing as he sniffed, instantly recognizing his home.

A second later, he stepped out with confidence, raising his tail high in a friendly greeting.

If you had a tail, you’d be doing the exact same thing, because oh, how incredibly happy you were to be back.

You hadn’t realized just how much you’d missed this place until you walked through the front door. Your living room was completely bathed in sunlight, the half-drawn orange curtains cast a warm glow into every corner, and there was a wonderful scent in the air that you definitely had Emma to thank for; she had been looking after the place, keeping it perfectly neat and tidy.

You grabbed your suitcase and rolled it into your bedroom, where your bed was neatly made and the floors practically gleamed as the sunlight hit your feet.

Unzipping it, you began to gradually unpack your things. Emma walked in just a moment later, holding a mug of freshly brewed tea for you and one for herself in the other hand. She set yours down on the nightstand.

"So, what do you wanna do today?" she asked.

You looked up at her, gently biting your tongue without realizing it.

"Well, first things first, I need to go get my car."

"Want me to drive you?"

You scoffed playfully. "Obviously. Is Will home?"

"He gets back at one."

"Oh, okay. Wanna eat something?"

"Yeah," she said, plop down on the edge of the bed. "I’ll order something, and we can just crash on the couch and watch some TV like the good ol' days, baby."

You smiled, your eyes crinkling. "Yes, please. I have missed doing that with you so much."

Emma hummed. "My butt has missed sitting next to yours, too."

You laughed. "Friends? How does that sound?"

She pointed a finger at you. "Yes! And since we are officially in wedding mode, we have to watch season seven."

"Yes!" You raised your eyebrows. "We should watch Monica and Chandler’s wedding and then Phoebe and Mike's!"

"Yeah," she grinned, her eyebrows knitting together playfully. "And let's get ice cream too. Will can wait!"

A wide smile spread across your face, and your chest swelled with warmth.

You were finally home.

Sometimes, getting involved with your brother’s best friend can be the best decision you ever make in your life. You might end up living together in a beautiful house with two gorgeous babies, getting married in one of the highest rated television episodes of the era. You could be, as the kids say these days, couple goals. The total package. The sarcastic funny guy and the girl with a few control issues who (for somewhat obvious reasons) manage to blend and complement each other perfectly. It can be beautiful and lasting and solid.

And in other cases, it can be downright complicated. Because sometimes, getting involved with your brother’s best friend can be a beautiful dream, right up until you find yourself sitting in front of the TV, watching Chandler and Monica’s wedding, and all you want to do is cry.

But you swallow it down. You suppress it because next to you, Emma is shooting you subtle suspicious glances; she knows you far too well not to realize this might be stirring up things buried deep inside your chest. But more than that, you fight it back because you simply don’t want to feel it. Not deeply. Because you know that very soon, at any given moment, you are going to see him again. You don’t know when or where, but you know it’s going to happen. And so, inside your mind, there is a tiny stopwatch with blurred numbers rapidly counting down the time until your eyes meet his once more.

Even the best couples have weak moments.

"Honestly, Chandler’s panic kind of ruins the whole thing," Emma said, lounging next to you with her head resting on your shoulder. "I hate that he doubts it. It ruins everything."

On the screen, Chandler is caught completely off guard by a phone call that refers to him and Monica as Mr. and Mrs. Bing. He makes a whole show of panicking, wanting to run away.

"It’s normal to be scared sometimes," you said.

"I wouldn’t want my fiancé doubting things like that at our wedding. I mean, it would make me question absolutely everything. I hate that choice the writers made. I feel like it’s not Chandler at all."

"Really?" You smiled. "Not Chandler at all?"

"No, why? You don't think so? C'mon."

"No, no, it's just, I mean," you sat up a little straighter, "I get it, but throughout the entire show Chandler has always had insecurity and commitment issues—"

"But we watched all his progress, and it was a long clear arc."

"Yeah but it’s completely normal that even though he's progressed and everything, he still has weak moments from time to time. Especially when it comes to something as huge as a wedding," you laughed.

"Mmh. I dunno. I don't like it. Would you want Santi doubting marrying Yov right before they do it? Would you want your future husband doubting marrying you right before you walk down the aisle?"

"But Chandler didn't doubt marrying Monica; he just got scared, that’s all. He didn't want to run away because he wasn't sure about her; he just panicked about taking such a huge step and didn't know what to do. He watched his parents' relationship fall apart, then went through the whole divorce and everything else. He has a history of commitment issues and the underlying fear that marriage might ruin the good thing he already has with Monica."

"But he literally talked to her just days before about how happy he was to spend the rest of his life with her. It makes no sense."

"It does make sense, Em," you said, looking at her. "You can't completely erase decades of trauma overnight. I mean, he thought their relationship was over after their very first argument until she had to assure him that’s not how things work. The man had avoidant attachment!"

Emma sighed. "I'm still not buying it, sorry."

"I'm sorry, you're telling me you're not buying it? You? The exact same woman who panicked because her boyfriend wanted to spend more time with her and almost considered breaking up with him over it?"

"Will wanted us to move in together!"

"So? All you had to do was tell him no!"

"And I did tell him no," she said, looking at you with a grin. "And we talked it through. I didn't dump him! It's not the same thing."

"I know it's not the same thing, but still, commitment issues are commitment issues."

"Alright, sweetheart, alright."

"You were on the verge of buying a ticket to Yemen at any second."

Laughing, you gave her arm a playful nudge and turned your attention back to the TV.

Time ticked away, minute by minute, as the sunlight shifted across the floor and walls, brushing against every corner until, almost without realizing it, you rested your head against Emma's and closed your eyes.

"I always fall asleep when I'm with you," you teased, buckling your seatbelt in Emma’s passenger seat. "I dunno what it is about you."

"But you needed it, didn't you?"

She started the car engine just as you flashed a smile.

"Maybe."

When you had finally woken up earlier, your mouth was wide open, drooling a little, while Emma was right beside you snoring deeply and completely fast asleep. In your lap, Mr. Darcy had been curled up like a little ball.

It was nearly two in the afternoon by the time you both decided it was time to go get your car. According to Emma, Will would be at his place, and when you told her to let him know the two of you were headed over, she simply said,

"No need, I know he'll be there."

Her relationship updates hadn't changed much since the last time you asked about them two weeks ago. They were still getting along well, really well, and now she had finally admitted to herself that she was in love.

That was an incredibly huge step for Emma, so neither of you was making a big deal out of it. You knew she was secretly ecstatic inside, and probably a little terrified, but she was handling it well. And Will, for his part, was a pretty laid back guy who gave her all the time and space she needed to feel completely comfortable about it.

It was funny and kind of unfair that, despite knowing them for so many years, it had never once crossed your mind that they would make a good match.

Granted, Emma used to be married, but what about before that? She wasn't even seeing her ex when Will entered the picture seven years ago. In fact, they had crossed paths a handful of times, but neither of them had ever shown the slightest interest in the other; or at least, you hadn't noticed.

How could you have missed it? They were absolutely perfect for each other. Emma was somewhat restless, impatient, driven, and occasionally loud, while Will was steady, relaxed, incredibly patient, and had no problem getting loud himself if the occasion called for it.

You were rooting for them.

"Does Santi know you already here?" Emma asked now, steering through a turn.

"Texted him as soon as I got home. We're having dinner tonight with Mom."

Emma smiled. "I saw her yesterday. She looks great, doesn't she?"

You let out a soft laugh. "So great. She's thriving."

"I guess that's what happens after having an european summer."

"A mediterranean one, mind you."

"Is she gonna be at Yov’s party?"

You pursed your lips. "I dunno. I don't think so. She says she doesn’t feel right about it. Apparently she thinks she’d be a mood killer. Yov wants her there anyway."

"A mood killer? It's not like there're gonna be strippers or anything like that, right?"

You laughed. "No."

"Then what's the issue?"

"I dunno. I think she still feels a little awkward participating in all of this."

"She has to be there! I need her to give us the full breakdown on everything that happened in Europe. I'm sure there were some interesting adventures," she said, raising her eyebrows. "I always knew Nora was a cool girl."

"I'm sure Yov will press her about it tonight," you said, turning toward the window. "And if not, I can always force her."

Emma laughed and nodded, completely on board with it.

It wasn't going to be a wild over-the-top party; it was going to be a small gathering at a gorgeous restaurant downtown, followed by drinks at a bar where Yov's friends had booked a private table in the VIP section. It was going to be fun and intimate, nothing crazy or chaotic. Yov didn't feel comfortable with shirtless guys giving lap dances, and she had specifically asked to just spend the night having a good time with her friends and close family.

To her, there was no such thing as a "farewell to freedom" anyway. What was she saying goodbye to? Being single? Well, obviously. But she didn't see much point in looking at it that way, since having Santi in her life didn't actually restrict her from anything. And after marrying him, it wouldn't restrict her either.

There was this archaic idea that once a person gets married, they abandon their freedom entirely; the freedom to hang out with friends whenever they want, to have total independence, and to be able to do this, that, or the other. But Santi and Yov were not that kind of couple. Marriage didn't demand limitations for them, and it was entirely obvious to you that their dynamic would keep right on going exactly the same way. Both were free to do their own thing, go out with friends, or dedicate time to personal matters. The party was symbolic, more than anything.

I mean, sure, they were saying goodbye to being single, but was that really significant? You were positive those two had said goodbye to that years ago.

For Yov, it would be a quiet fun evening tomorrow night. And for Santi, it would be a cookout in the backyard with the guys and a few other friends, followed by a trip to the bar to get drunk and play pool. It was a pre-wedding celebration, plain and simple.

Will’s house appeared ahead of you sooner than expected, and you suddenly realized the drive had gone by surprisingly faster than you'd even noticed.

Everything had been moving at hyper speed since you landed in Austin. The drive home from the airport, the morning spent with Emma on the couch, and now, the twenty minutes from your place to Will’s had felt like barely ten.

It was funny how time flew when you were desperately trying to hold it back. Not for any particular reason, either.

Emma flung the car door open before you could even unbuckle, and the second her feet hit the pavement, she said,

"I can hear music coming from the backyard. Go on ahead, I need to grab a few things from the car."

"Need a hand?"

In the background, the faint sound of an Alice in Chains song drifted over.

"Nah, I’m good." She moved toward the trunk, waving you off.

"Alright."

You walked down the driveway toward the side of the house, where a wide pathway led to the big backyard, and spotted your car right away, tucked under its protective cover beneath the patio roof and parked behind two other cars.

On a table under a window, a portable stereo was blasting music. Layne’s raspy broken voice screamed out lyrics you couldn't quite catch; your attention was already drawn to the car right in front of you, where Will was lying on a mechanic's creeper, working underneath it.

He didn't hear you come in over the music, and his upper body was completely hidden under the chassis. His legs were slightly bent, and seizing the moment, you crept up and gave his foot a gentle kick.

Thump!

You grinned as his whole body jumped in a mini scare.

The creeper shifted; he grabbed the tire with one hand to pull himself forward, the tiny wheels spinning on the concrete.

And just like that, nine months and twelve days later, your eyes locked once again with Francisco Morales'.

You physically felt your smile drop, as if your cheeks had suddenly turned too heavy, and you took a step back while trying, and failing, to tear your eyes away from him.

Frankie scrambled to a sit on the creeper like a startled kid, and braced his palms on the ground behind him. A stray lock of hair fell across his forehead, the rest of it a bit messy, and a pair of thick black rimmed glasses sat on the bridge of his nose. They weren't enough to hide the scars on his face.

With a quick push, he stood up.

"I'm sorry," you blurted out, suddenly breathless. "I'm so sorry, I thought you were Will."

He gave a quick nod, wiping his hands on his pants, but didn't say a word.

As your heart threatened to burst right through your ribs and your throat went completely dry, you felt a desperate, intense, aching urge to just... hug him. And at the exact same time, to tell him: you have no idea how much I have to tell you.

Instead, you just stared.

Frankie looked exactly as you remembered, yet at the same time, entirely different. His hair was slightly shorter on the sides, with the top left long and a little unruly. He was wearing a white short-sleeve t-shirt, stained here and there, and black cargo pants.

Looking at him like that, he seemed pretty much the same as the last time you'd seen him. But you could spot the difference in everything else; he seemed taller for some reason, and though his shoulders and arms had always been strong, they looked more toned now. His beard was short, neat and soft, his mustache trimmed. The scars were visible, fully healed now but prominent, leaving a clear trace of his accident, and behind his glasses, his big brown eyes looked tired.

You could have sworn you stared at him for minutes, but it was only a few short seconds.

"I," you crossed your arms, "I just came to pick up my car. If that's okay. Is—is Will around?"

It took Frankie a second to process.

"Uh, Will?"

You offered a faint smile. "Yeah."

"Yeah, right. Yeah," he reached up, rubbing the back of his neck. "I mean, no. He stepped out a moment ago. But he should be right back."

"Oh. Okay."

Behind you, the familiar scuff of Emma's footsteps drew closer until she suddenly froze.

You turned around, trying to pack an entire conversation into a single look, hoping she would decode it.

Just as you expected, your friend was dead in her tracks, holding two boxes in her arms and staring at Frankie like she’d just seen a ghost.

She glanced at you a second later, then right back at him.

"Frankie," she said, flashing a casual but not quite casual smile. "I didn't... I didn't know you were here."

Frankie huffed a soft laugh and gave a half smile. "Will'll be back in a minute."

Emma nodded. "Where'd he go?"

"No idea," he shrugged, turning back toward the car. "But he left a while ago, so he should be back any second."

"Oh, alright."

The second you glanced her way, Emma’s eyebrows shot straight up as she mouthed: I’m so sorry.

You gave a casual shrug that completely masked the panic clawing at your insides, letting out a soft sigh as your eyes drifted across the yard. Toward the back, for instance, where a disassembled bike sat abandoned mid-repair.

"I can move this car out of the way so you can get yours out, if you want?" Frankie asked. He was talking to you; it took you a beat to realize it.

You nodded. "Sure. Thanks."

He gave a quick nod and turned toward the car blocking yours. Will’s car. He reached inside the driver’s side to grab something, then slid into the seat, shut the door, and got the engine running on the second try.

"Here, let me help," you said, turning around and grabbing one of the boxes from Emma, desperate for any kind of distraction.

"Oh my God, I am so sorry," she whispered, pushing open the back door to the house. There was no real need to whisper since the roaring engine drowned out anything you two said, but she kept her voice down anyway until you were both safely inside. "I had no idea he'd be here. I mean, I know he hangs out here a lot, but I didn't know he'd be here today of all days."

"It's fine."

"No, I’m so sorry," she insisted, setting her box down on the kitchen counter. "I should have called first."

"No, Em, really," you said, dropping your box next to her. "It's fine. It's totally fine. You know what?" You turned to look at her. "Maybe it’s better this way, right? Unplanned and unexpected." You made a swift ripping motion with your hand. "Like ripping off a band aid. I’ve seen him, he’s seen me, how awkward can it really get? It wasn't even that bad!"

She smiled. "It wasn't?"

"Nope."

"Okay, that's good." She pursed her lips. "So... how are you feeling?"

"Nope. Nope," you said, shaking your head. "Too soon, honey. Not there yet."

Emma let out a soft laugh and pulled you into a tight hug. You took the moment to close your eyes, letting the tension in your chest unravel just a bit.

And outside, after a brief moment, the rumbling engine cut out as a clear sign that your safe haven inside the four walls of Will’s kitchen was officially up. You had to go back out there.

Emma let go of you, clearing her throat before turning toward the door and taking the lead. You gave it a single second before following her out.

The moment you stepped into the yard, your eyes instantly searched for him. Frankie was carefully peeling the protective cover off your car, and your gaze lingered on the back of his neck; on the soft messy strands of hair there, on the soft skin briefly blushed…

A sudden warmth bloomed in your chest.

"I'll get your keys," he called out, disappearing into the house so fast that this time, he was the one who seemed to be running away.

Letting out a sigh, you crossed your arms and walked over to the car Frankie had been working on when you arrived. It was old, you noticed, but not quite as old as yours. This one looked more like a nineties model; glossy black with a leather interior and smooth sleek lines. On the hood, the Mercedes Benz logo caught the light.

"You got yourself a real gem here."

Frankie’s voice made you snap upright. He was standing right behind you, dangling your keys from his fingers.

Emma was still keeping quiet.

"Thanks," you said, offering a small smile.

Frankie extended his hand toward you. Your keys were looped around his index finger; you slid them off, careful not to brush against him.

"I don't actually know much about cars," you added, mostly because the silence felt a little too heavy. "Will helped me with it."

"Yeah, he told me. He and I bought this one together, from the same seller," he said, gesturing toward the Mercedes.

"It's really nice."

"Yeah, though it still needs a bit of work. We’re fixing it up to... you know, sell it or something."

"I like it," you said, nodding. "My dad used to drive something like this when I was little."

His eyebrows shot up, and he replied almost too fast, "He did?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah—uh. It's a great car."

You nervously fiddled with the keys in your hands, dropping your gaze down to his shoes; a pair of black high top Vans.

Beside you, Emma let out a quiet amused sigh.

"I think I should get going," you blurted out, looking over at her only to catch a strange look on her face.

Oh, she was absolutely loving this.

"Yeah, sure," Frankie nodded, stepping aside as if he felt he was blocking your way.

"Can you tell Will I'll drop by later?" Emma asked him.

"Sure."

"Alright."

"Em, you can stay if you want," you told her.

"No, no. I said I'd help you unpack and set things up at your place, didn't I? Let's go," she said, waving you toward the driveway.

Unpacking at your place was a total lie. You were already fully unpacked and the apartment was spotless; she just wanted to be there for you.

"See ya," Emma added, giving Frankie's shoulder a friendly pat before turning around and heading toward the front of the house.

Once she was out of sight, you turned back to him.

"Tell Will I say hi."

He smiled. "I will."

"Thanks," you said, starting to turn toward your car. But you froze and looked back at him one last time.

He stood completely, utterly still.

You had no idea what to say, or why you’d even turned back around in the first place. But the moment you looked at his face and caught that flicker of nervousness in his eyes, you knew he was feeling it too.

"I like your glasses."

Frankie’s lips parted slightly, and a very soft sweet smile crept onto his face.

"Thank you," he replied.

Smiling back and holding in a sigh, you didn't say another word. You turned around, got into your car, and drove away, feeling his eyes on you the entire time.

You wished it had been different. You wished your inevitable reunion with him had happened in a controlled environment, surrounded by crowds of people; like Friday's rehearsal dinner or some pre-weekend get together. But as life had already proven to you time and again, you rarely get what you want exactly how you want it.

Forget everything we said a moment ago. All that talk about how time had been moving at a frantic pace since you stepped off the plane, remember? The walk from the airport to your house, your nice nap with Em, the drive from your door to Will’s… Forget it all. Because suddenly, the world seems to have ground to a near halt.

It's moving, and It's moving fast.

You’re driving, and the blocks around you pass at a crawl. No, how silly; you’re the one moving, not the blocks. You drift down the street while Emma sits beside you in silence, and you know it’s not an illusion because the cars passing you vanish ahead in seconds. And also because, after a few minutes, Emma rested her hand on your shoulder and asked,

"You okay?"

You nodded without a word. Well, maybe a soft "hmm" echoed somewhere in your chest.

"I'm sorry," she said, sounding far too guilty. "I know I already told you but I had no idea he was gonna be there."

You nodded again. "He looks so different."

"Yeah."

"Francisco," you glanced at her for a second, "he looks different, doesn't he? Or is it just because I haven't seen him in so long?"

Emma nodded. "No, I think he does look a bit different."

"I mean, I'm not saying he looks bad, he looks…" You tightened your grip on the steering wheel a little with your thumbs. "Different, healthier. Which is so freaking ironic because his face is covered in scars."

"Right."

"Oh God…"

"Hey," Emma squeezed your shoulder, "it's okay."

"He looks so good," you groaned.

Emma laughed. "It's okay."

You turned to look at her, frowning. "Does he wear glasses now?"

"He does."

"It's like he's doing it on purpose just to mess with me!"

"Look what Grian got for me." When Will walked into the yard, he was holding a six pack of beer and a large sealed plastic bag. "Original seat covers, baby, pure leather," he said, stepping closer to drop them onto the table next to the player.

Frankie was sitting in a chair with his elbows on his knees, and his eyes were fixed on the grass just past the concrete, contemplating his entire existence.

"Hey," Will called out.

Frankie looked up at him.

"Covers and beer," Will said, holding up the six pack.

"That's great. How much for the covers?"

Will frowned, glancing around the yard. The music was off, the creeper wasn't under the Mercedes, and most importantly, your car was gone.

"What happened?" he asked.

"She came to get her car." Frankie pushed himself up from the chair in one quick motion, rubbing the back of his neck. "Her and Emma, who said she’d be by later, by the way."

Will’s eyebrows shot up. "Oh, shit, man. You alright? How that go?"

"Nothing. She just… she just came and went."

"Y'all talk?"

"A little."

"And? What'd y'all talk about?"

"Nothing, really. Just… just her car, and this and that, and nothing else." He swallowed, looking over at the half-repaired Mercedes. "I'm such a fool. I couldn't even act normal."

Will laughed. "What are you talking about? What do you mean?"

"Oh, man," Frankie groaned as he sat back down again, burying his face in both hands and rubbing his eyes. "She looks so beautiful. I felt like I could barely breath."

"Alright," Will crossed his arms, "let it out."

"I mean, look at me," Frankie suddenly pulled his hands away from his face and gestured to his clothes. "I'm a total mess."

"Well, you know, they say girls like that. All covered in grease from work, that whole hot mechanic thing..."

Frankie frowned. "Oh God."

"And with the glasses on and everything, huh?" Will chuckled. "I bet she dug 'em."

Frankie felt his face burn with embarrassment, wishing the ground would just open up and swallow him whole right then and there. He felt like a self-conscious teenager, or at least, his body was reacting like one.

A long time. He’d spent so much time thinking about the next time he’d see you. Late at night when everything was quiet, in the middle of work, while washing dishes or doing laundry. He used to wonder how dramatic it would be, if it would be incredibly awkward or not at all, or if you’d just avoid him altogether. And none of it had been the way he expected.

He knew you hadn't expected to see him either. He'd caught it on your face the second he saw you—as beautiful and sweet as he remembered, but completely caught off guard all the same.

He’d been dying inside with every passing second. The moment you drove away, he felt this overwhelming urge to run right after you; to hold you tight in his arms and cover your face with kisses, to tell you how terribly he’d missed you and that loving you this much was unbearable.

But how completely out of line would that have been, right? When you looked so good, so refreshed, so perfectly fine. Frankie knew he no longer had a place in your life for that kind of confession.

He’d have to be strong. Stronger than he’d ever thought. Because the wedding was drawing close and these weren't gonna be easy days. Between the final preparations, the bachelor parties, the rehearsal dinner, and the ceremony itself, he’d have to find a way to keep his feelings in check and not let a single bit show, since you’d be seeing each other practically around the clock.

He couldn't even let his eyes betray him, because he knew all it took was having you nearby for him to look at you like a fool. Guess that's just what longing does to you.

And Santi knew all about that. He and Yov had talked to Frankie a few days back when the three of them stopped to rest during a long Sunday bike ride. They’d asked how he was doing, how he was prepping for the wedding, and if he was truly alright with all of it; all of this out on the trail, while their calves throbbed and their chests heaved. But the way their voices sounded reminded him of those times the guys used to try and casually check up on his health years ago, trying not to sound too nosy or overly worried.

"You don't need to worry, everything's fine," he’d told them, a bit winded. His neck was flushed and he could feel a bead of sweat dripping down his temple. He wiped it away with the back of his hand and let out a chuckle. "What do you think is gonna happen?"

Santi scratched his chin, pulling a face. "I know, I know it'll be fine. It’s just, y'know, it can get awkward and all, and we wouldn't want either of you having a rough time."

"We'll be fine," Frankie nodded. "Don't worry. We spent years getting along terribly and managing to co-exist or something like it, and nothing happened—"

"No, no," Yov interrupted, shaking his head and holding up a finger, "that wasn't co-existing."

Frankie rolled his eyes, hiding a bitter smile. "Everything's fine on my end. I’ll be respectful, polite, and anything that comes up can wait until after the wedding. You can count on that."

He didn't even know what he meant by that. "Anything that comes up" could mean absolutely anything; an argument, a casual conversation, anything requiring an ounce of extra attention that might pull the focus away from what really mattered.

Anyway, he’d promised himself to keep his distance and not let a single thing throw off the balance this week needed to have…

Until he saw you again, and a flood of emotions washed over him, soaking him to the bone. And right then, Frankie realized that for the past few months, he’d only allowed himself to feel about twenty percent of what he truly felt for you.

He’d convinced himself that he was okay with all of this; that his feelings, while still strong and very much there, weren't so intense anymore that they'd steal his breath away.

What a fucking lie. He loved you just as intensely as before, maybe even more; or maybe it was just the effect of seeing you after all this time.

You were surprised to see him; he’d noticed that. You hadn't expected it at all, and it definitely wasn't what you wanted. But as he looked at you, pretending to be completely unfazed, he felt this overwhelming urge to share every single piece of his life with you.

He wanted to tell you about his new house, about the big windows and how beautifully the light flooded the living room. About the shelves he’d filled with his vinyl records, and the space that was still left to fill.

Oh, and Mr. Bingley was absolutely out of his mind, completely in love with the new yard. Frankie would let him out for a bit, keeping a close eye on him so the cat wouldn't wander off anywhere. He’d discovered the little guy was actually a total scaredy-cat, which would make Frankie anxious enough to bring him right back inside. He wasn't quite sure how to handle it yet; the neighborhood was quiet and not dangerous at all, but letting the cat roam free in the yard still made him nervous. Who knew, maybe he’d hop the fence and end up in the street, or some dog might give him a scare. He wasn't about to take that chance.

He’d wanted to tell you about his new job, too. Frankie was back to training pilots, but no longer at his old academy. His former boss had done him a big favor by recommending him to the owner of a different academy (one that trained specialized pilots) and Frankie was finding it a whole lot more engaging and enjoyable.

Now he wasn't training arrogant rich guys who had too much money and free time on their hands, treating flying like some "easy" hobby with zero responsibilities (not that it was always the case, but... most of the time). Instead, he was training people who genuinely saw flying as a calling.

They were all young, eager to learn, and had a real respect for the profession. Frankie truly enjoyed teaching and had a great time with them; plus, the pay was damn good. It was exactly what he needed right now after draining a huge chunk of his savings. His house was about to sell, he’d already sold his car, and you could say he was pretty close to having everything sorted out.

He was doing alright.

He’d wanted to tell you all of that. For a brief minute, every single piece of news in his life flooded his mind and he wanted to share it with you, but a second later he reminded himself that it wasn't his place anymore.

It made no sense how completely his chest melted whenever he thought about you now.

"What are you gonna do now?" Will asked then, leaning his hip against the table and tilting his head.

Frankie sighed, pulling his hands away from his face.

"What else? Nothing. Act normal, I guess. Like an adult."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing," he got up from his chair and walked over to the Mercedes, opening the driver's side door. "I'm not gonna bother her."

"Ah, I see. The old go-crazy-and-suffer-all-by-your-lonesome routine."

Frankie laughed softly, shaking his head. "I deserve it."

Wednesday, October 9th

You really don't care about Francisco. He barely crosses your mind.

He wasn't on your mind when you woke up this morning, nor when you showered and got ready to open the bookstore. You weren't thinking of him when you brushed blush onto your cheeks, or when you coated your lips in raspberry gloss. And you certainly weren't thinking of him every single time the chimes above the door jingled and you glanced up, checking to see who walked in.

No, you aren't thinking about him at all.

Your morning flew by, peaceful and smooth. It had been a while since you’d spent time at the bookstore, and settling back behind the counter felt incredibly good.

You had missed all of this: helping customers find the exact books they were looking for, listening to their vague, quirky descriptions and the titles they always got completely wrong. You missed the scent of old pages, and the aroma of coffee that drifted through the door every time it opened because at this hour, every café on the block was open and the entire sidewalk smelled of espresso.

It was a quiet, nice morning. A few people dropped in; many left with books, others just browsed for stretches of time, and some simply asked a question before heading out.

In the quiet lulls, you read through the notes Donovan had sent this morning. There were far more than you anticipated, all anchored to comments lining the margins of the document.

In one of them, you read:

His age isn’t clear. He could be anywhere between forty and sixty years old. If I didn't know better, I’d assume he is a man nearing sixty. Keep in mind that the reader doesn’t know what you know, and you cannot gloss over that in the main descriptions. You can weave it into the dialogue or the internal monologue. Your choice. But don't make it obvious.

It wouldn't be so jarring if Donovan didn’t highlight the paragraphs in an intense, vibrant red. Sometimes he used yellow, other times a soft, light blue. If there was an actual system to his color-coding, you had no idea what it was.

At ten o'clock sharp, the chimes above the door rang out once more. Instantly, your eyes snapped toward the entrance, your mind flashing for a fraction of a second with the thought that it might be… him.

But it was Bill who stepped through the door.

Tall and handsome as ever, he wore a crisp smile and his bright prominent green eyes were shining as usual.

The moment you saw him, your eyes widened with joy.

You slipped off your stool to greet him as he walked in, carrying two large brown paper bags and a warm grin.

"Coffee and a slice of cake for my favorite writer!"

Bill set the bags down on the counter and welcomed you with open arms; he smelled of fresh brew and cologne. Your cheek pressed against his warm chest as he held you close for a brief moment.

"You haven't even read anything of mine," you laughed.

His hand brushed up your back. "I don't have to to know it'll be incredible."

"You really have faith in me."

Bill pulled back slightly. "We all do. Julie was thrilled when she found out. She says now she’ll have someone interesting to interview for her school project."

You huffed a laugh and walked back around to the other side of the counter. A customer stepped through the door right at that moment. Good morning, he said. Good morning, you replied. He was an elderly man holding a cane, and he headed straight toward the Hispano-American literature section.

"What are your plans for today?" Bill asked, leaning against the counter. "If you're free, Julie and I would love to have you over for dinner."

"I’d love to," you smiled, "but tonight is Yov’s bachelorette party. And Santi’s bachelorette party, too."

He grinned. "Oh yeah? What d'you have planned?"

"We're grabbing drinks at a bar nearby," you tilted your head. "Yov’s girlfriends made a reservation for dinner too, so, we'll see what happens."

"And Santi?"

"Oh, I dunno. I know they're going out for drinks too, but knowing them, they’ll probably do something else too."

A chuckle caught in his chest. "Will they have to go rescue him from a hotel rooftop in the morning like The Hangover?"

"Mmm," you narrowed your eyes playfully, "I think it'll be more like Into the Wild."

"Campfires and all that, huh."

"Exactly," you nodded. "Knowing them, they'll have a few drinks and then go have fun somewhere out there. Nothing too crazy. Plus, the rest of Yov's family arrives tomorrow so he gotta be fresh."

"Got it," Bill nodded. "And how... how has Austin treated you so far?"

"Austin?"

He tilted his head, a smirk forming on his lips that made you suspect his question had several layers.

"Austin is fine," you answered, lifting your chin. "I barely got here yesterday and my eye is already twitching, how about that?"

It was a joke. Your eyes were not twitching at all. Spiritually, maybe.

Bill laughed and reached out with his left hand, grabbing the side of the brown paper bag he had set down moments ago.

"Better not drink this coffee then. It has two shots."

You burst out laughing and snatched the bag from his hands. "Don't you dare!"

You needed that coffee, and you also needed the slice of cake he had so carefully tucked inside the plastic container. But above all, you needed him to stay right there with you and give you his opinion on a few things.

You pulled the coffee cup out and set it on the counter for a moment.

Bill laughed softly, his eyes dropping to your hand, and that’s when you asked:

"You free this Saturday?"

Later

If New York had taught you anything, it was how to dress and do your makeup.

No. Not New York. Alex.

Alex, like so many other wealthy, fashion forward New Yorkers, was a woman who understood style deeply and knew exactly how to tailor it to different people. That was why she had spent a massive chunk of your stay dragging you from one boutique to another, letting you freely indulge in every single one of her perks at beauty salons across the Upper East Side.

She had been incredibly generous. And while you initially thought it was a favor to you, you soon realized it was actually a treat for her. Letting Alex guide and advise your style was exactly what she craved and thoroughly enjoyed, and even Emma had gotten a little taste of her styling expertise when she came to visit a few weeks back.

You weren’t normally one to blow money on clothes and makeup. Truthfully, you liked the things you already owned, they lasted a long time, and you rarely found anything you loved enough to desperately want to buy. But in New York, your credit card began seeing action it had never seen before. And honestly? You liked it.

Now, your closet in Austin was packed with new dresses, skirts, blouses, and a few pairs of boots and shoes. You had flown back with two massive suitcases stuffed to the brim, packed right alongside the heavy uncertainty of whether you were even going to stay here. When in doubt, bring it all.

Right now, Emma stood in front of your bedroom mirror, half dressed. She was in her bra, a dress pulled up only from the waist down, fussing with her underwear beneath the fabric to make sure there were no visible lines.

Even though she was wearing seamless panties, she was convinced that the glare of the light caught the faint outline of the edges.

"I’m telling you, it doesn’t show," you said from the bed.

You had finished getting ready ages ago and were now lounging with Mr. Darcy resting on your stomach. You wore a form-fitting black skirt paired with a black blouse featuring soft, sheer bell sleeves. The neckline was high, grazing your collarbones, and the entire front was dusted with tiny sparkles that subtly caught the light whenever you moved. Your legs were covered in semi-opaque black tights, finished off with boots that hit just three fingers below the knee.

"You sure? What about like this?" Emma turned to the side, arching her back to check her reflection.

"It’s a thong," you said, lifting a hand. "And it’s completely seamless. For heaven's sake, Em, nothing is showing."

"Alright, alright," she dismissed with a wave of her hand. "You better be right. What time is your mom picking us up?"

"Seven o'clock."

"And what time is it now?"

You picked up your phone from where it lay beside you on the bed and glanced at the screen.

"Quarter to seven."

She let out a sigh of relief, then finally pulled the dress up over her waist and shoulders, slipping her arms through the sleeves and tugging the zipper up along her ribs.

She looked at her reflection and pursed her lips. You smiled.

Emma looked radiant. Not just beautiful, not just happy; radiant. Everything about her carried a glow that reminded you of the old Emma, the one from before the divorce, before everything had gone down.

She had always been a strong woman, and she had always faced life's hurdles as one. Even as she went through the divorce, you had never once seen her hang her head or crumble the way so many others would have. But she had suffered through bad days and rough patches, and during those times, a very specific light inside her had gone dark.

Between the two of you, Emma had always been the one who had life figured out, or at least the one who always knew how to stay on track.

Since you were little, she knew exactly what she wanted to do and how to achieve it; she graduated early, started working immediately, and married Luca shortly after meeting him. Everything in her life had always been neat and effortless, unfolding exactly how you’d expect the life of a model adult to go.

After the divorce, she barely faltered. That was the thing about Emma; some things just never seemed to shake her. Good or bad, she didn't let much get under her skin. Her peace was sacred.

Until Will came along.

At first, you couldn't quite put your finger on it, this thing that made her nervous in a way you had never seen before. When you were in New York and she would call to give you updates, the anxious flutter in her voice was entirely new. You were absolutely certain she hadn't been that jittery even during the week leading up to her wedding.

There was something about all of this that, for the first time in her entire life, was throwing her off balance. And it only took you a moment to realize why: she was truly in love.

Not in love the way she had been with Luca, or with any other ex… no. Truly, deeply in love. The kind of love that makes you feel like a teenager all over again, the kind that keeps him in your thoughts day and night, making you ache for him while simultaneously filling you with absolute peace.

You knew the feeling all too well. Looking at her right now, you recognized it instantly, because not too long ago, you had been in the exact same place. Head over heels.

Emma was in love.

"You look beautiful."

Hearing your voice, Emma caught your eye in the mirror and smiled.

"Thank you. You look beautiful too," she replied, turning around to face you directly.

You offered a warm smile in return, spreading your fingers across Mr. Darcy’s back. You gave his fur a gentle squeeze, and he immediately began to purr.

"So…" Emma walked over to the bed and drifted down beside you, propping herself up on her elbow. A wave of her perfume reached you instantly. "How's everything?"

You smiled. "How's everything? Everything's good."

"Ah…" She reached out and stroked Darcy, who promptly closed his eyes.

"What about you? How's everything with you?"

"Good." Emma sighed. "You talked to him?"

Your hand went still on Darcy’s back. "With whom?"

"Y'know. Francisco. Frankie. Have you talked to him?"

Your lips parted for a split second, your brows knitting together.

"No. Why?"

"Just asking," she said, pursing her lips. "After what happened yesterday, I dunno, I just thought maybe you guys had talked."

"Oh, no. No… you know how it is. If we’d talked, I would’ve told you by now, don't you think?"

Emma huffed a laugh. "True. You better."

"And what happened yesterday? Was he there when you went over to Will’s later?"

"Yeah, but only for a little bit," she said, her hand running over Darcy’s fur almost absentmindedly. "And he didn't say much."

"Hmm."

"It doesn't…" Emma locked her eyes onto yours. "It doesn't bother you that I hang out with him, right? Because if it does, I can totally—"

"Em, no," you interrupted, shaking your head.

"No, I’m serious. I know it can be weird for your best friend to spend time with your ex."

"It’s weird if you phrase it like that," you laughed. "But you aren't hanging out with Frankie. It’s just that he happens to be your boyfriend's best friend. It’s not your fault."

"It really doesn't bother you?"

You raised your eyebrows. "No, it really doesn't."

"I swear, the first few weeks I gave him the absolute cold shoulder."

You laughed. "Really?"

"Yes, I swear! And he barely even came near me because he knew what I was gonna say to him."

"What were you gonna say?"

"That he’s a fool and an idiot, what else?" She laughed. "Though I think he already knew it, because he always watched his step around me."

"Mhm. You two seem to get along well enough now, though, right?"

At your question, Emma’s smile faltered.

You knew she spent time around Frankie now. Here and there, they would cross paths at gatherings or over at Will’s place. She didn't tell you much, but it was always implicit. Every time Emma mentioned she was at a certain place, you already knew Frankie would likely be there too.

"Not really," she replied.

You smiled. "Em."

"What? I’m serious."

"You don't have to hide it from me. I know Francisco can be nice. And I wouldn't expect you to treat him badly just for my sake. That would make things uncomfortable for everyone."

"I don't treat him badly," she said, lifting a hand, "but we aren't friends either, okay? We just… we talk like normal people."

"Sure."

"Ugh," she groaned, tossing herself backward and covering her eyes with both hands. "I’m a terrible friend."

"That’s not true!"

"Of course it is! I have fraternized with the enemy!"

"Alright, stop it," you said, propping yourself up on your elbow. "Can we please drop this?"

"No!"

"We’re adults," you laughed, pulling Emma’s hand away from her face. "And Francisco isn't the enemy, he’s just my ex boyfriend. I have to coexist with him tomorrow, Em, please. Can we just act like this is normal?"

Emma sighed, narrowing her eyes. "Fine. But let’s be clear: I am gonna act like this is totally normal, but on the inside, I'm gonna enjoy every single second of watching you with Bill there—"

"Oh no, that’s not—"

"And when Frankie sees you with Bill?"

You threw your head back. "Bill is just my friend!"

"Your 'friend' whom you invited to your brother's wedding, where your ex, who was always a little jealous of him, happens to be the best man!"

A loud laugh burst from your throat as your face flushed bright red. "It’s not like that!"

"Yes it is! You smart bitch!"

Emma’s hands dug playfully into your stomach, and the tickling shocked another loud laugh out of you. Poor Mr. Darcy; the little cat bolted off the bed at the sudden noisy outburst.

On the inside, you swore to yourself: it really wasn't like that.

Fortunately for you, five minutes later, the horn of your mom’s rental car honked outside your apartment, and Emma immediately bounded off the bed to throw on her heels, utterly unable to tease you any longer.

Hours later, at night.

Sitting at the long table surrounded by Yov’s friends, you felt at ease.

The restaurant was located right in the heart of downtown, and thanks to Cinthia, the maid of honor, they had managed to book a private table out on the terrace.

Beside Yov sat Emma, who had become really close to her over the last few months. The bond between them had blossomed naturally, fueled by all the time they spent together because of the guys. Watching them laugh together, it was hard to believe they hadn't known each other a lifetime.

"And then," one of Yov’s college friends said, gesturing animatedly with her fork, "she completely forgot where she parked the car and we spent two hours walking to our apartment, drunk as hell. And as soon as we got home, guess what? Her car was parked right there!"

The table erupted into laughter, and Yov buried her face in her hands just as her cheeks flushed pink.

Emma leaned in, nudging her playfully.

"To be fair, that happened to us, too," Emma chimed in with a grin, throwing a knowing look your way. "Remember that? My dad was so mad."

"Oh, yeah," you raised your eyebrows, "but we walked all the way home having forgotten your car was parked right outside the club."

Your mom gasped; "What? When was that, and why am I just finding out now?"

You turned to look at her, sitting to your left.

"It was a lifetime ago!" you replied.

She smiled and shook her head. It made you happy to see her here, laughing, enjoying herself, and sharing this moment with all of you, because the truth was, it had been a very long time since that had happened.

Following your father’s death, your mom’s retreat had been almost absolute. She had rarely returned to the city, and she had never stepped foot in the family home again; a house that didn't even belong to you anymore.

Your relationship with her had fractured deeply because of that, leaving Santi as the one who stayed closest to her. It meant years of brief interactions, arguments over the phone, and her constant attempts to reach out to you, which you always pushed away.

Back then, you were younger. You were grieving one of the people you loved most, and you needed her. But she wasn't there, and for the longest time, you resented her for it.

If you were a mother, you would never do that; leaving the city because you were heartbroken over the loss of the love of your life was understandable, but distancing yourself from your two children was not.

And it wasn't that she had completely vanished, either. No, she had always tried to stay in touch with daily calls, constant texts, and video chats every single night. Until you finally said no more, and began to freeze out any kind of contact.

That lasted for two years. Two years where you cut yourself off from her entirely, reducing your only connection to calls once every few weeks and updates passed down through Santi.

It hadn't been easy at first, but she was entirely honest with you. All of this was difficult for her, and it had been incredibly hard years ago as well. But living together in New York after her trip had been surprisingly fun, and something you had missed desperately.

The two of you spent your days walking, exploring, taking in the city, and spending your nights watching movies, shows, and reading together in the living room.

You reconnected, and it felt so good. You had missed your mom so much, and being with her now felt completely right.

Amid the chatter and jokes, two hours flew by as you finished dinner and dessert. Yov was ecstatic; her friends were all gathered in the same room for the first time in years, and on top of that, her mom and yours were having a wonderful time together.

The atmosphere was incredibly warm and the excitement for the wedding grew with every passing minute; you were starting to feel the rush of emotion building up inside you, too.

You couldn't believe it. This was actually happening. Santi was getting married, and not only that, but his future wife was someone you absolutely loved.

Watching her now, as she laughed with your mom and lifted her glass to her lips, you felt a wave of genuine happiness.

What a beautiful family you had. And what a beautiful family they would have in a couple of years. You could picture it perfectly; just like this, but a little different. With a couple of kids, maybe. Santi wanted two; Yov wanted at least two. And you couldn't wait to have nieces and nephews running around everywhere.

She was an incredible woman, and your brother was lucky to have her. And on the flip side, Santi was a wonderful man, too. You were certain he would make an amazing husband and father, and you couldn't wait to see him step into that new chapter of his life.

"What are you thinking about?"

Emma’s soft voice pulled you from your thoughts. Turning toward her, you met her bright eyes framed by long curling lashes. She gently touched your elbow.

"Nothing," you answered, a gentle smile tracing your lips. "I can't believe they're actually getting married. Time moves so fast. Santi is fully a grown man now."

Emma smiled. "He has been for a while, huh."

He had been for a long time. But you had barely noticed the passage of time, preoccupied with growing up right alongside him.

Everything had just moved so quickly. Only a few years ago, the two of you were inseparable, going everywhere together; you glued to his side like velcro, and him completely fine with bringing you along. It had always been you and him, him and you.

Every time he hung out with his friends, he brought you with him. Everywhere you went with Emma, there he was, simply because he was too curious and liked your company.

Spending these past months in New York had been a completely new experience for you, as you had never gone that long without seeing Santi. It had felt strange not having him around or seeing him for such a stretch, and it made you realize just how accustomed you were to his presence.

You didn't know if all siblings were like that. Probably not. But you and Santi definitely were.

"Your mom is having a great time," Emma whispered, leaning close to your ear.

You smiled instantly. "I know. I wish Dad were here to see it."

Emma squeezed your arm with hers. "I'm sure he is."

"You think so?" you asked, looking at her sideways with a small smile.

"Of course I do. I bet he’s even having a glass of wine somewhere right now."

That made you laugh. You could picture it perfectly: your dad tilting his elbow back to finish his glass of wine, just like he always did whenever he was celebrating and happy.

Somewhere out there, he was watching over you all. You liked to believe that.

"Another round, my treat! Our boy's getting hitched!"

A microsecond after Benny finished speaking, the entire bar roared in celebration, raising their glasses and hands.

Fuckin' opportunistic bastards, Santi thought amused. Everyone here wasn’t just happy for him; they were just thrilled to drink on someone else's dime. Julius, CJ, Baz, Carlos, and even Don had already crowded around, slapping him on the back in congratulation.

Santi laughed, ducking his head a bit, suddenly feeling a wave of self-consciousness from all the attention.

"C'mon Fish, live a little," Will said, stretching his arm across the table to thrust a beer bottle toward Frankie, who was sitting at the far corner.

Santi watched him shake his head.

"Ts, I dunno," Fish replied.

"Not even a single drop?" Ben asked, sounding genuinely offended. "C'mon, celebrate with us. The state of Texas allows a zero-point-zero-eight blood alcohol level, which is..." He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, doing the math. "... a drink, a beer!"

Frankie crossed his arms and leaned his head back. "Under what exact circumstances were you researching that?"

Ben scoffed. "You don’t wanna know. But let’s get one thing straight," he added, planting his hand firmly on the table. "I am a responsible driver!"

"Fish," Santi called out, raising his own beer. "We’ll call an Uber. Now celebrate with your friend who's about to tie the knot."

Frankie’s smile turned lopsided, and in that brief moment, Santi noticed how the scar on his cheek stood out just a bit more.

"You guys are a terrible influence. Haven’t you noticed I’m a clean guy now?"

"Oh, c'mon," Will laughed, throwing his head back.

"No, no, it's true," Santi chimed in, nodding. "He really is."

Will raised his eyebrows. "I know he is. What is it, up to one or two cans of beer a day, max?"

"Only if I have to drink. Otherwise, nothin'," Fish said, squaring his shoulders with a hint of pride.

Santi smiled, feeling a pang of pride himself. "I’m proud of you. We all are."

"To Fish!" Benny raised his beer.

Will smiled and imitated his brother. "To Fish."

Frankie scoffed, suddenly shy, and hid his eyes under his glasses.

A second later, Will took a long swig of his beer before slamming the bottle back down on the table.

"Alright, enough with the sappy stuff, you're gonna give me diabetes. If Fish is staying sober, it just means more booze for the rest of us. Call that round already!"

Frankie laughed and looked over at Santi, who held his gaze for a couple of seconds, his eyebrows rising bit by bit.

"Uh?" Santi smirked. "Just one? What do you say?"

A few feet away, Grian was pulling out beer bottles and lining them up on the bar.

Frankie leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, a wide grin flash of teeth breaking across his face.

"It's my bachelorette night and my best man can't even clink glasses with me!"

"Alright, alright, alright," Frankie raised both hands in surrender. "Just one. But only 'cause it’s your night and a nice cold beer actually sounds real good right now."

Will slapped Fish on the back, giving him a rough but affectionate nudge, a grin splitting his face.

"And just so we're clear, we're still incredibly proud of you."

Santi smiled as he watched them, taking a sip of his beer. As he swallowed, a heavy sensation settled deep in his chest.

He couldn't quite explain this feeling. He was thrilled about his wedding, and even more so about what it meant for his life with Yov. Yet his smiles felt forced, slipping away the moment none of his friends were looking.

Will was ecstatic, Benny was right there with him (and a bit tipsy), and Fish had just tipped a bottle to his lips, taking a long swig as the corners of his mouth turned upward into a grin. And in that exact moment, the only thing Santi could think about was… someone else.

Terrified that someone might notice the sudden glossiness in his eyes, he pressed the beer to his mouth and finished it in one long gulp.

"Alright, where’s that next round, huh?" he said, bringing the empty bottle down hard on the table. "I’m getting thirsty."

Fish smirked slightly, his gaze drifting over Santi’s face. "You alright?"

Santi let out a huff. "As always."

People always say you shouldn't drink on an empty stomach.

Well, you all took that advice to heart.

Following a delicious dinner and a suggestively named dessert specially crafted for the bride and her guests, the group piled out onto the street, where a stretch limousine was already idling by the curb.

Yov burst out laughing. "Fio, what on earth is this?"

Fiona, one of her best friends, gestured grandly toward the massive car before pulling a white sash out of her bag that read Future Mrs. Garcia in bold lettering.

"What does it look like?" she laughed, stepping closer to loop the sash over Yov’s shoulder. "Nothing but the best for our beautiful bride; you only get married once!"

Emma chuckled. "According to whom?"

"I've been married twice," Cinthia chimed in, raising both hands.

"Well, they do say third time’s a charm," Fiona shot back, clapping a hand over her mouth the exact second the words slipped out.

The sound of your mom’s laughter made you snap your head to the right, and you watched her laugh with flushed cheeks as she walked over to Yov and gently took her by the arm; She was already a bit tipsy. She had finished two glasses of wine during dinner and you knew that was always enough to make your mom giggly, and you loved seeing it.

She was having a wonderful time, just like everyone else.

Fortunately, Fiona’s slip of the tongue was swept away by a wave of giggles as the limousine doors swung open, inviting you into leather seats and neon lighting.

One by one, each one of you piled inside, heels clicking against the pavement before sinking into the comfort of the interior. ABBA was already pulsing through the speakers and a chilled bottle of champagne was waiting in the ice bucket.

Your mom took a seat near Yov, still giggly, while Emma slid in right next to you; her eyes were sparkling as she smoothed down her dress and smiled at you. Cinthia, in front of you, immediately took charge of pouring the drinks, handing out flutes of bubbling champagne as the city lights outside melted into streaks against the tinted windows.

It was a short drive, but when the limousine finally pulled up to the curb, the venue took your breath away.

It wasn't a huge chaotic nightclub, but a really nice luxurious place. Nestled behind a discreet entrance, the lounge exuded… quiet. The lighting was low and calm, casting shadows over velvet booths, dark walnut accents, and a big glowing marble bar that stretched across the main room. Your first thought was oh, this is expensive.

But Cinthia took charge of that. Of everything, really. She had a wildly successful career in PR, and before you had even made it to the restaurant, she had casually mentioned how she always managed to get exactly what she wanted. It was a natural born talent. The restaurant, the limo, the lounge, and even the expensive bottles of champagne waiting for them were all the masterwork of her and Fiona.

A hostess in a tailored suit checked the name and guided your group past the main floor toward a raised, private tier.

"Right this way, ladies. Your table is ready in the VIP lounge," she murmured.

The private area overlooked the rest of the venue, enclosed by elegant brass railings and draped in heavy emerald green curtains. It was the perfect vantage point.

"You really outdid yourself," Yov breathed, taking in the crystal glasses and the dedicated server already waiting for them.

Cinthia just offered a knowing smirk, sinking into the velvet cushions. "Only the best for the bride. Now, what are we drinking?"

Emma squeezed your arm. "Oh my God, no! No! I'm gonna pee myself!"

"Oh no!" your mom shrieked.

You wanted to answer (you really, truly did) but the words wouldn't come because you couldn't even breathe. Your stomach ached from laughing so hard, and Emma wasn't helping; she was standing right in front of you with her legs tightly crossed, this ridiculous, hilarious wheeze escaping her chest.

"Emma, no, go, go!" Cinthia ordered, shooing her away with a wave of her hand. Beside her, Kat, another one of Yov's friends, looked intensely focused, squinting into near blindness as she tried to wipe her glasses with a cloth.

"C'mon, I'll take you," you managed to choke out between giggles, pushing yourself up from your seat and nudging Emma toward the hallway.

"You need me to come with you, sweetie?" your mom asked.

You turned back to look at her and your grin widened; she had a straw clamped between her lips, her eyebrows raised expectantly.

"Nah, we're good, we'll be right back."

Oh God, your stomach literally hurt from laughing. You couldn't even remember what the first joke was, or whatever it was that had triggered this chain reaction of non stop laughter, but it had been at least ten minutes of tossing one-liners back and forth.

Surprisingly, your mom wasn't helping the situation at all; she was on a roll tonight, spilling anecdotes about Santi; embarrassing stories that would have absolutely mortified him if he were here to listen.

And like any good younger sister, you found them hilarious and were laughing your head off.

"Ask him about the time he tried to impress a girl in middle school by doing a backflip off the diving board," she said minutes ago. "He ended up doing a full horizontal belly flop. The smack was so loud the lifeguard thought a firecracker went off! He had a bright red stomach for a week, my poor boy!"

Yov buried her face in her hands, her shoulders heaving as she let out a loud, snorting laugh.

"I am calling off the wedding," she wheezed, shaking her head.

"No!" your mom shot back, entirely unbothered, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "I have the photo album to prove it. I'll pass it under the table right before you say 'I do'."

"Oh yeah! I've seen those photos!"

Picture this. A fourteen year old Santi with slightly long curls and naturally flushed cheeks. And underneath his t-shirt, a bright red stomach bruised from a wipeout that made you laugh your head off back then, but also curse on his behalf. It wouldn’t have been so embarrassing if it hadn't been summer, and if he hadn't done it right in front of every single kid at the pool. The poor guy wore a shirt for an entire week after that, even to get into the water.

It was a simple kind of silly anecdote, but the way your mom told it was hilarious, and it was followed by so many more that your brother’s ears would definitely be burning somewhere right now.

Emma let go of your arm the second you entered the restroom and rushed straight into a stall.

"Your mom is so funny," her voice echoed. "I missed her. Poor Yov!"

Looking in the mirror, you ran your index finger under your eyelashes to fix the mascara that had smudged a bit.

"I know, but she’s one of us now. She has been for a while."

"I love her, I love her—ouch!"

"What's wrong?" you tilted your head to the side.

"Nothing, nothing, I just twisted my stu-pid foot!"

Laughing, you furrowed your brow. "What are you even doing in there?"

Emma let out a low chuckle. "Nothing. These toilets are too damn low."

"Alright. Just be careful in there." You looked down at your purse and opened it to grab your lip gloss, but the glowing screen of your phone caught your attention instead.

Ten missed calls and many… many messages. All from Will. And you would have heard them if you hadn't put your phone on vibrate mode just to enjoy the night better.

Plse answt, one of the messages read.

wwe can't fondsanti

Your heart started beating incredibly fast as you unlocked the phone, your hands turning freezing cold.

You heard the sound of Emma’s toilet flushing just as you pressed call on Will.

"Oh God, much better," she said as she stepped out of the stall, but you couldn't do anything except listen in silence. Emma watched you bring the phone to your ear. "What happened?"

"I don't know," you shrugged both shoulders.

The phone rang once, twice, three times—

"Hey."

"Hey, Will, what happened? I just checked my phone—"

"Santi’s gone."

Oh God, he was slurring his words.

"What you mean he's gone? Gone from where? Isn't he with you?"

Emma’s eyes widened. "Is that Will?"

You nodded and put it on speaker.

"—in the restroom, but Ben went to look for him and he wasn't there, and he's nowhere to be found and—"

"Where are you right now?"

"Here."

"Here where?"

"Will, honey, can you hear me? Where are you guys?" Emma asked.

"In the restroom—at the bar, in the bar restroom."

Your heart jumped into your throat. "And where's Santi?"

"I-I I dunno, he left, or I dunno, he's not here—"

You closed your eyes in frustration. "Listen, is there anyone else there I can talk to?"

"Yeah wait."

On the other end, you could hear music, voices, and a thud that sounded like a door slamming shut. Will muttered a shit, and two seconds later:

"Yeah?"

Francisco.

"Hey, what happened?" you asked, rubbing your hand across your forehead. "Where's Santi?"

"Uh… we… we don't know where he is. We were just hanging out here and he said he had to go to the restroom." Okay, he wasn't slurring his words. "And then after a bit, we realized it had been a really long time, and when Ben went to check, he wasn't in the restroom, or in the bar. He's not here, he left."

"But how? How could he have left without you guys noticing?"

Emma watched you in silence, her eyes wide.

"I dunno, I'm sorry. He must've slipped out through the other side of the bar."

"Shit, Frankie, are you being serious?"

"I'm sorry, we're gonna go look for him right now—"

"Will is drunk, and I assume Benny is too, you aren't gonna get very far," you sighed. "How was Santi acting before he disappeared?"

"A bit wasted too. He started talking about trees and houses, and said Yov was gonna be mad at him."

Emma gasped in shock. Your heart completely skipped a beat.

"Alright, where exactly are you guys right now?" you asked.

"At The Crow. We were planning to head over to Met Park later."

"Okay. Listen to me, stay put, yeah? I'm coming right now. Please don't call anyone else. Have you talked to anyone else?"

You heard Frankie pull the phone away from his ear.

"Did you talk to anyone else? No? You Ben? Alright…" his voice sounded muffled before coming back clear. "No, they haven't talked to anyone else. Neither have I."

"Good. I'm not far, okay?"

"Okay."

Without answering, and before he could say anything else, you cut the call, your hands freezing cold.

"What are we gonna do?" Emma asked. "You don't think he got cold feet about the wedding, right?"

"No, no," you shook your head, though you weren't entirely sure. "No way. Santi would never do that."

Emma rubbed her cheek. "I'm calling an Uber right now. What are you gonna tell the girls?"

"Nothing. They don't need to know. I'll just text mom telling her we're heading home for some silly reason, and that's it."

Your fingers flew across the screen, typing out some absurd excuse. Hey, Em broke her shoe, we're running home real quick to change and we'll be right back, don't worry, we already called the Uber.

You hit send and prayed that your mom's maternal instinct wouldn't kick in tonight of all nights.

You were going to kill Santiago.

If you bit your nails any shorter, you were going to be left with none. And it felt like this damn Uber driver was practically crawling.

"There they are!" Emma said the second you pulled up to the block where the bar was.

Will, Ben, and Frankie were waiting outside on the sidewalk, the three of them looking like scared kids waiting for their moms to pick them up from kindergarten.

You mumbled a quick thank you to the driver and got out as fast as you could, while Emma scrambled out from the other side a bit more clumsily.

Will put both hands on his head as soon as he saw her. "Emmy!"

"Look at you! Grown men!" she snapped, a little tipsy herself. "How could you lose your friend?"

Shaking your head, you looked over at Benny, who was crouching down and looking like he was about to throw up, before shifting your gaze to Frankie; the only sober one, apparently.

He wasn't drunk, but he looked just as panicked. His hair was a bit messy, and he was looking at you with a strange expression.

"What happened?" you asked, crossing your arms as you stepped up to him. "Have you tried calling him?"

Frankie’s eyes flickered across your face. "He left his phone. I have it right here."

"Oh God."

"Don't worry, we're gonna find him," he nodded. "He couldn't have gone very far."

"How? Look at them," you gestured toward Will and Benny. "They're wasted!"

Frankie took another step closer to you. "But I'm not. I've only had a few sips. My car is right across the street."

"Francisco. You're the best man, you were supposed to look out for him," you frowned, a sudden wave of anger hitting you. "How on earth did you let him slip away?"

He frowned back. "How was I supposed to imagine he’d just take off like that? It's Santi we're talking about."

"Yeah, exactly!"

"Alright, alright," Emma stepped in, raising a hand. "Stop wasting time talking and do something, okay? He could be anywhere! Frankie, can you drive?"

He nodded. "Of course."

"Zero point zero eight!" Ben yelled.

"Okay. You go with him and search everywhere," she told you, gesturing with her chin, "and I'll take these two drunks back to Will's place."

No, you thought. And your stomach did such a massive flip you almost gasped. But on the outside, you just nodded.

"Alright," you said, catching sight of Frankie moving beside you out of the corner of your eye. "I'll keep texting you. Tell Grian to keep an eye out in case Santi comes back here, and to hold onto him."

"Will do."

You took a step backward and your back collided with something—No, with him.

As you lost your balance, his hands instantly caught your shoulders. He was right behind you.

"Sorry."

"It's fine," he murmured over your shoulder, his hands releasing you immediately. "Let's go."

He started walking toward the curb, stopping right there to wait for you.

Before moving, you looked at Emma with your eyes wide open, only to catch the mischievous glint in her gaze as she pressed her lips together, trying not to smirk.

Bitch.

Well, this felt familiar.

As you crossed the street, you turned back for a moment and saw your best friend on the other side, while you awkwardly approached your brother’s friend’s car. It was a familiar scene, wasn't it?

Unlike that first time in Dallas, Frankie held the door open for you. A gentlemanly gesture that caught you off guard. First, because you didn't recognize the car. It was a different one. Black or dark blue, you couldn't quite tell the color in the darkness of the night. It wasn't any of the cars you had seen at Will’s house, and this one was newer. And second, because it would have been easier for both of you to have just skipped the gesture entirely.

"Thanks." You settled into the leather seat, and he shut the door softly beside you.

During the brief seconds it took him to walk around to the driver's side and get in, you let out a deep sigh. Your eyes scanned the black dashboard and then moved up to the rearview mirror, where a small silver cat keychain and a green pine tree hung, filling the space with the scent of vanilla.

Frankie stepped inside like a gust of air and slammed the door shut.

Alright. Chill. This doesn't have to be weird.

"Where to?" he asked.

You pressed your knees tightly together. "Let's just drive around the block first."

Without a word, he started the engine and pulled the car out of its parking spot, maneuvering smoothly as he kept a cautious eye on the street, while you locked your eyes on him the exact same way.

"Uh," you cleared your throat and looked straight ahead, "he couldn't have gone very far."

"He must be around here somewhere."

"You think he called a cab or something?"

"I have his phone."

"Right," you pursed your lips. "Of course."

You clasped your hands in your lap and laced your fingers together, feeling your palms grow sweaty as you stared out the window, holding back a sigh.

It smelled way too much like him in here. Like his cologne, the fabric softener on his clothes—like him, because he was sitting right next to you, and that made sense, didn't it?

Your heart was beating so fast.

"He seemed a little down today," he noted.

You turned to look at him. "What do you mean?"

"You know, earlier," he looked back at you, holding your gaze for a couple of seconds before turning his eyes back to the street. "I figured he was just nervous about the wedding, so I didn't want to press him with questions."

"You think that could be it? You think he got scared?"

He shook his head. "No, no way. Santi isn't like that."

"I know he's not. But I dunno, it could be possible."

Through the window, the sidewalks and streets passed by with no sign of him.

"What did he mean when he said Yov was gonna be mad?"

Frankie pursed his lips and turned the corner. "I don't know, he wasn't making much sense. He started talking about trees, about how long they live and how big they can grow, and how it had been a really long time since he last visited the park. I asked him about it, but he said nothing. Then he said Yov was gonna be mad if she found out about the house. When I asked him what he meant, he just said it was stupid."

"I can't think of anything," you sighed, rubbing your hand over your neck in frustration. "It doesn't make any sense. Did something happen with his house? What on earth was he talking about?"

"He's drunk, I don't think much of what he said was supposed to make sense."

"But Santi isn't like that, you know him," you looked at him. "When has he ever said something he didn't mean?"

He sighed. "Never, I guess. Maybe tonight he was just in the mood to talk about live oaks."

You froze, watching Frankie’s profile as he looked straight ahead and scanned the sidewalk on his side while driving at a relaxed pace.

"Live oaks?"

"Yeah," he affirmed, looking over at you. "I didn't know he was that into trees."

Oh.

OH.

Your hand shot out to grab his shoulder. "I think I know where he is."

"What?"

"Turn around right here," you pointed with your hand, "now. I know where he is!"

Frankie accelerated to the corner and made a sharp left. "Where? Tell me."

"I'm not completely certain, but I'm almost positive," you brushed a strand of hair out of your face.

He chuckled. "Are you gonna tell me where or not?"

"Osbourne Park."

"Why?"

"When we were kids, we had this eco-week in school and they sent us to plant trees. Santi and I planted a live oak with Dad. We went there a lot after he passed away, and I am—Jesus, I'm almost positive he has to be there. Did he say anything about my dad tonight?"

"Yeah," he raised his eyebrows, "yeah, he did."

A relieved sigh escaped your throat and instantly, the car surged forward as he pressed on the gas.

"Take the next right. It'll get us to the ramp faster," you said, leaning forward in your seat, your fingers tightly gripping the edge of the dashboard.

Without a word, he shifted gears and veered right. The streetlights flashed across his face, throwing shadows over his jawline and making his messy hair look even wilder.

Not the time to be looking at him like this!

"He's gonna be fine," he said quietly, grounding anchor against the worry rising in your chest. "If he’s at the park, he’s just clearing his head. He wouldn't do anything stupid."

"I know, I just hope he's there. Otherwise, I don't know," you murmured, staring out at the blurred shapes of buildings. "I don't have any other idea."

Frankie glanced at you, his expression softening before he turned his focus back to the road. "Easy. He's gonna be okay. And if he's not there, we can keep looking around."

Your heart did another strange, complicated flutter that had nothing to do with Santi. You swallowed hard and kept your eyes glued to the windshield.

The car flew past the exit signs, Frankie maneuvering through the light night traffic. He kept his foot steady on the accelerator, making the drive feel much shorter than it actually was. And within short minutes, the neon signs of the downtown bars faded away, replaced by the dark, towering silhouettes of the trees surrounding Osbourne Park.

He took the final turn into the park's entrance; the headlights cut through the heavy darkness of the empty parking lot, sweeping over the grass.

You popped the door open and scrambled out of the car as the heavy darkness of the park was broken only by the scattered park lights cutting through the night, and hovered by the car for two seconds, waiting as Frankie got out from his side and shut his door with a thud.

The moment you saw he was ready, you started moving into the park, your eyes darting everywhere, scanning every shadow. Then, you locked your gaze just to the right, past the paved, illuminated path that led toward the thicker wooded area where the tallest trees stood, and among them, the live oak.

Your pace quickened. As you got closer, cutting through the deep shadows, you managed to make out a familiar shape.

"There he is," you said, drown in anger and relief.

You broke into a fast walk, nearly a jog, while your heart hammered against your ribs as you felt Frankie’s footsteps keeping close right behind you.

As you got closer, you could make him out better. Santi wasn't on the grass; he was sitting on a park bench right in front of the little green space where the tree stood tall and still young among others.

Your footsteps naturally lost their urgency, your pace tapering off as you approached him from behind. He was half hunched over, elbows resting on his knees with his head hanging down. His curls caught the bright glare of the overhead LED light, making them glint in the dark.

You stopped. "Santi?"

He jumped a little at the sound of your voice, straightened up at a relaxed pace, and turned his head just enough to look at you, his eyes unfocused.

"Bub? What are you doing here?"

His voice sounded completely congested and undeniably drunk.

"Frank," Santi smiled, "what are you two doing here?"

You let out a tired sigh and stepped closer to him. "I could ask you the same thing, couldn't I? What are you doing here?"

Up close, he looked like a little kid. You could see his glassy, tear filled eyes, the soft curls falling over his forehead, and the utterly defeated look that took over every single feature of his face as he stared at you in pain.

Santi hung his head again.

"I'm sorry. It's just..." He swallowed hard. "I need time."

His voice was so low you had to furrow your brow. "What?"

He shook his head.

Confused, you glanced over at Frankie, who was keeping a short distance back. He was absolutely quiet.

"Our house is for sale," Santi said. "Our house."

You shifted to his side and sat down right next to him. Tilting your head to see him better, your chest tightened.

"Our house?"

"Our house," he looked at you, and right then, it clicked.

Santi wasn't talking about his house. He was talking about your childhood home.

"I drove past it the other day. I always do. It’s on my way to work, or… not really, I'm lying. I just like driving past it, I guess," he continued. "You remember the family that bought it? With those three little kids?"

"Yeah."

"They don't live there anymore. It's empty now, and there's this big sign outside with a realtor's face on it," he let out a humorless laugh.

You forced a smile even though your cheeks felt heavy, and you reached your hand out to his arm.

Instantly, Santi placed his hand over yours.

"I want it back, bub," his voice cracked. "It’s our house. How could we just let it belong to someone else?"

"You know how things were back then. It wasn't easy for mom—"

"Dad lived there. We grew up there. And she… she just got rid of it because it hurt? What about us? What about you, what about me?" he spat out painfully, the words hitting you straight in the chest.

You swallowed hard. "I know."

Santi’s face contorted with agony, and a sob broke through his lips. And as if he were terrified of you seeing him like this, he covered his face, burying his head in his hands, trying to hide in the shadow of his own body.

"Santi," was all you could manage to say as you threw your arm around his back, resting your head against his shoulder while thick tears began to pool in your eyes.

He let out a ragged breath and abruptly straightened up, making you shift away from him.

"I made an offer," he said.

"For the house?"

He nodded, looking at you with pure fear in his eyes. "I did. And Yov doesn't know."

"How… how? With what money—I'm sorry, but—"

"Our savings, and I'm planning to take out a loan—"

"Santi, wait," you shook your head gently, "you have to talk to her before you do anything like this."

"I know."

"Why didn't you tell her?"

"I don't know," he shook his head, in pain. "She loves our current house. If she found out I wanted to sell it—I don't wanna disappoint her." A gasp broke through his words. "I'm gonna be a husband."

You smiled involuntarily at the realization. "Yeah, you will."

Santi sat completely still, barely moving, his eyes bloodshot as he stared down at his own hands, his body swaying in an almost imperceptible rhythm.

"I'm gonna be a husband," he repeated, barely a scared whisper. "And a dad, someday."

"I am absolutely certain you'll be a great husband and dad."

His head snapped toward you, his eyes instantly flooding with glassy tears.

"You will," you reaffirmed, squeezing his hand. "I know you will."

He nodded at a very quiet, subdued pace. "I need him, bub."

A beat.

You nodded. "I know. I need him too."

"How can I ever be like him? How can I ask him what to do or how to do it if he's not here? He should be here," his words took on an angry edge right at the end. "On my wedding day."

"I honestly don't know," you murmured, your voice catching as you squeezed his hand tighter. "I ask myself the exact same thing every single day. But I know I have you, and you have me. And you can always, absolutely always count on me, for whatever, whenever. And I'm sure he's so proud of you."

Santi offered a faint, fleeting smile, his eyes searching yours. "I'm gonna miss you when you leave again. Nothing is the same without you sticking your nose into all of my business."

You let out a soft laugh, blinking back a new wave of tears. "You're gonna be way too busy starting your own family. You'll barely even notice I'm gone."

His smile faltered, a deep, raw sadness washing over his features. "How could you say something like that? You're part of my family too. I've missed you so much these past few months, you know that? First Mom, and then you," he said, his voice cracking slightly as a weak smile returned to his face. "Why is everyone so obsessed with leaving this place, huh?"

He turned his head around, his gaze shifting toward Frankie, who was still standing a short distance behind you both, keeping his respectful space.

Frankie offered a quiet smile, his eyes on Santi. "Hey, I came back, didn't I?"

Santi let out a weak laugh. "Yeah, you did."

Then, he turned back around to face the dark park, letting out a long, exhausted sigh. He hung his head, dragging both of his hands over his face and up through his tangled curls, holding them there for a second.

When he finally lifted his eyes, he locked his gaze onto the live oak tree, staring at it in total silence for a long moment, as if soaking in the memory of your dad one last time tonight.

Finally, he spoke, his voice completely drained. "I wanna go to sleep."

You nodded silently, the lump in your throat making it impossible to speak.

"Alright, let's go," you whispered.

Carefully, you pushed yourself up from the bench and reached out, pulling on his arm to help him stand. His weight shifted unsteadily, but right at that moment, Frankie was there. He stepped in instantly, his strong grip catching Santi by the arm, anchoring him and helping him keep his balance on his shaky, alcohol heavy legs.

In complete silence, the three of you made your way back across the grass toward the car. The only sound was the rustle of the night breeze through the leaves and the quiet scuff of your shoes. And when you reached the vehicle, you quickly pulled the back door open as Frankie guided Santi inside, carefully maneuvering him so he could settle into the backseat.

The second his head hit the leather, it was over. In less than two seconds, Santiago was completely out, his eyes shut tight as his breathing immediately slowed into a deep sleep.

Frankie drove in silence down the side street by the park, careful with every bump and easing through the road so the car’s movement wouldn't wake Santi. In the backseat, he was completely twisted and bent out of shape, yet fast asleep.

Less than a minute passed after you left the park area behind before a sigh finally escaped your throat.

Your phone lay in your lap, its screen dark ever since you read Emma’s last message a few moments ago. She was already at Will’s place with the guys, and apparently, Benny had crashed on the couch the second they walked through the door.

Frankie pulled up to a red light.

"You can take us to my place if you want, I’ll stay with him," you said, not looking at him.

He clicked his tongue. "Nah, it's fine. I’ve got him. Yov’s party is still going, you shouldn't miss it. I’ll take him to Will’s and crash with the guys. You and Emma can head out."

"You sure?"

"Yeah," he turned to look at you, "gotta fulfill my duties as bestman."

A helpless smile slowly formed on your lips as you looked at him, and his own lips mirrored the gesture a second later. His eyes held yours like a magnet, and your stupid heart skipped a beat again.

"So, uh, New York," he tossed out, breaking eye contact as he looked back at the road. "What did you think?"

You lowered your head, fixing your gaze on your hands in your lap.

"It's nice. It's a great city," you looked back at him, but his eyes were still fixed ahead. "And I… I’ve been writing a lot."

Frankie glanced at you again. "Yeah?"

You nodded, unable to stop yourself from smiling like an idiot.

"Yeah. A book, actually."

"That's amazing," he smiled, "what's it about?"

"Uh, well, it's kind of a love story. It's mostly about Miles, and his relationship with Alya. They meet one night at a restaurant and lose touch for a year until they cross paths again, but Miles is this guy with a huge amount of baggage and things to work through," you waved your hands, showing just how huge Miles's problems really were. "And it's… it's a complicated story."

Frankie gave a half-smile, nodding slowly. "Does it have a happy ending?"

You pursed your lips and tilted your head. "I'm not telling you."

"Why? C'mon."

The traffic light turned yellow, and two seconds later, green.

"It has a happy ending, doesn't it?" he pressed, his eyes drifting back to the road as the car started moving again.

You huffed. "You really want me to spoil it for you?"

"Depends. How long do I have to wait to read it?"

"I haven't even finished writing it yet, so probably a while."

Frankie let out a soft laugh. "Alright. I'll wait."

Or maybe you could show him a few pages, you thought. Just a few, just to get his opinion.

It was just a thought. You didn't even know why you were so desperate to show him all of it.

"Emma told me you moved to a new place?" you said, your fingers fidgeting in your lap.

He nodded. "Yeah. Over at Circle Ranch."

"Yeah? It's a nice area."

"It is, it really is," he glanced at you for a split second. "Bingley likes it."

You smiled. "Really?"

"Yeah. We have a big backyard now, lots of grass and a few trees. He loves it, but it freaks me out a little, y'know," he shook his head with a smile. "The other day he climbed up one of the trees and I spent half an hour trying to get him down."

"He probably would've come down on his own. Cats really like being up in high places."

"I know. But what if a dog gets him or something?"

You tilted your head. "Are there any dogs nearby? I mean, from your neighbors or...?"

He shook his head. "Not really."

"Then?"

Frankie laughed. "I don't know. I guess I just don't want anything happening to him."

"Mhm. Cats are really smart. Bingley is really smart," you assured him. "And if your yard is safe, you shouldn't worry too much as long as he stays inside it. Just make sure he doesn't escape."

"Yeah, I bought him a collar with a tracker."

You laughed softly. "That's cool. I should get Darcy one of those. You really are a protective cat dad, uh."

"Well, obviously," he smiled, keeping his eyes on the road. "He’s my roommate. If he goes missing, I gotta do my own dishes."

"Fair point," you smiled, looking out the window for a moment. "I'm glad Bingley is enjoying his new backyard. Sounds like he has his own little kingdom now."

"He definitely thinks he owns the place," Frankie chuckled, slowing down as you approached a quiet intersection. The playful tone in his voice softened, turning into something softer as he glanced over at you. "What about you? Are you staying at your apartment?"

"Yeah. It feels good to be back home. Even Darcy is enjoying it."

Frankie nodded, keeping his hands steady on the wheel. He went quiet for a moment as the car moved down the dark street.

Then, his voice dropped. "So... Uh, are you, are you going back to New York?"

A sudden hollow feeling carved itself deep into your chest. You bit the inside of your cheek, looking away out the passenger window as the city lights blurred past. In your lap, you tightly laced your fingers together, squeezing your hands to ground yourself.

"I guess. I don't know yet."

You turned your head back to look at him just as the car approached another intersection. The traffic light flicked to a glowing red.

Frankie came to a stop and turned his head.

In the sudden stillness of the car, bathed in the soft crimson glow of the light, his eyes met yours. There was no teasing left in them, no easy deflection; just a brief searching intensity that seemed to pull the air right out of your lungs for a second.

He looked at you as if he were trying to read between the lines of your hesitation, his eyes dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second before locking back onto yours. "You like it there?"

Your heart squeezed.

Yes, you thought, but it doesn't feel like home.

Instead of saying it out loud, you looked away, answering softly, "I guess I do."

You turned your eyes back to him. Frankie was still looking at you, wearing a small encouraging smile. But you couldn't mirror it. There was something heavy sitting deep in your chest that anchored your lips in place.

Frankie noticed. "When Harry met Sally, uh?"

That pulled a small laugh from you. You shook your head.

Seeing your reaction, Frankie shook his head too, a chuckle escaping him as he quickly backpedaled. "No, no. They met in Chicago. Forget I said that."

You leaned your elbow against the car door, resting your face in your hand as you turned to look out the passenger window. The lingering smile stayed on your lips for a few seconds as the car moved forward, but it slowly began to fade, melting away into the quiet streets.

Beside you, Frankie just drove. He didn't push for more conversation or try to fill the space with words. He simply let the silence settle between you, steering through the night as the landscape outside started to blur into something increasingly familiar.

Will’s house wasn't far now. Just a few more blocks, a couple of turns, and this ride would be over.

And right then, a sudden ache hit you: you didn't want it to end.

The realization washed over you quietly, almost catching you off guard, of just how desperately you had missed this. Just being near him, sharing the same space, even wrapped in these sometime-uncomfortable silences.

You watched the streetlights sweep across the dashboard in waves, wishing the car would slow down, wishing the blocks would stretch out, just to keep the outside world away for a little longer.

But no matter how much you wished you could control time, sometimes wanting to speed it up, other times desperate to slow it down, the reality was that it just kept moving.

And while your heart hammered against your ribs like an untamed creature, craving more of him, Will’s house suddenly appeared ahead.

Frankie pulled the car into the driveway, bringing the ride to a final stop.

A beat later, he let out a quiet sigh and unbuckled his seatbelt, the click signaling the end of the line. The headlights caught the front window of Will’s house.

Your eyes drifted to him then. He glanced at Santi, still dead to the world in the back, before turning his face to yours.

"Frankie," you breathed, and the name felt forbidden on your tongue.

He didn't speak, but the slight tension in his brow gave him away. His hands remained clamped at the top of the steering wheel.

"I'm so sorry for everything that happened to you," you said, knowing this probably wasn't the right time or the right place, but utterly unable to hold it in any longer. "About Henry, and... and everything that came after."

The silence stretched.

Frankie swallowed, giving a single nod. "Thank you."

"And it makes me real happy that you're doing better now."

A ghost of a smile touched his lips, but his eyes stayed entirely dark. His gaze drifted down, anchoring somewhere between the two of you, as if measuring the distance that had grown since you left.

His hand twitched on the wheel, a microscopic movement toward you that he stopped just in time.

"Thank you."

You nodded.

Frankie seemed to hesitate. "And I... I'm so sorry," he murmured, his brown eyes lifting back to yours. "For hurting you and… and letting you down. You didn't deserve what I did to you."

You didn't offer an easy reassurance. You just let out a slow nod.

"And I'm really happy you're doing what you love," he added, his voice flattening out as he forced a smile. It was a tight, fragile thing. "I have no doubt everyone is gonna love your book."

You swallowed the lump in your throat. "Thank you."

Frankie’s smile faltered, dropping for a fraction of a second before he held it back up.

"And New York..." He trailed off, his gaze slipping from yours to look down at his own lap.

In that brief second of detachment, your eyes scanned his face with a desperate quiet hunger, memorizing him all over again. You traced the familiar slope of his nose, the soft curve of his mouth, the tiny lines around his eyes that hadn’t been there a year ago, the new marks on his face. You searched every single feature, hunting for a crack in his armor, looking for a hidden twitch, a shadow of hesitation, anything that said stay.

But Frankie just gave a soft shake of his head, looking back up. His expression was clear and almost painfully serene.

"I'm sure New York loves you too," he said softly. "It’s a big city, but it fits you. You’re gonna do amazing things there."

A cold ache settled deep into your stomach.

Was this encouragement? Was this a gentle nudge out the door? Was he clearing the path for you, sweeping away the debris?

A sudden winter seemed to settle inside the small cabin of the car. You forced a nod, your eyes drifting back to the dashboard where the green light of the clock kept ticking forward.

"Yeah," you breathed. "Thank you, Frankie."

He unclasped his hands from the steering wheel, the leather letting out a soft stick and release sound that felt incredibly loud. And the space between your seats suddenly felt like an ocean.

You looked straight ahead and unbuckled your seatbelt, the snap breaking the trance. "We should probably get Santi inside."

Without waiting for a response, you pushed the car door open and stepped out, your lungs begging for air.

You took a deep grounding breath of the cool night wind as you walked toward the front porch. Pressing the doorbell, you could hear the heavy thud of Frankie’s door closing behind you.

Emma opened the door almost instantly.

"Hey," she whispered, stepping outside and crossing her arms against the chill. "Will and Benny are already passed out. What happened? How's Santi?"

"Nothing," you said, turning back toward the car where Frankie was gently shaking Santi’s shoulder. "Santi was just at the park. Everything's fine."

Emma nodded, watching as Frankie carefully hauled a groaning Santi out of the backseat. You stepped in, grabbing your brother's other arm to stabilize him.

"Careful," you murmured.

Santi blinked heavily, a goofy smile spreading across his face as he looked at you.

"I'm careful," he slurred.

The three of you shuffled toward the porch in an awkward synchronized stumble, Frankie carrying most of Santi's dead weight while you guided his steps. Emma stepped aside, holding the front door wide open to let the makeshift rescue team pass.

"Will and Ben are in the living room," Emma guided quietly, shutting the door behind you. "You can take him straight to the bedroom."

"Alright, keep your feet steady, man," Frankie muttered to Santi, adjusting his grip around his torso.

Santi let out a low grunt, his sneakers dragging lazily against the hardwood floor.

"Why didn't you tell her?" he mumbled into the space between them.

You frowned, staring at your brother. Just then, Santi rolled his head back to look at you, his eyes unfocused but teasing. "He didn't... he didn't."

Frankie didn't acknowledge it, his face a mask of focus as they reached the open bedroom door. He placed a firm hand on Santi’s back, guiding him over the threshold.

"C'mon. Bedtime."

Santi paused for a second in the middle of the room, clumsily tugging at the zipper of his jacket.

"It's too fucking hot in here," he muttered.

A soft chuckle escaped Frankie’s lips. You watched them from the doorway, leaning against the frame with your arms crossed, forcing a faint hollow smile that didn't reach your eyes.

"Hey."

Turning around, you found Emma standing a few feet away in the dimly lit hallway. You stepped out of the room, giving Frankie and Santi some space.

"What's the plan?" she asked softly.

"We're heading back to Yov's," you replied. "Frankie's staying with the guys."

Emma searched your face, her eyes lingering a bit too long. "You sure?"

"Yeah."

You slipped back into the bedroom. Santi was already sprawled out on the mattress, his jacket and shoes discarded on the floor, while Frankie pulled a thick blanket up to his chest.

"All good?" you asked quietly.

Frankie nodded, looking down at him. "Look at him. Like a baby."

You swallowed the tightness in your throat and walked out toward the living room. Emma was already on one of the armchairs. Across from her, Will and Benny were sound asleep on the couches, buried under a messy pile of blankets and breathing heavily.

"I'll call an Uber," you said, pulling out your phone.

Emma nodded. "Your mom texted me, by the way. Asked how long we were going to be. I told her we got held up because you had a stomach ache."

A small, tired smile tugged at your lips. "Right. Did she buy it?"

"Seems like it," Emma said, shrugging her shoulders.

You nodded, your fingers moving quickly across the screen to confirm the Uber ride, while the soft snores of the Millers drifted from the couches. Emma watched you in silence for a beat.

"I’m completely sober now," Emma noted quietly.

You offered a tight smile. "Me too. The scare Santi gave me cleared the alcohol right outta my system."

On your screen, a driver accepted the ride, the map showing he was only two minutes away.

"I’ll text mom to let her know we’re on our way," you said, just as Frankie walked back into the living room.

"Santi's already snoring," he said, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe. "I don't think he’ll wake up until noon tomorrow."

"Yeah, well, neither will these two," Emma whispered, gesturing with her chin toward Will and Ben. "How much did they even drink? Weren't you supposed to have other plans after the bar?"

Frankie shook his head. "I lost count. Benny got a little too excited ordering rounds."

"You gotta work tomorrow?" Emma asked.

Frankie shook his head slightly. "Yeah, but not until after ten."

In the heavy silence that followed, you listened to their casual back and forth, the ordinary words mapping out a life you were no longer part of. You bit the inside of your cheek, keeping your eyes glued to the glowing screen of your phone.

"Too much work tomorrow?" Emma asked, leaning back against the cushions.

Frankie shook his head, pulling his phone out of his pocket. "Nah, not really."

You let out a quiet sigh. Shifting your weight, you stepped away from the living room without a word, slipping back into the dim hallway toward the room where Santi was sleeping.

As you walked, you caught a movement from the corner of your eye. You glanced back and saw Frankie watching you from the living room, his dark eyes tracking your retreat. You met his gaze for barely a second before turning your head away, focusing entirely on your brother.

It's fine, you thought. What did you really expect?

You had known that coming back to Austin meant facing Frankie, and facing Frankie meant clearing up a few things. But you couldn't pretend that the world had been on pause all this time. You couldn't expect him to show more than he already had. Because no matter how many feelings you still harbored for him, or how many he kept for you, if he even had any left; time had kept moving. And maybe... maybe this was just it. The end of the line.

The phone vibrated in your hand. The Uber was outside: Eric, dark grey Toyota Camry.

Casting one last look at Santi, you stepped closer to the bed and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead. He barely stirred, completely and deeply asleep.

By the time you reached the living room, Emma was already standing by the door, her bag slung over her shoulder. "Ready, babe?"

You nodded, tightly crossing your arms against your chest.

You couldn't bring yourself to look directly at Frankie, but you could feel his gaze burning into your profile; he was standing just to your left.

"Okay," Emma murmured, twisting the doorknob and pulling the front door open.

You stepped out first, your feet moving automatically as if you suddenly couldn't bear to be in his vicinity for a single second longer.

The night air hit your face like a splash of cold water, but it wasn't enough to clear the suffocating feeling in your chest.

"Tell Yov I say hi," Frankie’s voice drifted from inside.

Only when Emma stepped out onto the porch beside you did you finally turn your head to look at him. Frankie’s eyes locked onto yours, intense and searching, but you didn't say anything; you just offered a small fleeting smile, turning on your heel before it could fade.

Walking down the driveway toward the car waiting by the curb, you didn't look back. Not before getting into the car, not after the door clicked shut, and definitely not through the window as the engine revved and the house began to recede into the darkness.

The only thing you knew for certain was that you desperately needed a glass or two of that champagne. Or maybe something a lot stronger.

"Hey," Emma’s voice broke through the quiet, her fingers touching your forearm. "What’s wrong? Did something happen?"

You shook your head, trying to swallow the lump in your throat, but your body betrayed you completely. Your eyes burned, blurring with hot tears, and your mouth trembled, puckering into a soft painful grimace.

"Hey," Emma repeated, her fingers tightening just a fraction.

"It's over," you whispered. You didn't sob. You didn't break down. But your mouth trembled as the hot tears finally spilled over, tracks of quiet fire burning down your cheeks.

"What?"

"Frankie. It's over."

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

Lucky for you, a wedding is exactly the kind of bustling event that can keep your mind occupied with other things.

You can't afford to get distracted by work, or by your latest manuscript, which has been giving you a massive headache these past few days. Nor can you dwell on what will become of you after all this is over. The choice between staying in Austin or moving back to New York has haunted you for the last week, and you were just about to sit down and make a pros and cons list.

But you can’t think about that. You shouldn't, really.

Weddings are fun if you know how to make the most of them. Especially if you aren’t the one getting married. The truth is, after spending weeks tagging along with Yov and Santi here and there, listening to all the wedding prep, you actually considered taking an anxiety pill.

Having a planner helps, it helps a lot. But some things just can't be allowed to slip through your fingers. At the end of the day, the bride and groom have the final say, which means things can get incredibly stressful, incredibly fast. But in the end, it will all be worth it.

Austin, October 8, 2026

I wonder if Mr. Darcy will recognize the smell of home right away. I wonder if I’ll realize just how much I’ve missed it these past few months.

I want to see everyone.

Everyone.

"Oh my gosh, you’re finally here!"

Emma crashed right into you, wrapping her arms around your neck before you could even flash a full smile. Her hair smelled like coconut.

"I'm here," you laughed, hugging her back. "I've missed you so much."

"Me too," she squeezed, tight enough to fuse her ribs with yours. Then, resting her hands on your shoulders, she stepped back just an inch. "You smell amazing!"

"I was literally just thinking the same thing about you!"

Emma laughed.

All around you, people streamed in and out of the airport, hauling heavy suitcases and overstuffed bags. It was a gorgeous day; the sky was clear and bright, the air surprisingly crisp. Nearby, a couple was reuniting with a warm embrace and a few perfectly public appropriate kisses. It was a sweet scene, but not enough to pull your eyes away from your friend's face.

The drive home was quick and fun. Inside Emma’s car, it smelled clean and citrusy, and a Lana Del Rey song was going through the speakers. She had picked up two coffees, one for each of you, and you sipped yours while hearing her repeat you can be the boss, daddy, you can be the boss over and over again, wrinkling her nose every time her sunglasses slid down the bridge.

In the back seat, Mr. Darcy was sitting in his crate, remarkably quiet and relaxed. You could already tell he’d turned into a true New Yorker.

"Darcy is gonna be so happy to be home. Here he can climb up onto the kitchen window sill. I'm sure he misses watching people walk by on the street," you said, and the image of the cat pressed against the glass in the warm sunlight flashed through your mind.

"Mhm, that’s true. In New York people probably looked like tiny little ants, didn't they?"

You smiled. "They did."

Emma’s cheeks bunched up into a soft smile, and she glanced over at you for a second.

"Okay, and what did you miss?"

"Now that I’m actually here? I feel like I missed everything. I didn’t really notice it over there." You looked out the window, the rush of air brushing the strands of your hair against your neck. A deep sigh escaped your chest. "Have you heard anything about Francisco?"

You had managed to keep your simmering curiosity under wraps during your entire stay in New York. You hadn’t asked about him when Emma came to visit a few weeks ago, nor had you brought him up to Santi (or anyone) over the phone.

You mastered that control for months, all through the flight to Austin, and during the first twenty minutes after Emma picked you up. But as the landscape grew closer and more familiar, you simply had to ask.

You turned to look at her almost immediately.

"Frankie?" she asked.

You offered a faint smile. "I doubt I know any other."

"Right, who else?" She rolled her eyes playfully. She paused for a few seconds as the traffic light ahead shifted to red, bringing the car to a smooth stop. "He’s doing good. He's here in Austin, actually."

Your stomach did a complete flip. "Already? When did he get back?"

Emma pursed her lips to the side. "Like, a month ago?"

You raised a single eyebrow. "Really?"

She sighed. "He moved back to Austin last month."

"Emma."

"With Luna and Jamie."

You pressed your back against the seat, watching the scenery flash past the window as a hundred different thoughts raced through your mind. Yet, you didn't let yourself dwell on any of them for too long, only managing to say,

"Well, that makes sense."

"It does," Emma agreed.

"And where are they staying? With Helena?"

"At first, yeah, all three of them. I think Luna and Jamie are still there with her, but Frankie already moved out."

"Oh, he didn't go back to his place?"

She shook her head. "No. He actually put his house on the market and found a spot out in Circle Ranch. The guys helped him move in last week."

Okay. Recalculating.

Recalculating…

"Oh. I… That's… nice. Circle Ranch?"

"Yeah," Emma smiled, glancing over at you with raised eyebrows. "I never pinned Frankie as the type to go for the whole white-picket-fence and a dog kind of vibe."

"Does he have a dog now?"

"No," she laughed. "But it’s that kind of neighborhood, you know?"

You smiled and turned your gaze back to the window.

"Maybe he got used to the Boston suburbs and wanted something similar," you suggested.

"Maybe."

Whatever the reason behind Frankie's move, you felt good about it. You knew his old house was a bit crowded with painful heavy memories that he probably didn't care to relive. You knew he was completely sick of his next door neighbor too, Clint, who always parked right in front of his driveway and blasted his music way too loud. Or the dog from across the street that constantly wandered into his front yard to do its business on the freshly cut grass.

You were genuinely happy for him.

"C'mon, baby, c'mon out."

As you unlatched the little door to Darcy’s crate, you watched his curious eyes take in the surroundings. His tiny nose twitched upward, his eyes narrowing as he sniffed, instantly recognizing his home.

A second later, he stepped out with confidence, raising his tail high in a friendly greeting.

If you had a tail, you’d be doing the exact same thing, because oh, how incredibly happy you were to be back.

You hadn’t realized just how much you’d missed this place until you walked through the front door. Your living room was completely bathed in sunlight, the half-drawn orange curtains cast a warm glow into every corner, and there was a wonderful scent in the air that you definitely had Emma to thank for; she had been looking after the place, keeping it perfectly neat and tidy.

You grabbed your suitcase and rolled it into your bedroom, where your bed was neatly made and the floors practically gleamed as the sunlight hit your feet.

Unzipping it, you began to gradually unpack your things. Emma walked in just a moment later, holding a mug of freshly brewed tea for you and one for herself in the other hand. She set yours down on the nightstand.

"So, what do you wanna do today?" she asked.

You looked up at her, gently biting your tongue without realizing it.

"Well, first things first, I need to go get my car."

"Want me to drive you?"

You scoffed playfully. "Obviously. Is Will home?"

"He gets back at one."

"Oh, okay. Wanna eat something?"

"Yeah," she said, plop down on the edge of the bed. "I’ll order something, and we can just crash on the couch and watch some TV like the good ol' days, baby."

You smiled, your eyes crinkling. "Yes, please. I have missed doing that with you so much."

Emma hummed. "My butt has missed sitting next to yours, too."

You laughed. "Friends? How does that sound?"

She pointed a finger at you. "Yes! And since we are officially in wedding mode, we have to watch season seven."

"Yes!" You raised your eyebrows. "We should watch Monica and Chandler’s wedding and then Phoebe and Mike's!"

"Yeah," she grinned, her eyebrows knitting together playfully. "And let's get ice cream too. Will can wait!"

A wide smile spread across your face, and your chest swelled with warmth.

You were finally home.

Sometimes, getting involved with your brother’s best friend can be the best decision you ever make in your life. You might end up living together in a beautiful house with two gorgeous babies, getting married in one of the highest rated television episodes of the era. You could be, as the kids say these days, couple goals. The total package. The sarcastic funny guy and the girl with a few control issues who (for somewhat obvious reasons) manage to blend and complement each other perfectly. It can be beautiful and lasting and solid.

And in other cases, it can be downright complicated. Because sometimes, getting involved with your brother’s best friend can be a beautiful dream, right up until you find yourself sitting in front of the TV, watching Chandler and Monica’s wedding, and all you want to do is cry.

But you swallow it down. You suppress it because next to you, Emma is shooting you subtle suspicious glances; she knows you far too well not to realize this might be stirring up things buried deep inside your chest. But more than that, you fight it back because you simply don’t want to feel it. Not deeply. Because you know that very soon, at any given moment, you are going to see him again. You don’t know when or where, but you know it’s going to happen. And so, inside your mind, there is a tiny stopwatch with blurred numbers rapidly counting down the time until your eyes meet his once more.

Even the best couples have weak moments.

"Honestly, Chandler’s panic kind of ruins the whole thing," Emma said, lounging next to you with her head resting on your shoulder. "I hate that he doubts it. It ruins everything."

On the screen, Chandler is caught completely off guard by a phone call that refers to him and Monica as Mr. and Mrs. Bing. He makes a whole show of panicking, wanting to run away.

"It’s normal to be scared sometimes," you said.

"I wouldn’t want my fiancé doubting things like that at our wedding. I mean, it would make me question absolutely everything. I hate that choice the writers made. I feel like it’s not Chandler at all."

"Really?" You smiled. "Not Chandler at all?"

"No, why? You don't think so? C'mon."

"No, no, it's just, I mean," you sat up a little straighter, "I get it, but throughout the entire show Chandler has always had insecurity and commitment issues—"

"But we watched all his progress, and it was a long clear arc."

"Yeah but it’s completely normal that even though he's progressed and everything, he still has weak moments from time to time. Especially when it comes to something as huge as a wedding," you laughed.

"Mmh. I dunno. I don't like it. Would you want Santi doubting marrying Yov right before they do it? Would you want your future husband doubting marrying you right before you walk down the aisle?"

"But Chandler didn't doubt marrying Monica; he just got scared, that’s all. He didn't want to run away because he wasn't sure about her; he just panicked about taking such a huge step and didn't know what to do. He watched his parents' relationship fall apart, then went through the whole divorce and everything else. He has a history of commitment issues and the underlying fear that marriage might ruin the good thing he already has with Monica."

"But he literally talked to her just days before about how happy he was to spend the rest of his life with her. It makes no sense."

"It does make sense, Em," you said, looking at her. "You can't completely erase decades of trauma overnight. I mean, he thought their relationship was over after their very first argument until she had to assure him that’s not how things work. The man had avoidant attachment!"

Emma sighed. "I'm still not buying it, sorry."

"I'm sorry, you're telling me you're not buying it? You? The exact same woman who panicked because her boyfriend wanted to spend more time with her and almost considered breaking up with him over it?"

"Will wanted us to move in together!"

"So? All you had to do was tell him no!"

"And I did tell him no," she said, looking at you with a grin. "And we talked it through. I didn't dump him! It's not the same thing."

"I know it's not the same thing, but still, commitment issues are commitment issues."

"Alright, sweetheart, alright."

"You were on the verge of buying a ticket to Yemen at any second."

Laughing, you gave her arm a playful nudge and turned your attention back to the TV.

Time ticked away, minute by minute, as the sunlight shifted across the floor and walls, brushing against every corner until, almost without realizing it, you rested your head against Emma's and closed your eyes.

"I always fall asleep when I'm with you," you teased, buckling your seatbelt in Emma’s passenger seat. "I dunno what it is about you."

"But you needed it, didn't you?"

She started the car engine just as you flashed a smile.

"Maybe."

When you had finally woken up earlier, your mouth was wide open, drooling a little, while Emma was right beside you snoring deeply and completely fast asleep. In your lap, Mr. Darcy had been curled up like a little ball.

It was nearly two in the afternoon by the time you both decided it was time to go get your car. According to Emma, Will would be at his place, and when you told her to let him know the two of you were headed over, she simply said,

"No need, I know he'll be there."

Her relationship updates hadn't changed much since the last time you asked about them two weeks ago. They were still getting along well, really well, and now she had finally admitted to herself that she was in love.

That was an incredibly huge step for Emma, so neither of you was making a big deal out of it. You knew she was secretly ecstatic inside, and probably a little terrified, but she was handling it well. And Will, for his part, was a pretty laid back guy who gave her all the time and space she needed to feel completely comfortable about it.

It was funny and kind of unfair that, despite knowing them for so many years, it had never once crossed your mind that they would make a good match.

Granted, Emma used to be married, but what about before that? She wasn't even seeing her ex when Will entered the picture seven years ago. In fact, they had crossed paths a handful of times, but neither of them had ever shown the slightest interest in the other; or at least, you hadn't noticed.

How could you have missed it? They were absolutely perfect for each other. Emma was somewhat restless, impatient, driven, and occasionally loud, while Will was steady, relaxed, incredibly patient, and had no problem getting loud himself if the occasion called for it.

You were rooting for them.

"Does Santi know you already here?" Emma asked now, steering through a turn.

"Texted him as soon as I got home. We're having dinner tonight with Mom."

Emma smiled. "I saw her yesterday. She looks great, doesn't she?"

You let out a soft laugh. "So great. She's thriving."

"I guess that's what happens after having an european summer."

"A mediterranean one, mind you."

"Is she gonna be at Yov’s party?"

You pursed your lips. "I dunno. I don't think so. She says she doesn’t feel right about it. Apparently she thinks she’d be a mood killer. Yov wants her there anyway."

"A mood killer? It's not like there're gonna be strippers or anything like that, right?"

You laughed. "No."

"Then what's the issue?"

"I dunno. I think she still feels a little awkward participating in all of this."

"She has to be there! I need her to give us the full breakdown on everything that happened in Europe. I'm sure there were some interesting adventures," she said, raising her eyebrows. "I always knew Nora was a cool girl."

"I'm sure Yov will press her about it tonight," you said, turning toward the window. "And if not, I can always force her."

Emma laughed and nodded, completely on board with it.

It wasn't going to be a wild over-the-top party; it was going to be a small gathering at a gorgeous restaurant downtown, followed by drinks at a bar where Yov's friends had booked a private table in the VIP section. It was going to be fun and intimate, nothing crazy or chaotic. Yov didn't feel comfortable with shirtless guys giving lap dances, and she had specifically asked to just spend the night having a good time with her friends and close family.

To her, there was no such thing as a "farewell to freedom" anyway. What was she saying goodbye to? Being single? Well, obviously. But she didn't see much point in looking at it that way, since having Santi in her life didn't actually restrict her from anything. And after marrying him, it wouldn't restrict her either.

There was this archaic idea that once a person gets married, they abandon their freedom entirely; the freedom to hang out with friends whenever they want, to have total independence, and to be able to do this, that, or the other. But Santi and Yov were not that kind of couple. Marriage didn't demand limitations for them, and it was entirely obvious to you that their dynamic would keep right on going exactly the same way. Both were free to do their own thing, go out with friends, or dedicate time to personal matters. The party was symbolic, more than anything.

I mean, sure, they were saying goodbye to being single, but was that really significant? You were positive those two had said goodbye to that years ago.

For Yov, it would be a quiet fun evening tomorrow night. And for Santi, it would be a cookout in the backyard with the guys and a few other friends, followed by a trip to the bar to get drunk and play pool. It was a pre-wedding celebration, plain and simple.

Will’s house appeared ahead of you sooner than expected, and you suddenly realized the drive had gone by surprisingly faster than you'd even noticed.

Everything had been moving at hyper speed since you landed in Austin. The drive home from the airport, the morning spent with Emma on the couch, and now, the twenty minutes from your place to Will’s had felt like barely ten.

It was funny how time flew when you were desperately trying to hold it back. Not for any particular reason, either.

Emma flung the car door open before you could even unbuckle, and the second her feet hit the pavement, she said,

"I can hear music coming from the backyard. Go on ahead, I need to grab a few things from the car."

"Need a hand?"

In the background, the faint sound of an Alice in Chains song drifted over.

"Nah, I’m good." She moved toward the trunk, waving you off.

"Alright."

You walked down the driveway toward the side of the house, where a wide pathway led to the big backyard, and spotted your car right away, tucked under its protective cover beneath the patio roof and parked behind two other cars.

On a table under a window, a portable stereo was blasting music. Layne’s raspy broken voice screamed out lyrics you couldn't quite catch; your attention was already drawn to the car right in front of you, where Will was lying on a mechanic's creeper, working underneath it.

He didn't hear you come in over the music, and his upper body was completely hidden under the chassis. His legs were slightly bent, and seizing the moment, you crept up and gave his foot a gentle kick.

Thump!

You grinned as his whole body jumped in a mini scare.

The creeper shifted; he grabbed the tire with one hand to pull himself forward, the tiny wheels spinning on the concrete.

And just like that, nine months and twelve days later, your eyes locked once again with Francisco Morales'.

You physically felt your smile drop, as if your cheeks had suddenly turned too heavy, and you took a step back while trying, and failing, to tear your eyes away from him.

Frankie scrambled to a sit on the creeper like a startled kid, and braced his palms on the ground behind him. A stray lock of hair fell across his forehead, the rest of it a bit messy, and a pair of thick black rimmed glasses sat on the bridge of his nose. They weren't enough to hide the scars on his face.

With a quick push, he stood up.

"I'm sorry," you blurted out, suddenly breathless. "I'm so sorry, I thought you were Will."

He gave a quick nod, wiping his hands on his pants, but didn't say a word.

As your heart threatened to burst right through your ribs and your throat went completely dry, you felt a desperate, intense, aching urge to just... hug him. And at the exact same time, to tell him: you have no idea how much I have to tell you.

Instead, you just stared.

Frankie looked exactly as you remembered, yet at the same time, entirely different. His hair was slightly shorter on the sides, with the top left long and a little unruly. He was wearing a white short-sleeve t-shirt, stained here and there, and black cargo pants.

Looking at him like that, he seemed pretty much the same as the last time you'd seen him. But you could spot the difference in everything else; he seemed taller for some reason, and though his shoulders and arms had always been strong, they looked more toned now. His beard was short, neat and soft, his mustache trimmed. The scars were visible, fully healed now but prominent, leaving a clear trace of his accident, and behind his glasses, his big brown eyes looked tired.

You could have sworn you stared at him for minutes, but it was only a few short seconds.

"I," you crossed your arms, "I just came to pick up my car. If that's okay. Is—is Will around?"

It took Frankie a second to process.

"Uh, Will?"

You offered a faint smile. "Yeah."

"Yeah, right. Yeah," he reached up, rubbing the back of his neck. "I mean, no. He stepped out a moment ago. But he should be right back."

"Oh. Okay."

Behind you, the familiar scuff of Emma's footsteps drew closer until she suddenly froze.

You turned around, trying to pack an entire conversation into a single look, hoping she would decode it.

Just as you expected, your friend was dead in her tracks, holding two boxes in her arms and staring at Frankie like she’d just seen a ghost.

She glanced at you a second later, then right back at him.

"Frankie," she said, flashing a casual but not quite casual smile. "I didn't... I didn't know you were here."

Frankie huffed a soft laugh and gave a half smile. "Will'll be back in a minute."

Emma nodded. "Where'd he go?"

"No idea," he shrugged, turning back toward the car. "But he left a while ago, so he should be back any second."

"Oh, alright."

The second you glanced her way, Emma’s eyebrows shot straight up as she mouthed: I’m so sorry.

You gave a casual shrug that completely masked the panic clawing at your insides, letting out a soft sigh as your eyes drifted across the yard. Toward the back, for instance, where a disassembled bike sat abandoned mid-repair.

"I can move this car out of the way so you can get yours out, if you want?" Frankie asked. He was talking to you; it took you a beat to realize it.

You nodded. "Sure. Thanks."

He gave a quick nod and turned toward the car blocking yours. Will’s car. He reached inside the driver’s side to grab something, then slid into the seat, shut the door, and got the engine running on the second try.

"Here, let me help," you said, turning around and grabbing one of the boxes from Emma, desperate for any kind of distraction.

"Oh my God, I am so sorry," she whispered, pushing open the back door to the house. There was no real need to whisper since the roaring engine drowned out anything you two said, but she kept her voice down anyway until you were both safely inside. "I had no idea he'd be here. I mean, I know he hangs out here a lot, but I didn't know he'd be here today of all days."

"It's fine."

"No, I’m so sorry," she insisted, setting her box down on the kitchen counter. "I should have called first."

"No, Em, really," you said, dropping your box next to her. "It's fine. It's totally fine. You know what?" You turned to look at her. "Maybe it’s better this way, right? Unplanned and unexpected." You made a swift ripping motion with your hand. "Like ripping off a band aid. I’ve seen him, he’s seen me, how awkward can it really get? It wasn't even that bad!"

She smiled. "It wasn't?"

"Nope."

"Okay, that's good." She pursed her lips. "So... how are you feeling?"

"Nope. Nope," you said, shaking your head. "Too soon, honey. Not there yet."

Emma let out a soft laugh and pulled you into a tight hug. You took the moment to close your eyes, letting the tension in your chest unravel just a bit.

And outside, after a brief moment, the rumbling engine cut out as a clear sign that your safe haven inside the four walls of Will’s kitchen was officially up. You had to go back out there.

Emma let go of you, clearing her throat before turning toward the door and taking the lead. You gave it a single second before following her out.

The moment you stepped into the yard, your eyes instantly searched for him. Frankie was carefully peeling the protective cover off your car, and your gaze lingered on the back of his neck; on the soft messy strands of hair there, on the soft skin briefly blushed…

A sudden warmth bloomed in your chest.

"I'll get your keys," he called out, disappearing into the house so fast that this time, he was the one who seemed to be running away.

Letting out a sigh, you crossed your arms and walked over to the car Frankie had been working on when you arrived. It was old, you noticed, but not quite as old as yours. This one looked more like a nineties model; glossy black with a leather interior and smooth sleek lines. On the hood, the Mercedes Benz logo caught the light.

"You got yourself a real gem here."

Frankie’s voice made you snap upright. He was standing right behind you, dangling your keys from his fingers.

Emma was still keeping quiet.

"Thanks," you said, offering a small smile.

Frankie extended his hand toward you. Your keys were looped around his index finger; you slid them off, careful not to brush against him.

"I don't actually know much about cars," you added, mostly because the silence felt a little too heavy. "Will helped me with it."

"Yeah, he told me. He and I bought this one together, from the same seller," he said, gesturing toward the Mercedes.

"It's really nice."

"Yeah, though it still needs a bit of work. We’re fixing it up to... you know, sell it or something."

"I like it," you said, nodding. "My dad used to drive something like this when I was little."

His eyebrows shot up, and he replied almost too fast, "He did?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah—uh. It's a great car."

You nervously fiddled with the keys in your hands, dropping your gaze down to his shoes; a pair of black high top Vans.

Beside you, Emma let out a quiet amused sigh.

"I think I should get going," you blurted out, looking over at her only to catch a strange look on her face.

Oh, she was absolutely loving this.

"Yeah, sure," Frankie nodded, stepping aside as if he felt he was blocking your way.

"Can you tell Will I'll drop by later?" Emma asked him.

"Sure."

"Alright."

"Em, you can stay if you want," you told her.

"No, no. I said I'd help you unpack and set things up at your place, didn't I? Let's go," she said, waving you toward the driveway.

Unpacking at your place was a total lie. You were already fully unpacked and the apartment was spotless; she just wanted to be there for you.

"See ya," Emma added, giving Frankie's shoulder a friendly pat before turning around and heading toward the front of the house.

Once she was out of sight, you turned back to him.

"Tell Will I say hi."

He smiled. "I will."

"Thanks," you said, starting to turn toward your car. But you froze and looked back at him one last time.

He stood completely, utterly still.

You had no idea what to say, or why you’d even turned back around in the first place. But the moment you looked at his face and caught that flicker of nervousness in his eyes, you knew he was feeling it too.

"I like your glasses."

Frankie’s lips parted slightly, and a very soft sweet smile crept onto his face.

"Thank you," he replied.

Smiling back and holding in a sigh, you didn't say another word. You turned around, got into your car, and drove away, feeling his eyes on you the entire time.

You wished it had been different. You wished your inevitable reunion with him had happened in a controlled environment, surrounded by crowds of people; like Friday's rehearsal dinner or some pre-weekend get together. But as life had already proven to you time and again, you rarely get what you want exactly how you want it.

Forget everything we said a moment ago. All that talk about how time had been moving at a frantic pace since you stepped off the plane, remember? The walk from the airport to your house, your nice nap with Em, the drive from your door to Will’s… Forget it all. Because suddenly, the world seems to have ground to a near halt.

It's moving, and It's moving fast.

You’re driving, and the blocks around you pass at a crawl. No, how silly; you’re the one moving, not the blocks. You drift down the street while Emma sits beside you in silence, and you know it’s not an illusion because the cars passing you vanish ahead in seconds. And also because, after a few minutes, Emma rested her hand on your shoulder and asked,

"You okay?"

You nodded without a word. Well, maybe a soft "hmm" echoed somewhere in your chest.

"I'm sorry," she said, sounding far too guilty. "I know I already told you but I had no idea he was gonna be there."

You nodded again. "He looks so different."

"Yeah."

"Francisco," you glanced at her for a second, "he looks different, doesn't he? Or is it just because I haven't seen him in so long?"

Emma nodded. "No, I think he does look a bit different."

"I mean, I'm not saying he looks bad, he looks…" You tightened your grip on the steering wheel a little with your thumbs. "Different, healthier. Which is so freaking ironic because his face is covered in scars."

"Right."

"Oh God…"

"Hey," Emma squeezed your shoulder, "it's okay."

"He looks so good," you groaned.

Emma laughed. "It's okay."

You turned to look at her, frowning. "Does he wear glasses now?"

"He does."

"It's like he's doing it on purpose just to mess with me!"

"Look what Grian got for me." When Will walked into the yard, he was holding a six pack of beer and a large sealed plastic bag. "Original seat covers, baby, pure leather," he said, stepping closer to drop them onto the table next to the player.

Frankie was sitting in a chair with his elbows on his knees, and his eyes were fixed on the grass just past the concrete, contemplating his entire existence.

"Hey," Will called out.

Frankie looked up at him.

"Covers and beer," Will said, holding up the six pack.

"That's great. How much for the covers?"

Will frowned, glancing around the yard. The music was off, the creeper wasn't under the Mercedes, and most importantly, your car was gone.

"What happened?" he asked.

"She came to get her car." Frankie pushed himself up from the chair in one quick motion, rubbing the back of his neck. "Her and Emma, who said she’d be by later, by the way."

Will’s eyebrows shot up. "Oh, shit, man. You alright? How that go?"

"Nothing. She just… she just came and went."

"Y'all talk?"

"A little."

"And? What'd y'all talk about?"

"Nothing, really. Just… just her car, and this and that, and nothing else." He swallowed, looking over at the half-repaired Mercedes. "I'm such a fool. I couldn't even act normal."

Will laughed. "What are you talking about? What do you mean?"

"Oh, man," Frankie groaned as he sat back down again, burying his face in both hands and rubbing his eyes. "She looks so beautiful. I felt like I could barely breath."

"Alright," Will crossed his arms, "let it out."

"I mean, look at me," Frankie suddenly pulled his hands away from his face and gestured to his clothes. "I'm a total mess."

"Well, you know, they say girls like that. All covered in grease from work, that whole hot mechanic thing..."

Frankie frowned. "Oh God."

"And with the glasses on and everything, huh?" Will chuckled. "I bet she dug 'em."

Frankie felt his face burn with embarrassment, wishing the ground would just open up and swallow him whole right then and there. He felt like a self-conscious teenager, or at least, his body was reacting like one.

A long time. He’d spent so much time thinking about the next time he’d see you. Late at night when everything was quiet, in the middle of work, while washing dishes or doing laundry. He used to wonder how dramatic it would be, if it would be incredibly awkward or not at all, or if you’d just avoid him altogether. And none of it had been the way he expected.

He knew you hadn't expected to see him either. He'd caught it on your face the second he saw you—as beautiful and sweet as he remembered, but completely caught off guard all the same.

He’d been dying inside with every passing second. The moment you drove away, he felt this overwhelming urge to run right after you; to hold you tight in his arms and cover your face with kisses, to tell you how terribly he’d missed you and that loving you this much was unbearable.

But how completely out of line would that have been, right? When you looked so good, so refreshed, so perfectly fine. Frankie knew he no longer had a place in your life for that kind of confession.

He’d have to be strong. Stronger than he’d ever thought. Because the wedding was drawing close and these weren't gonna be easy days. Between the final preparations, the bachelor parties, the rehearsal dinner, and the ceremony itself, he’d have to find a way to keep his feelings in check and not let a single bit show, since you’d be seeing each other practically around the clock.

He couldn't even let his eyes betray him, because he knew all it took was having you nearby for him to look at you like a fool. Guess that's just what longing does to you.

And Santi knew all about that. He and Yov had talked to Frankie a few days back when the three of them stopped to rest during a long Sunday bike ride. They’d asked how he was doing, how he was prepping for the wedding, and if he was truly alright with all of it; all of this out on the trail, while their calves throbbed and their chests heaved. But the way their voices sounded reminded him of those times the guys used to try and casually check up on his health years ago, trying not to sound too nosy or overly worried.

"You don't need to worry, everything's fine," he’d told them, a bit winded. His neck was flushed and he could feel a bead of sweat dripping down his temple. He wiped it away with the back of his hand and let out a chuckle. "What do you think is gonna happen?"

Santi scratched his chin, pulling a face. "I know, I know it'll be fine. It’s just, y'know, it can get awkward and all, and we wouldn't want either of you having a rough time."

"We'll be fine," Frankie nodded. "Don't worry. We spent years getting along terribly and managing to co-exist or something like it, and nothing happened—"

"No, no," Yov interrupted, shaking his head and holding up a finger, "that wasn't co-existing."

Frankie rolled his eyes, hiding a bitter smile. "Everything's fine on my end. I’ll be respectful, polite, and anything that comes up can wait until after the wedding. You can count on that."

He didn't even know what he meant by that. "Anything that comes up" could mean absolutely anything; an argument, a casual conversation, anything requiring an ounce of extra attention that might pull the focus away from what really mattered.

Anyway, he’d promised himself to keep his distance and not let a single thing throw off the balance this week needed to have…

Until he saw you again, and a flood of emotions washed over him, soaking him to the bone. And right then, Frankie realized that for the past few months, he’d only allowed himself to feel about twenty percent of what he truly felt for you.

He’d convinced himself that he was okay with all of this; that his feelings, while still strong and very much there, weren't so intense anymore that they'd steal his breath away.

What a fucking lie. He loved you just as intensely as before, maybe even more; or maybe it was just the effect of seeing you after all this time.

You were surprised to see him; he’d noticed that. You hadn't expected it at all, and it definitely wasn't what you wanted. But as he looked at you, pretending to be completely unfazed, he felt this overwhelming urge to share every single piece of his life with you.

He wanted to tell you about his new house, about the big windows and how beautifully the light flooded the living room. About the shelves he’d filled with his vinyl records, and the space that was still left to fill.

Oh, and Mr. Bingley was absolutely out of his mind, completely in love with the new yard. Frankie would let him out for a bit, keeping a close eye on him so the cat wouldn't wander off anywhere. He’d discovered the little guy was actually a total scaredy-cat, which would make Frankie anxious enough to bring him right back inside. He wasn't quite sure how to handle it yet; the neighborhood was quiet and not dangerous at all, but letting the cat roam free in the yard still made him nervous. Who knew, maybe he’d hop the fence and end up in the street, or some dog might give him a scare. He wasn't about to take that chance.

He’d wanted to tell you about his new job, too. Frankie was back to training pilots, but no longer at his old academy. His former boss had done him a big favor by recommending him to the owner of a different academy (one that trained specialized pilots) and Frankie was finding it a whole lot more engaging and enjoyable.

Now he wasn't training arrogant rich guys who had too much money and free time on their hands, treating flying like some "easy" hobby with zero responsibilities (not that it was always the case, but... most of the time). Instead, he was training people who genuinely saw flying as a calling.

They were all young, eager to learn, and had a real respect for the profession. Frankie truly enjoyed teaching and had a great time with them; plus, the pay was damn good. It was exactly what he needed right now after draining a huge chunk of his savings. His house was about to sell, he’d already sold his car, and you could say he was pretty close to having everything sorted out.

He was doing alright.

He’d wanted to tell you all of that. For a brief minute, every single piece of news in his life flooded his mind and he wanted to share it with you, but a second later he reminded himself that it wasn't his place anymore.

It made no sense how completely his chest melted whenever he thought about you now.

"What are you gonna do now?" Will asked then, leaning his hip against the table and tilting his head.

Frankie sighed, pulling his hands away from his face.

"What else? Nothing. Act normal, I guess. Like an adult."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing," he got up from his chair and walked over to the Mercedes, opening the driver's side door. "I'm not gonna bother her."

"Ah, I see. The old go-crazy-and-suffer-all-by-your-lonesome routine."

Frankie laughed softly, shaking his head. "I deserve it."

Wednesday, October 9th

You really don't care about Francisco. He barely crosses your mind.

He wasn't on your mind when you woke up this morning, nor when you showered and got ready to open the bookstore. You weren't thinking of him when you brushed blush onto your cheeks, or when you coated your lips in raspberry gloss. And you certainly weren't thinking of him every single time the chimes above the door jingled and you glanced up, checking to see who walked in.

No, you aren't thinking about him at all.

Your morning flew by, peaceful and smooth. It had been a while since you’d spent time at the bookstore, and settling back behind the counter felt incredibly good.

You had missed all of this: helping customers find the exact books they were looking for, listening to their vague, quirky descriptions and the titles they always got completely wrong. You missed the scent of old pages, and the aroma of coffee that drifted through the door every time it opened because at this hour, every café on the block was open and the entire sidewalk smelled of espresso.

It was a quiet, nice morning. A few people dropped in; many left with books, others just browsed for stretches of time, and some simply asked a question before heading out.

In the quiet lulls, you read through the notes Donovan had sent this morning. There were far more than you anticipated, all anchored to comments lining the margins of the document.

In one of them, you read:

His age isn’t clear. He could be anywhere between forty and sixty years old. If I didn't know better, I’d assume he is a man nearing sixty. Keep in mind that the reader doesn’t know what you know, and you cannot gloss over that in the main descriptions. You can weave it into the dialogue or the internal monologue. Your choice. But don't make it obvious.

It wouldn't be so jarring if Donovan didn’t highlight the paragraphs in an intense, vibrant red. Sometimes he used yellow, other times a soft, light blue. If there was an actual system to his color-coding, you had no idea what it was.

At ten o'clock sharp, the chimes above the door rang out once more. Instantly, your eyes snapped toward the entrance, your mind flashing for a fraction of a second with the thought that it might be… him.

But it was Bill who stepped through the door.

Tall and handsome as ever, he wore a crisp smile and his bright prominent green eyes were shining as usual.

The moment you saw him, your eyes widened with joy.

You slipped off your stool to greet him as he walked in, carrying two large brown paper bags and a warm grin.

"Coffee and a slice of cake for my favorite writer!"

Bill set the bags down on the counter and welcomed you with open arms; he smelled of fresh brew and cologne. Your cheek pressed against his warm chest as he held you close for a brief moment.

"You haven't even read anything of mine," you laughed.

His hand brushed up your back. "I don't have to to know it'll be incredible."

"You really have faith in me."

Bill pulled back slightly. "We all do. Julie was thrilled when she found out. She says now she’ll have someone interesting to interview for her school project."

You huffed a laugh and walked back around to the other side of the counter. A customer stepped through the door right at that moment. Good morning, he said. Good morning, you replied. He was an elderly man holding a cane, and he headed straight toward the Hispano-American literature section.

"What are your plans for today?" Bill asked, leaning against the counter. "If you're free, Julie and I would love to have you over for dinner."

"I’d love to," you smiled, "but tonight is Yov’s bachelorette party. And Santi’s bachelorette party, too."

He grinned. "Oh yeah? What d'you have planned?"

"We're grabbing drinks at a bar nearby," you tilted your head. "Yov’s girlfriends made a reservation for dinner too, so, we'll see what happens."

"And Santi?"

"Oh, I dunno. I know they're going out for drinks too, but knowing them, they’ll probably do something else too."

A chuckle caught in his chest. "Will they have to go rescue him from a hotel rooftop in the morning like The Hangover?"

"Mmm," you narrowed your eyes playfully, "I think it'll be more like Into the Wild."

"Campfires and all that, huh."

"Exactly," you nodded. "Knowing them, they'll have a few drinks and then go have fun somewhere out there. Nothing too crazy. Plus, the rest of Yov's family arrives tomorrow so he gotta be fresh."

"Got it," Bill nodded. "And how... how has Austin treated you so far?"

"Austin?"

He tilted his head, a smirk forming on his lips that made you suspect his question had several layers.

"Austin is fine," you answered, lifting your chin. "I barely got here yesterday and my eye is already twitching, how about that?"

It was a joke. Your eyes were not twitching at all. Spiritually, maybe.

Bill laughed and reached out with his left hand, grabbing the side of the brown paper bag he had set down moments ago.

"Better not drink this coffee then. It has two shots."

You burst out laughing and snatched the bag from his hands. "Don't you dare!"

You needed that coffee, and you also needed the slice of cake he had so carefully tucked inside the plastic container. But above all, you needed him to stay right there with you and give you his opinion on a few things.

You pulled the coffee cup out and set it on the counter for a moment.

Bill laughed softly, his eyes dropping to your hand, and that’s when you asked:

"You free this Saturday?"

Later

If New York had taught you anything, it was how to dress and do your makeup.

No. Not New York. Alex.

Alex, like so many other wealthy, fashion forward New Yorkers, was a woman who understood style deeply and knew exactly how to tailor it to different people. That was why she had spent a massive chunk of your stay dragging you from one boutique to another, letting you freely indulge in every single one of her perks at beauty salons across the Upper East Side.

She had been incredibly generous. And while you initially thought it was a favor to you, you soon realized it was actually a treat for her. Letting Alex guide and advise your style was exactly what she craved and thoroughly enjoyed, and even Emma had gotten a little taste of her styling expertise when she came to visit a few weeks back.

You weren’t normally one to blow money on clothes and makeup. Truthfully, you liked the things you already owned, they lasted a long time, and you rarely found anything you loved enough to desperately want to buy. But in New York, your credit card began seeing action it had never seen before. And honestly? You liked it.

Now, your closet in Austin was packed with new dresses, skirts, blouses, and a few pairs of boots and shoes. You had flown back with two massive suitcases stuffed to the brim, packed right alongside the heavy uncertainty of whether you were even going to stay here. When in doubt, bring it all.

Right now, Emma stood in front of your bedroom mirror, half dressed. She was in her bra, a dress pulled up only from the waist down, fussing with her underwear beneath the fabric to make sure there were no visible lines.

Even though she was wearing seamless panties, she was convinced that the glare of the light caught the faint outline of the edges.

"I’m telling you, it doesn’t show," you said from the bed.

You had finished getting ready ages ago and were now lounging with Mr. Darcy resting on your stomach. You wore a form-fitting black skirt paired with a black blouse featuring soft, sheer bell sleeves. The neckline was high, grazing your collarbones, and the entire front was dusted with tiny sparkles that subtly caught the light whenever you moved. Your legs were covered in semi-opaque black tights, finished off with boots that hit just three fingers below the knee.

"You sure? What about like this?" Emma turned to the side, arching her back to check her reflection.

"It’s a thong," you said, lifting a hand. "And it’s completely seamless. For heaven's sake, Em, nothing is showing."

"Alright, alright," she dismissed with a wave of her hand. "You better be right. What time is your mom picking us up?"

"Seven o'clock."

"And what time is it now?"

You picked up your phone from where it lay beside you on the bed and glanced at the screen.

"Quarter to seven."

She let out a sigh of relief, then finally pulled the dress up over her waist and shoulders, slipping her arms through the sleeves and tugging the zipper up along her ribs.

She looked at her reflection and pursed her lips. You smiled.

Emma looked radiant. Not just beautiful, not just happy; radiant. Everything about her carried a glow that reminded you of the old Emma, the one from before the divorce, before everything had gone down.

She had always been a strong woman, and she had always faced life's hurdles as one. Even as she went through the divorce, you had never once seen her hang her head or crumble the way so many others would have. But she had suffered through bad days and rough patches, and during those times, a very specific light inside her had gone dark.

Between the two of you, Emma had always been the one who had life figured out, or at least the one who always knew how to stay on track.

Since you were little, she knew exactly what she wanted to do and how to achieve it; she graduated early, started working immediately, and married Luca shortly after meeting him. Everything in her life had always been neat and effortless, unfolding exactly how you’d expect the life of a model adult to go.

After the divorce, she barely faltered. That was the thing about Emma; some things just never seemed to shake her. Good or bad, she didn't let much get under her skin. Her peace was sacred.

Until Will came along.

At first, you couldn't quite put your finger on it, this thing that made her nervous in a way you had never seen before. When you were in New York and she would call to give you updates, the anxious flutter in her voice was entirely new. You were absolutely certain she hadn't been that jittery even during the week leading up to her wedding.

There was something about all of this that, for the first time in her entire life, was throwing her off balance. And it only took you a moment to realize why: she was truly in love.

Not in love the way she had been with Luca, or with any other ex… no. Truly, deeply in love. The kind of love that makes you feel like a teenager all over again, the kind that keeps him in your thoughts day and night, making you ache for him while simultaneously filling you with absolute peace.

You knew the feeling all too well. Looking at her right now, you recognized it instantly, because not too long ago, you had been in the exact same place. Head over heels.

Emma was in love.

"You look beautiful."

Hearing your voice, Emma caught your eye in the mirror and smiled.

"Thank you. You look beautiful too," she replied, turning around to face you directly.

You offered a warm smile in return, spreading your fingers across Mr. Darcy’s back. You gave his fur a gentle squeeze, and he immediately began to purr.

"So…" Emma walked over to the bed and drifted down beside you, propping herself up on her elbow. A wave of her perfume reached you instantly. "How's everything?"

You smiled. "How's everything? Everything's good."

"Ah…" She reached out and stroked Darcy, who promptly closed his eyes.

"What about you? How's everything with you?"

"Good." Emma sighed. "You talked to him?"

Your hand went still on Darcy’s back. "With whom?"

"Y'know. Francisco. Frankie. Have you talked to him?"

Your lips parted for a split second, your brows knitting together.

"No. Why?"

"Just asking," she said, pursing her lips. "After what happened yesterday, I dunno, I just thought maybe you guys had talked."

"Oh, no. No… you know how it is. If we’d talked, I would’ve told you by now, don't you think?"

Emma huffed a laugh. "True. You better."

"And what happened yesterday? Was he there when you went over to Will’s later?"

"Yeah, but only for a little bit," she said, her hand running over Darcy’s fur almost absentmindedly. "And he didn't say much."

"Hmm."

"It doesn't…" Emma locked her eyes onto yours. "It doesn't bother you that I hang out with him, right? Because if it does, I can totally—"

"Em, no," you interrupted, shaking your head.

"No, I’m serious. I know it can be weird for your best friend to spend time with your ex."

"It’s weird if you phrase it like that," you laughed. "But you aren't hanging out with Frankie. It’s just that he happens to be your boyfriend's best friend. It’s not your fault."

"It really doesn't bother you?"

You raised your eyebrows. "No, it really doesn't."

"I swear, the first few weeks I gave him the absolute cold shoulder."

You laughed. "Really?"

"Yes, I swear! And he barely even came near me because he knew what I was gonna say to him."

"What were you gonna say?"

"That he’s a fool and an idiot, what else?" She laughed. "Though I think he already knew it, because he always watched his step around me."

"Mhm. You two seem to get along well enough now, though, right?"

At your question, Emma’s smile faltered.

You knew she spent time around Frankie now. Here and there, they would cross paths at gatherings or over at Will’s place. She didn't tell you much, but it was always implicit. Every time Emma mentioned she was at a certain place, you already knew Frankie would likely be there too.

"Not really," she replied.

You smiled. "Em."

"What? I’m serious."

"You don't have to hide it from me. I know Francisco can be nice. And I wouldn't expect you to treat him badly just for my sake. That would make things uncomfortable for everyone."

"I don't treat him badly," she said, lifting a hand, "but we aren't friends either, okay? We just… we talk like normal people."

"Sure."

"Ugh," she groaned, tossing herself backward and covering her eyes with both hands. "I’m a terrible friend."

"That’s not true!"

"Of course it is! I have fraternized with the enemy!"

"Alright, stop it," you said, propping yourself up on your elbow. "Can we please drop this?"

"No!"

"We’re adults," you laughed, pulling Emma’s hand away from her face. "And Francisco isn't the enemy, he’s just my ex boyfriend. I have to coexist with him tomorrow, Em, please. Can we just act like this is normal?"

Emma sighed, narrowing her eyes. "Fine. But let’s be clear: I am gonna act like this is totally normal, but on the inside, I'm gonna enjoy every single second of watching you with Bill there—"

"Oh no, that’s not—"

"And when Frankie sees you with Bill?"

You threw your head back. "Bill is just my friend!"

"Your 'friend' whom you invited to your brother's wedding, where your ex, who was always a little jealous of him, happens to be the best man!"

A loud laugh burst from your throat as your face flushed bright red. "It’s not like that!"

"Yes it is! You smart bitch!"

Emma’s hands dug playfully into your stomach, and the tickling shocked another loud laugh out of you. Poor Mr. Darcy; the little cat bolted off the bed at the sudden noisy outburst.

On the inside, you swore to yourself: it really wasn't like that.

Fortunately for you, five minutes later, the horn of your mom’s rental car honked outside your apartment, and Emma immediately bounded off the bed to throw on her heels, utterly unable to tease you any longer.

Hours later, at night.

Sitting at the long table surrounded by Yov’s friends, you felt at ease.

The restaurant was located right in the heart of downtown, and thanks to Cinthia, the maid of honor, they had managed to book a private table out on the terrace.

Beside Yov sat Emma, who had become really close to her over the last few months. The bond between them had blossomed naturally, fueled by all the time they spent together because of the guys. Watching them laugh together, it was hard to believe they hadn't known each other a lifetime.

"And then," one of Yov’s college friends said, gesturing animatedly with her fork, "she completely forgot where she parked the car and we spent two hours walking to our apartment, drunk as hell. And as soon as we got home, guess what? Her car was parked right there!"

The table erupted into laughter, and Yov buried her face in her hands just as her cheeks flushed pink.

Emma leaned in, nudging her playfully.

"To be fair, that happened to us, too," Emma chimed in with a grin, throwing a knowing look your way. "Remember that? My dad was so mad."

"Oh, yeah," you raised your eyebrows, "but we walked all the way home having forgotten your car was parked right outside the club."

Your mom gasped; "What? When was that, and why am I just finding out now?"

You turned to look at her, sitting to your left.

"It was a lifetime ago!" you replied.

She smiled and shook her head. It made you happy to see her here, laughing, enjoying herself, and sharing this moment with all of you, because the truth was, it had been a very long time since that had happened.

Following your father’s death, your mom’s retreat had been almost absolute. She had rarely returned to the city, and she had never stepped foot in the family home again; a house that didn't even belong to you anymore.

Your relationship with her had fractured deeply because of that, leaving Santi as the one who stayed closest to her. It meant years of brief interactions, arguments over the phone, and her constant attempts to reach out to you, which you always pushed away.

Back then, you were younger. You were grieving one of the people you loved most, and you needed her. But she wasn't there, and for the longest time, you resented her for it.

If you were a mother, you would never do that; leaving the city because you were heartbroken over the loss of the love of your life was understandable, but distancing yourself from your two children was not.

And it wasn't that she had completely vanished, either. No, she had always tried to stay in touch with daily calls, constant texts, and video chats every single night. Until you finally said no more, and began to freeze out any kind of contact.

That lasted for two years. Two years where you cut yourself off from her entirely, reducing your only connection to calls once every few weeks and updates passed down through Santi.

It hadn't been easy at first, but she was entirely honest with you. All of this was difficult for her, and it had been incredibly hard years ago as well. But living together in New York after her trip had been surprisingly fun, and something you had missed desperately.

The two of you spent your days walking, exploring, taking in the city, and spending your nights watching movies, shows, and reading together in the living room.

You reconnected, and it felt so good. You had missed your mom so much, and being with her now felt completely right.

Amid the chatter and jokes, two hours flew by as you finished dinner and dessert. Yov was ecstatic; her friends were all gathered in the same room for the first time in years, and on top of that, her mom and yours were having a wonderful time together.

The atmosphere was incredibly warm and the excitement for the wedding grew with every passing minute; you were starting to feel the rush of emotion building up inside you, too.

You couldn't believe it. This was actually happening. Santi was getting married, and not only that, but his future wife was someone you absolutely loved.

Watching her now, as she laughed with your mom and lifted her glass to her lips, you felt a wave of genuine happiness.

What a beautiful family you had. And what a beautiful family they would have in a couple of years. You could picture it perfectly; just like this, but a little different. With a couple of kids, maybe. Santi wanted two; Yov wanted at least two. And you couldn't wait to have nieces and nephews running around everywhere.

She was an incredible woman, and your brother was lucky to have her. And on the flip side, Santi was a wonderful man, too. You were certain he would make an amazing husband and father, and you couldn't wait to see him step into that new chapter of his life.

"What are you thinking about?"

Emma’s soft voice pulled you from your thoughts. Turning toward her, you met her bright eyes framed by long curling lashes. She gently touched your elbow.

"Nothing," you answered, a gentle smile tracing your lips. "I can't believe they're actually getting married. Time moves so fast. Santi is fully a grown man now."

Emma smiled. "He has been for a while, huh."

He had been for a long time. But you had barely noticed the passage of time, preoccupied with growing up right alongside him.

Everything had just moved so quickly. Only a few years ago, the two of you were inseparable, going everywhere together; you glued to his side like velcro, and him completely fine with bringing you along. It had always been you and him, him and you.

Every time he hung out with his friends, he brought you with him. Everywhere you went with Emma, there he was, simply because he was too curious and liked your company.

Spending these past months in New York had been a completely new experience for you, as you had never gone that long without seeing Santi. It had felt strange not having him around or seeing him for such a stretch, and it made you realize just how accustomed you were to his presence.

You didn't know if all siblings were like that. Probably not. But you and Santi definitely were.

"Your mom is having a great time," Emma whispered, leaning close to your ear.

You smiled instantly. "I know. I wish Dad were here to see it."

Emma squeezed your arm with hers. "I'm sure he is."

"You think so?" you asked, looking at her sideways with a small smile.

"Of course I do. I bet he’s even having a glass of wine somewhere right now."

That made you laugh. You could picture it perfectly: your dad tilting his elbow back to finish his glass of wine, just like he always did whenever he was celebrating and happy.

Somewhere out there, he was watching over you all. You liked to believe that.

"Another round, my treat! Our boy's getting hitched!"

A microsecond after Benny finished speaking, the entire bar roared in celebration, raising their glasses and hands.

Fuckin' opportunistic bastards, Santi thought amused. Everyone here wasn’t just happy for him; they were just thrilled to drink on someone else's dime. Julius, CJ, Baz, Carlos, and even Don had already crowded around, slapping him on the back in congratulation.

Santi laughed, ducking his head a bit, suddenly feeling a wave of self-consciousness from all the attention.

"C'mon Fish, live a little," Will said, stretching his arm across the table to thrust a beer bottle toward Frankie, who was sitting at the far corner.

Santi watched him shake his head.

"Ts, I dunno," Fish replied.

"Not even a single drop?" Ben asked, sounding genuinely offended. "C'mon, celebrate with us. The state of Texas allows a zero-point-zero-eight blood alcohol level, which is..." He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, doing the math. "... a drink, a beer!"

Frankie crossed his arms and leaned his head back. "Under what exact circumstances were you researching that?"

Ben scoffed. "You don’t wanna know. But let’s get one thing straight," he added, planting his hand firmly on the table. "I am a responsible driver!"

"Fish," Santi called out, raising his own beer. "We’ll call an Uber. Now celebrate with your friend who's about to tie the knot."

Frankie’s smile turned lopsided, and in that brief moment, Santi noticed how the scar on his cheek stood out just a bit more.

"You guys are a terrible influence. Haven’t you noticed I’m a clean guy now?"

"Oh, c'mon," Will laughed, throwing his head back.

"No, no, it's true," Santi chimed in, nodding. "He really is."

Will raised his eyebrows. "I know he is. What is it, up to one or two cans of beer a day, max?"

"Only if I have to drink. Otherwise, nothin'," Fish said, squaring his shoulders with a hint of pride.

Santi smiled, feeling a pang of pride himself. "I’m proud of you. We all are."

"To Fish!" Benny raised his beer.

Will smiled and imitated his brother. "To Fish."

Frankie scoffed, suddenly shy, and hid his eyes under his glasses.

A second later, Will took a long swig of his beer before slamming the bottle back down on the table.

"Alright, enough with the sappy stuff, you're gonna give me diabetes. If Fish is staying sober, it just means more booze for the rest of us. Call that round already!"

Frankie laughed and looked over at Santi, who held his gaze for a couple of seconds, his eyebrows rising bit by bit.

"Uh?" Santi smirked. "Just one? What do you say?"

A few feet away, Grian was pulling out beer bottles and lining them up on the bar.

Frankie leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, a wide grin flash of teeth breaking across his face.

"It's my bachelorette night and my best man can't even clink glasses with me!"

"Alright, alright, alright," Frankie raised both hands in surrender. "Just one. But only 'cause it’s your night and a nice cold beer actually sounds real good right now."

Will slapped Fish on the back, giving him a rough but affectionate nudge, a grin splitting his face.

"And just so we're clear, we're still incredibly proud of you."

Santi smiled as he watched them, taking a sip of his beer. As he swallowed, a heavy sensation settled deep in his chest.

He couldn't quite explain this feeling. He was thrilled about his wedding, and even more so about what it meant for his life with Yov. Yet his smiles felt forced, slipping away the moment none of his friends were looking.

Will was ecstatic, Benny was right there with him (and a bit tipsy), and Fish had just tipped a bottle to his lips, taking a long swig as the corners of his mouth turned upward into a grin. And in that exact moment, the only thing Santi could think about was… someone else.

Terrified that someone might notice the sudden glossiness in his eyes, he pressed the beer to his mouth and finished it in one long gulp.

"Alright, where’s that next round, huh?" he said, bringing the empty bottle down hard on the table. "I’m getting thirsty."

Fish smirked slightly, his gaze drifting over Santi’s face. "You alright?"

Santi let out a huff. "As always."

People always say you shouldn't drink on an empty stomach.

Well, you all took that advice to heart.

Following a delicious dinner and a suggestively named dessert specially crafted for the bride and her guests, the group piled out onto the street, where a stretch limousine was already idling by the curb.

Yov burst out laughing. "Fio, what on earth is this?"

Fiona, one of her best friends, gestured grandly toward the massive car before pulling a white sash out of her bag that read Future Mrs. Garcia in bold lettering.

"What does it look like?" she laughed, stepping closer to loop the sash over Yov’s shoulder. "Nothing but the best for our beautiful bride; you only get married once!"

Emma chuckled. "According to whom?"

"I've been married twice," Cinthia chimed in, raising both hands.

"Well, they do say third time’s a charm," Fiona shot back, clapping a hand over her mouth the exact second the words slipped out.

The sound of your mom’s laughter made you snap your head to the right, and you watched her laugh with flushed cheeks as she walked over to Yov and gently took her by the arm; She was already a bit tipsy. She had finished two glasses of wine during dinner and you knew that was always enough to make your mom giggly, and you loved seeing it.

She was having a wonderful time, just like everyone else.

Fortunately, Fiona’s slip of the tongue was swept away by a wave of giggles as the limousine doors swung open, inviting you into leather seats and neon lighting.

One by one, each one of you piled inside, heels clicking against the pavement before sinking into the comfort of the interior. ABBA was already pulsing through the speakers and a chilled bottle of champagne was waiting in the ice bucket.

Your mom took a seat near Yov, still giggly, while Emma slid in right next to you; her eyes were sparkling as she smoothed down her dress and smiled at you. Cinthia, in front of you, immediately took charge of pouring the drinks, handing out flutes of bubbling champagne as the city lights outside melted into streaks against the tinted windows.

It was a short drive, but when the limousine finally pulled up to the curb, the venue took your breath away.

It wasn't a huge chaotic nightclub, but a really nice luxurious place. Nestled behind a discreet entrance, the lounge exuded… quiet. The lighting was low and calm, casting shadows over velvet booths, dark walnut accents, and a big glowing marble bar that stretched across the main room. Your first thought was oh, this is expensive.

But Cinthia took charge of that. Of everything, really. She had a wildly successful career in PR, and before you had even made it to the restaurant, she had casually mentioned how she always managed to get exactly what she wanted. It was a natural born talent. The restaurant, the limo, the lounge, and even the expensive bottles of champagne waiting for them were all the masterwork of her and Fiona.

A hostess in a tailored suit checked the name and guided your group past the main floor toward a raised, private tier.

"Right this way, ladies. Your table is ready in the VIP lounge," she murmured.

The private area overlooked the rest of the venue, enclosed by elegant brass railings and draped in heavy emerald green curtains. It was the perfect vantage point.

"You really outdid yourself," Yov breathed, taking in the crystal glasses and the dedicated server already waiting for them.

Cinthia just offered a knowing smirk, sinking into the velvet cushions. "Only the best for the bride. Now, what are we drinking?"

Emma squeezed your arm. "Oh my God, no! No! I'm gonna pee myself!"

"Oh no!" your mom shrieked.

You wanted to answer (you really, truly did) but the words wouldn't come because you couldn't even breathe. Your stomach ached from laughing so hard, and Emma wasn't helping; she was standing right in front of you with her legs tightly crossed, this ridiculous, hilarious wheeze escaping her chest.

"Emma, no, go, go!" Cinthia ordered, shooing her away with a wave of her hand. Beside her, Kat, another one of Yov's friends, looked intensely focused, squinting into near blindness as she tried to wipe her glasses with a cloth.

"C'mon, I'll take you," you managed to choke out between giggles, pushing yourself up from your seat and nudging Emma toward the hallway.

"You need me to come with you, sweetie?" your mom asked.

You turned back to look at her and your grin widened; she had a straw clamped between her lips, her eyebrows raised expectantly.

"Nah, we're good, we'll be right back."

Oh God, your stomach literally hurt from laughing. You couldn't even remember what the first joke was, or whatever it was that had triggered this chain reaction of non stop laughter, but it had been at least ten minutes of tossing one-liners back and forth.

Surprisingly, your mom wasn't helping the situation at all; she was on a roll tonight, spilling anecdotes about Santi; embarrassing stories that would have absolutely mortified him if he were here to listen.

And like any good younger sister, you found them hilarious and were laughing your head off.

"Ask him about the time he tried to impress a girl in middle school by doing a backflip off the diving board," she said minutes ago. "He ended up doing a full horizontal belly flop. The smack was so loud the lifeguard thought a firecracker went off! He had a bright red stomach for a week, my poor boy!"

Yov buried her face in her hands, her shoulders heaving as she let out a loud, snorting laugh.

"I am calling off the wedding," she wheezed, shaking her head.

"No!" your mom shot back, entirely unbothered, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "I have the photo album to prove it. I'll pass it under the table right before you say 'I do'."

"Oh yeah! I've seen those photos!"

Picture this. A fourteen year old Santi with slightly long curls and naturally flushed cheeks. And underneath his t-shirt, a bright red stomach bruised from a wipeout that made you laugh your head off back then, but also curse on his behalf. It wouldn’t have been so embarrassing if it hadn't been summer, and if he hadn't done it right in front of every single kid at the pool. The poor guy wore a shirt for an entire week after that, even to get into the water.

It was a simple kind of silly anecdote, but the way your mom told it was hilarious, and it was followed by so many more that your brother’s ears would definitely be burning somewhere right now.

Emma let go of your arm the second you entered the restroom and rushed straight into a stall.

"Your mom is so funny," her voice echoed. "I missed her. Poor Yov!"

Looking in the mirror, you ran your index finger under your eyelashes to fix the mascara that had smudged a bit.

"I know, but she’s one of us now. She has been for a while."

"I love her, I love her—ouch!"

"What's wrong?" you tilted your head to the side.

"Nothing, nothing, I just twisted my stu-pid foot!"

Laughing, you furrowed your brow. "What are you even doing in there?"

Emma let out a low chuckle. "Nothing. These toilets are too damn low."

"Alright. Just be careful in there." You looked down at your purse and opened it to grab your lip gloss, but the glowing screen of your phone caught your attention instead.

Ten missed calls and many… many messages. All from Will. And you would have heard them if you hadn't put your phone on vibrate mode just to enjoy the night better.

Plse answt, one of the messages read.

wwe can't fondsanti

Your heart started beating incredibly fast as you unlocked the phone, your hands turning freezing cold.

You heard the sound of Emma’s toilet flushing just as you pressed call on Will.

"Oh God, much better," she said as she stepped out of the stall, but you couldn't do anything except listen in silence. Emma watched you bring the phone to your ear. "What happened?"

"I don't know," you shrugged both shoulders.

The phone rang once, twice, three times—

"Hey."

"Hey, Will, what happened? I just checked my phone—"

"Santi’s gone."

Oh God, he was slurring his words.

"What you mean he's gone? Gone from where? Isn't he with you?"

Emma’s eyes widened. "Is that Will?"

You nodded and put it on speaker.

"—in the restroom, but Ben went to look for him and he wasn't there, and he's nowhere to be found and—"

"Where are you right now?"

"Here."

"Here where?"

"Will, honey, can you hear me? Where are you guys?" Emma asked.

"In the restroom—at the bar, in the bar restroom."

Your heart jumped into your throat. "And where's Santi?"

"I-I I dunno, he left, or I dunno, he's not here—"

You closed your eyes in frustration. "Listen, is there anyone else there I can talk to?"

"Yeah wait."

On the other end, you could hear music, voices, and a thud that sounded like a door slamming shut. Will muttered a shit, and two seconds later:

"Yeah?"

Francisco.

"Hey, what happened?" you asked, rubbing your hand across your forehead. "Where's Santi?"

"Uh… we… we don't know where he is. We were just hanging out here and he said he had to go to the restroom." Okay, he wasn't slurring his words. "And then after a bit, we realized it had been a really long time, and when Ben went to check, he wasn't in the restroom, or in the bar. He's not here, he left."

"But how? How could he have left without you guys noticing?"

Emma watched you in silence, her eyes wide.

"I dunno, I'm sorry. He must've slipped out through the other side of the bar."

"Shit, Frankie, are you being serious?"

"I'm sorry, we're gonna go look for him right now—"

"Will is drunk, and I assume Benny is too, you aren't gonna get very far," you sighed. "How was Santi acting before he disappeared?"

"A bit wasted too. He started talking about trees and houses, and said Yov was gonna be mad at him."

Emma gasped in shock. Your heart completely skipped a beat.

"Alright, where exactly are you guys right now?" you asked.

"At The Crow. We were planning to head over to Met Park later."

"Okay. Listen to me, stay put, yeah? I'm coming right now. Please don't call anyone else. Have you talked to anyone else?"

You heard Frankie pull the phone away from his ear.

"Did you talk to anyone else? No? You Ben? Alright…" his voice sounded muffled before coming back clear. "No, they haven't talked to anyone else. Neither have I."

"Good. I'm not far, okay?"

"Okay."

Without answering, and before he could say anything else, you cut the call, your hands freezing cold.

"What are we gonna do?" Emma asked. "You don't think he got cold feet about the wedding, right?"

"No, no," you shook your head, though you weren't entirely sure. "No way. Santi would never do that."

Emma rubbed her cheek. "I'm calling an Uber right now. What are you gonna tell the girls?"

"Nothing. They don't need to know. I'll just text mom telling her we're heading home for some silly reason, and that's it."

Your fingers flew across the screen, typing out some absurd excuse. Hey, Em broke her shoe, we're running home real quick to change and we'll be right back, don't worry, we already called the Uber.

You hit send and prayed that your mom's maternal instinct wouldn't kick in tonight of all nights.

You were going to kill Santiago.

If you bit your nails any shorter, you were going to be left with none. And it felt like this damn Uber driver was practically crawling.

"There they are!" Emma said the second you pulled up to the block where the bar was.

Will, Ben, and Frankie were waiting outside on the sidewalk, the three of them looking like scared kids waiting for their moms to pick them up from kindergarten.

You mumbled a quick thank you to the driver and got out as fast as you could, while Emma scrambled out from the other side a bit more clumsily.

Will put both hands on his head as soon as he saw her. "Emmy!"

"Look at you! Grown men!" she snapped, a little tipsy herself. "How could you lose your friend?"

Shaking your head, you looked over at Benny, who was crouching down and looking like he was about to throw up, before shifting your gaze to Frankie; the only sober one, apparently.

He wasn't drunk, but he looked just as panicked. His hair was a bit messy, and he was looking at you with a strange expression.

"What happened?" you asked, crossing your arms as you stepped up to him. "Have you tried calling him?"

Frankie’s eyes flickered across your face. "He left his phone. I have it right here."

"Oh God."

"Don't worry, we're gonna find him," he nodded. "He couldn't have gone very far."

"How? Look at them," you gestured toward Will and Benny. "They're wasted!"

Frankie took another step closer to you. "But I'm not. I've only had a few sips. My car is right across the street."

"Francisco. You're the best man, you were supposed to look out for him," you frowned, a sudden wave of anger hitting you. "How on earth did you let him slip away?"

He frowned back. "How was I supposed to imagine he’d just take off like that? It's Santi we're talking about."

"Yeah, exactly!"

"Alright, alright," Emma stepped in, raising a hand. "Stop wasting time talking and do something, okay? He could be anywhere! Frankie, can you drive?"

He nodded. "Of course."

"Zero point zero eight!" Ben yelled.

"Okay. You go with him and search everywhere," she told you, gesturing with her chin, "and I'll take these two drunks back to Will's place."