Geez, Louise!

Joel keeps walking, unhurriedly stepping into a bigger room with high walls and comfortable chairs to sit around, his gaze seeking his most cherished treasures: his daughter and wife. It doesn't take much to find them, always attuned to them, to be bestowed a mesmerizing sight he knows he will never tire of contemplating, of adoring.

Sarah is standing on the other side of the room, fascinated by what she's looking at, talking to her mother as she points at something inside the water. The bond between them, one carved not by blood but by choice, glows vibrantly and alive as they laugh together, filling Joel's heart with so much joy it sketches a smile on his face.

The two of them, dressed in matching flowery summer dresses and sneakers, beckon him, guide him through the space and the people scattered around the room.

Joel steps behind his wife. Her body welcomes him as soon as he invades her personal space, recognizing him instantly and leaning against him once his hands cradle her belly, ripe and heavy, carrying his child, barely four weeks away from the due date. He takes the weight of her belly on his palms, using the strength of his arms to lift it enough to relieve her body for a spell, feeling her sigh against his chest in gratitude as they start to sway, side to side.

“You doin’ ok, Sweetheart?” He whispers, nuzzling her neck, pressing his nose just below her ear, where her scent is thicker, filling his lungs with the fresh whiffs of honey and vanilla of her body lotion.

She rolls her eyes. Annoyed, but also fond and loving. Understanding of Joel's anxieties, his worry about how today could strain her body. “Yes, as I’ve been the last twenty times you’ve asked me.” He chuckles, apologising with a kiss on her cheek as she keeps talking. “Sarah is having a good time.” Joel looks down at Sarah, sitting beside the glass, staring at the sea turtles.

There are three of them swimming close. Healthy and big. They move with grace, as if they were flying, with resilience and a quiet, but mighty strength.

“Yes. We did well in coming here for the weekend.” 

Their weekend getaway was rooted in the desire to give Sarah a little adventure before the baby was born, and their lives became chaotic for a while. Sarah's only request had been to visit the aquarium, which served as the perfect excuse to drive for a couple of hours to Corpus Christy so they could visit the Texas State Aquarium and enjoy the beaches and the sea now that the summer had begun. And the heat was still pleasant and welcomed.

"Yes," she agrees, still swaying a little. “I have a question, though.” Joel hums in answer, looking at the turtles, content to enjoy the peace these gentle giants transmit. “I was thinking…”

"About?" Joel wonders, his curiosity awoken by the tone, the hints of excitement in her voice.

“Sophia or Irene?” She asks, carefully watching Joel's expression transform, his confusion melt into surprise and bewilderment.

“What?” It's his turn to ask, not daring to assume what those names mean, needing her to say it out loud as his heart drums underneath his sternum and his blood pulsates in his veins.

“For the baby.” Her hands caress her belly, tenderly roaming the covered skin as they land on top of Joel's, weaving their fingers together. "They mean wisdom and peace. Respectively. Have I ever told you that the sea turtles were my grandma's favourite animal?" She explains, cherishing the memories of the woman who taught her to cook and helped raise her. "She once told me that those are some of the symbols sea turtles are related to. And those names are on our list. Maybe it's a silly reason to choose our daughter's name, but Sophia has been on my mind a lot these past days."

“Sophia?” Joel’s astonishment floods his voice.

“Yeah…”

“We’re having a girl?” He asks again, needing to hear her state it once more.

“Yes,” she admits, the corner of her mouth pulled up, sheepish and unrepentant, caught in her mischief, but too ecstatic to care. Her teeth nibble her lower lip, waiting for Joel's reaction. “I'm sorry. I know we said we’d wait until she was born, but when I went back inside the doctor's office at the last appointment to grab my purse, I couldn't stop myself, and I asked the doctor."

“Another girl, uh? Fuck.” Joel buries his face in her shoulder, trying to contain the wave of emotion flooding him. He fails, the awe in his voice, the tears dampening her skin, and his shaking body betray him as he squeezes her harder against him. Elated, blissfully happy at the news, already certain of how thrilled Sarah will be.

The giggles flee from her ribs, too big and powerful to contain, as she nods, pressing her cheek to Joel's curls, with no rush to move, giving Joel the safety to stay still as her revelation sinks into his bones.

Before, when fate slashed him deep enough to scar his soul, when being forsaken took on a new meaning, sharper and viler. And he became a single father, barely sleeping, working as many hours as his body could endure, constantly feeling like he was drowning, failing constantly, unfit, never good enough to be a father as Sarah's milestones kept coming, suffocating him with his anxiety: the first word, the first steps, the teething, the first cold and stomach bugs, the first cut deep enough to need stitches. He never thought he could have this, a confidant, a best friend, a lover, a wife with whom to face any obstacle together, with whom to raise Sarah, and welcome more children into their family.

His person had appeared when he least expected. She had been a wave of fresh air, a kindred spirit who saw him, understood him in a way that had never happened to him, bewitching him, healing his scars with patience and love.

And as he moves, grinning, gazing at her before leaning forward, ravenous for her lips, he's certain, with an unwavering faith. His life hadn't turned out as he expected or dreamed of. However, he's on the winning side.

Wednesday, November 19

(6:09pm) (Outgoing call - no answer)

(6:14pm) I thought you said you’d be done by 6

(6:19pm) Done with the work part of the day but some of my old coworkers from the Detroit office wanted to get drinks at the hotel bar

(6:20pm) Will you call me when you get back to your room?  Missed the sound of your voice

(6:22pm) And miss you saying goodnight to me? Never 😍

(6:24pm) Favorite part of my day

----------------------------------------------

(9:09pm) Joel?

(9:11pm) Yes, sweetheart?

(9:12pm) Why haven't we had sex yet?

(9:12pm) (Outgoing call - no answer)

(9:13pm) (Outgoing call - no answer)

(9:14pm) Still at the bar

(9:14pm) Still? It’s past 9

(9:15pm) Drinks turned into dinner, dinner turned into dessert, dessert turned into more drinks

(9:16pm) You didn’t answer my question

(9:16pm) Not sure how to respond 

(9:17pm) Do you find me attractive?

(9:17pm) C’mon now. You know I do. 

(9:17pm) Then what is it?

(9:18pm) I just don’t want to mess this up 

(9:18pm) Joel…

(9:18pm) That’s not fair.  You know I’m a sucker for when you say my name.

(9:19pm) All I’m saying is that I want you to be comfortable I don’t want you to think that I’m pressuring you

(9:19pm) If anything it feels like I’m the one pressuring you…

(9:20pm) I am very much a willing participant

(9:20pm) So, you do think about me like that?

(9:20pm) All the time

(9:21pm) Do you…

(9:21pm) Do I what?

(9:23pm) I’m not sure how crude i’m allowed to be with you

(9:24pm) It’s gonna take a lot to send me running

(9:25pm) Do you think about me when you touch yourself?

(9:25pm) Baby…

(9:26pm) Just a simple yes or no

(9:26pm) I’m only human

(9:28pm) Tell me what you think about

(9:28pm) Cmon now. You’re out with your friends

(9:28pm) I’m being a bad friend and ignoring them

(9:29pm) Just call me when you get back to the room and we can continue this conversation

(9:29pm) Or you can just tell me now

(9:30pm) Here, let's make a deal You tell me what you think about And I'll call you later on and tell you what I think about

(9:31pm) I don’t know what to say

(9:31pm) Just tell me what you think about 

(9:32pm) I’ll try

----------------------------------------------

(9:36pm) There’s a lot of typing going on over there

(9:37pm) Do you want me to tell you or not?

(9:37pm) Sorry, please continue

(9:38pm) Gotta restart now

(9:38pm) You didn’t just copy what you had written?

(9:39pm) I don’t know how to do that

(9:39pm) 🤐

(9:39pm) Mhm. Keep laughing

(9:39pm) You make it too easy

(9:40pm) You know I ain’t good at texting

(9:40pm) No? Because I’m pretty sure that’s how you scored your girlfriend

(9:41pm) You like my dopey way of texting?

(9:41pm) Yes Now, please go back to your super long text that you were sending me.

(9:42pm) It’s nothing crazy.  I just think about kissing you all over. 

(9:42pm) It took you that long to type that?

(9:43pm) I aint done

(9:43pm) No?

(9:43pm) No Just not good at this

(9:44pm) At sexting?

(9:44pm) Is that what they call this?

(9:44pm) Yes, old man

(9:45pm) Not that old

(9:45pm) Would it help if I said I'll be on my best behavior?

(9:45pm) Probably not

(9:46pm) I promise

(9:47pm) Now, can you just try? For me? 🥺

(9:48pm) Why can’t we just wait and have sex like normal people?

(9:48pm) Because i’m thinking about you now…when i’m a million miles away

(9:50pm) Can you…help?

(9:50pm) Stop thinking too hard You’re stuck in your head

(9:51pm) It doesn’t have to be perfect Just tell me When you’re alone and you have your hand wrapped around yourself, what do you think about?

(9:52pm)  You under me

(9:52pm) Okay, good.  And are there clothes involved?

(9:53pm) Not usually

(9:53pm) And what are you doing?

(9:54pm) Kissing your neck and making you arch your back like you do when we make out. 

(9:54pm) You like that?

(9:54pm) I love it

(9:55pm) Good to know.

(9:55pm) What's next?

(9:56pm) I’d slide my leg between yours

(9:56pm) Good (9:57pm) and feel how turned on you were (9:57pm) and you’d feel how…hard I was for you

(9:58pm) Joel…

(9:58pm) Nuh-uh. You asked, and I’m answering

(9:58pm) So keep going

(9:59pm) I’d kiss you until you’re blue in the face.  Always wanna be kissing you.

(9:59pm) Maybe tease you a little

(9:59pm) Tease me how?

(10:00pm) Baby…

(10:00pm) I thought you were answering.

(10:01pm) I don’t know what words to use

(10:01pm) You can say the word cock, Joel. It’s not gonna kill you. and it’s certainly not gonna scare me off.

(10:02pm) Jesus Christ

(10:02pm) Is nowhere near this conversation. Now please continue

(10:02pm) Bossy

(10:03pm) Stop stalling

(10:03pm) Fine

(10:04pm) I’d tease you with my….cock

(10:04pm) Let you rub against it a little bit, get it nice and…wet

(10:05pm) The dramatic pauses are unnecessary but continue

(10:05pm) Baby, I'm trying here.

(10:06pm) You said you were gonna be on your best behavior

(10:06pm) You’re right. I’m sorry. 

(10:06pm) You gonna make fun of me again?

(10:06pm) No

(10:07pm) Good

(10:07pm) girl

(10:08pm) I’m sorry?

(10:08pm) Good girl…

(10:09pm) You like being called that?

(10:09pm) I don't know, but i imagined you saying it and my heart went from 1 to 100 real fast

(10:10pm) I’d kill to have you here with me right now 

(10:10pm) One more day and then I’m back in Texas

(10:10pm) Will you keep going for me, Joel?

(10:11pm) I’m doing ok?

(10:11pm) More than.

(10:12pm) You were saying that you’d tease me with your cock get it nice and wet

(10:13pm) Jesus, yeah Or maybe use my hand

(10:14pm) Let my thumb figure out how sensitive you are

(10:14pm) Start working two fingers inside you

(10:14pm) Maybe this wasn’t a good idea

(10:15pm) Shit, I’m sorry.  I knew I was bad at this

(10:15pm) NO.  God no. The opposite

(10:15pm) I’m getting a little too worked up 

(10:15pm) Oh.

(10:16pm) Do you want me to stop?

(10:16pm) Fuck, Joel

(10:17pm) Bet you’d sound real pretty saying that in my ear

(10:18pm) I’m blushing I’m beet red and blushing

(10:18pm) Is that it?

(10:19pm) What do you mean?

(10:19pm) Are you wet? Thinking about me touching you?

(10:19pm) JOEL

(10:20pm) How did you go from ‘I don't know if I’m good at this’ to….THAT in five minutes

(10:20pm) It’s a real ego boost to hear your girl getting worked up over you

(10:20pm) Touche

(10:21pm) Are you going to answer my question?

(10:22pm) Soaked, Joel. My panties are soaked and I am in public with my colleagues

(10:22pm) Good

(10:23pm) So, two fingers inside you, my thumb on your clit

(10:23pm) Do I need more than two? 

(10:23pm) Subtle

(10:23pm) It’s a legitimate question

(10:24pm) You’re fishing

(10:24pm) I’m not

(10:24pm) All you have to do is ask

(10:24pm) Is that not what I’m doing?

(10:25pm) Just ask the question you actually want to ask

(10:25pm) How is this somehow worse?

(10:26pm) Worse than telling me your panties are soaked?

(10:26pm) I’ve released a monster…

(10:26pm) I would make a pun but it would be in poor taste

(10:27pm) Joel, I swear to god

(10:27pm) I’m sorry. You got me feeling like I’m 16 all over again

(10:27pm) Apparently.  Jesus.

(10:28pm) It would probably be in your best interest to go up to three fingers

(10:28pm) I’m dizzy

(10:28pm) Baby, you okay?

(10:29pm) Keep talking, you asshole (10:29pm) Baby? What did I do?

(10:29pm) Joel, please

(10:30pm) Are you mad at me?

(10:30pm) No. Please keep talking.

(10:30pm) Oh. 

(10:31pm) Three fingers. You said I needed three.

(10:31pm) Yeah, baby. Three fingers inside you.

(10:31pm) I’d let you feel the stretch. Work you open slow

(10:32pm) Could you come from just my fingers?

(10:32pm) yes

(10:32pm) That was fast

(10:33pm) Yes, Joel. I would come from your fingers. Please keep going

(10:33pm) Baby, are you sure you’re okay?

(10:34pm) I am in the restaurant bathroom getting myself off because I can’t just sit there and do nothing while you talk such filth to me and now you’re going to be insufferable about it but i don’t care.

(10:34pm) I’m so close, Joel

(10:34pm) (Outgoing call)

“I cannot do this with you right now.”

“If anyone hears me…”

“You don’t have to say anything, baby. Just listen.”

(zipper opens)

“…are you?”

“Yeah”

“Fuck”

“After you come on my fingers, I’d still want to make love to you.”

“Do you think you can do that for me? Come again?”

“Yes”

“Good girl”

Your breath hitches and you shove the meaty part of your palm in your mouth to keep from moaning.

“I wanna go nice and slow. Feel your fingers dig into my back as you moan into my ear.”

“I’d tell you that you’re doing good. Real good.”

“I’d kiss you, but it wouldn’t be all sweet. Not then, not while i’m inside you.”

“…Joel”

“Shh, quiet, baby. Someone’s gonna hear”

“I don’t care. I’m so close”

“Just from listening to me talk?”

“You don’t get it. I’ve been worked up for weeks now. “

“and you’re so sweet in person.”

“So polite and proper and god, you literally asked if you could put your hand under my shirt I just–”

“I want you so bad”

“I want you too, baby”

“Let me make you come. How can I get you there?”

“Keep talking. Please, Joel. Just keep talking.”

“Okay, baby. Okay.”

“Fuck. I’m touching myself thinking about you.”

“Thinking about how you’d be so warm and tight around me.”

“How I’d lift one of your legs a little higher just so i could get in a little deeper”

“Oh god, Joel”

“Tell me, baby. Is that what you want?”

“You want me inside you? Want me to touch your clit while I’m fuckin’ you?”

“Yes–”

“I’m gonna come, baby.”

“Fuck—I’m so fucking close. Are you close?”

“I’m so close, Joel.”

“Come with me, baby.” 

“Come with me, please. Need to hear you come.”

“Joel–I–I–”

You press your palm tight against your mouth as the wave crashes over you. Your eyes squeeze shut and you’re forced to grab the railing for balance. You can hear the erratic sounds of his hand moving faster as he strokes his cock.

“Just like that, baby. Just like. You sound so good.”

Joel takes in a sharp inhale and then lets out a deep groan as he follows you, his orgasm hitting him hard, making his eyes roll back.

Your whole body shakes as you fight to stay quiet, breath coming in sharp, frantic bursts through your nose. Your thighs press together tightly and your knuckles turn white from where they still grip the railing.

A few moments pass.

“So…how’d I do?”

“The day I get back, I'm not letting you leave the bed.”

“Whatever you say, sweetheart.”

You go inside with Margery's arm under your right elbow and your mother's hand on your left, and the three of you make the awkward procession the four yards up the path, across the threshold and into the warm kitchen where the range is going hard against the wet of the evening and the smell of the stew your mother’s planning for dinner hits you in the first second of being inside.

You realise that you want to cry and you’re not sure if it’s because of the hard day’s work or the rain or the fall from your bicycle, or your wrist, or your knee, or the jeep ride home, or Frankie’s pinkie or Frankie’s eyes, or Frankie’s hand.

Frankie…

Whichever event can lay claim to it, you feel the prick of tears at the corners of your eyes.

"Coats off, both of you. I don’t want you dripping all over the floor. And those boots. I’ll deal with them in the morning. Sit by the range and get that knee up. Margery, you get that chair and scoot it to the range. Sit. Edie’s down at your Aunt Rosie’s and she was at me before she left about staying the night, so I’ll ring Rosie and tell her it’s alright. Margery, you can phone your mother once you’ve got the tea in you."

You sit and watch you mother shift into the bustling, competent register of a woman with a wet daughter, a wet daughter's friend, a stew on, a kettle to put on, a hot bath to get going and a lamp in her hand, all simultaneously. You sit as directed by the range with your leg up on a footstool she pulls across for you, and let her ease the wet boots off your feet then sit very still while she goes over the rest of you with the operational eye of a woman who needs to satisfy herself, before she lets the matter rest, that you are, in fact, in possession of all of yourself.

"Show me your wrist."

"It's only…"

"Show me."

You show her the inside of your wrist with the dim beginnings of the bruise already blooming across the pad of your thumb. Your mother takes the wrist between two of her own fingers and her thumb and turns it twenty degrees one way and twenty degrees the other, the action so reminiscent of what happened in the lane that you feel a shiver go through you as Margery pulls a heavy woollen blanket from the couch over your shoulders.

"The bone's all right,” you mother says with a nod. “He was right, that officer. You'll have a bruise, mind. Let me see your knee."

"It's bruised, Mum. He looked at it."

"He didn't look at it; he looked at your wrist. Knee."

You peel the leg of your trousers up to see the dim beginnings of a much more impressive bruise across the cap of your knee, and your mother goes over it with her thumb and her fingers.

"There’s going to be a big bruise there, but it’ll be alright. You'll be stiff tomorrow and worse Sunday, so just sit there for now.”

She straightens up from the footstool, wipes her hands on her apron and looks properly at your face, with the look of a woman whose daughter has come home in a jeep with three American officers after coming off a bicycle in a wet lane. The look holds for perhaps a second, and then she gives you the smallest possible nod which you know means that you’ll talk about it later. Then she turns to the range, lifts the kettle, sets it forward over the hottest plate, and the rest of the evening begins.

After you’ve drunk your tea, you and Margery strip down to your underwear in front of the range and put on spare clothes your mother brings for you. Then she puts two bowls of stew on the table and orders the two of you to it whereupon you eat greedily, not realising how hungry you are.

Afterwards you soak in the bath while she watches you, Margery’s voice on the phone flitting to your ears. Then you re-dress in your nightgown, dressing gown and your father's old grey woollen socks, with Margery in a similar get up, and both of you find yourselves back by the range with a second cup of tea whilst your mother takes your wet clothes to the scullery to wring them out.

Margery waits for an honest minute to ensure you won’t be overheard, then looks at you over the rim of her cup.

“So, what happened?”

You turn your head to look at her and think, for the briefest of moments, about saying nothing. But you can tell by the look on her face that she suspects something and know that your own expression has never been one you can easily mask.

“It…he…he said my name. Twice.”

She leans forward, eyes wide.

“He’s never said my name, Margery. I thought maybe he’d forgotten it, having only been given it once at the dance but he hasn’t. And then…our hands, our…our pinkies…” you lift your hands, cross them over and place them side by side, slowly demonstrating how his pinkie stretched for yours, yours stretched for his and the way they curled together.

“Oh…” Marjory exhales, her eyes darting from your hands to your eyes and back. “Oh…my…”

"Don't."

“Don’t what? I’m only…I’m only registering what you’ve said. I’m only saying...well I haven’t said anything to you come to mention it other than…"

"Alright, shush."

She doesn’t say anything else for a small interval, sips her tea, the picture of unblemished innocence on her face, then glances over her shoulder and back to you.

“He helped you down too.”

“Yes, he…I put my hand in his and he held my elbow and…”

“What are you going to do about it?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? But…”

“I’ve got a boyfriend, Margery. I’ve got Henry.” You drop your eyes to your cup and feel the sting of tears again for reasons you can’t explain.

“Yes, you do,” she nods sagely. “For now.”

“What do you mean, for now?”

“I mean…that just because you’ve been walking out with a boy since you were fifteen, old girl, doesn’t mean that you have to marry him. Not if another boy comes along who takes your fancy better and I know you and I know…”

“Stop it.”

“I know…that you’ve got feelings for that Frankie Morales even if you’re not prepared to properly admit them to yourself.” She sits back in the chair and takes another sip of tea. “And those feelings deserve to be explored, old girl, I’m telling you that for nothing. There’s a war on and every morning we wake up breathing is a day to be cherished. And every cherished day is not one to be spent with a boy you don’t love.”

You don’t answer at first. You sit with your own cup in your hands and look at the dim red glow of the range through the slot at the front of it, and think – without performing the thinking in any particular order, about the precise, diagnostic grip of his fingers on your wrist through wet leather, and about the low quiet voice giving instructions to your mother on the path, and about the dim shine of water on the back of his right hand on his right thigh, and about the fierce private discipline of his honest, tired face, and about the way he said your name.

“I do love Henry.” Margery raises her eyebrows. “I do!”

“He’s convenient, old girl, and he’s steady and I’ve told you a million times that you want a man, not a…”

“A Suffolk Punch.”

“Yes, exactly! You think you owe Henry the rest of your life because he’s the first boy you’ve ever walked out with, and the truth is – you don’t. This is 1943, old girl, and there are dozens, hundred, thousands of English girls who…”

“Margery…”

“…who are marrying American servicemen,” she finishes with a flourish. “There’s nothing wrong with it.”

“I didn’t say I wanted to marry him. For heaven’s sake, I don’t even know him! I’ve never even…” you glance over towards the scullery where your mother’s still out of earshot. “I’ve never even spoken to him. Not properly, not beyond an introduction at the dance and…and in the lane when he was examining my wrist.”

“And in the back of the jeep?”

“He didn’t say anything to me in the back of the jeep except my name.”

"Then we need to fix that,” Margery says with the nod of her head that indicates she’s made her mind up about something. “They’re only two fields away from the Hadleys’, old girl, and you’re not telling me, not for a moment, that there isn’t a good reason for a Land Girl to be near an airbase or an airman to be near a farm when they’re only two fields apart.”

“But…”

“I’m not saying that you do anything obvious,” she continues, raising her hand. “But there must be opportunities for you to come across one another, and we can think about them over the weekend whilst you rest yourself up and then decide what to do. I’m fairly certain that Santi Garcia likes me, so there could be an in that way.”

You pause, relieved for a moment that the focus has shifted ever so slightly, and peer at her. “Do you like him?”

For the first time in your life, you see Margery Cole blush, right down to the roots of her hair, her eyes fixed on her own cup.

“Right,” your mother interrupts, coming back through from the scullery wiping her hands on her apron. “It’s past eight and after the day you pair have had, I want you off to bed. I’ll put a hot bag in your bed, love and one in the spare for you, Margery, and you’re both going to sleep. And when your father gets home, I’m not going to tell him anything that’s going to make him fuss. That bicycle can be fixed and you, my girl, are not going to the farm tomorrow.”

“But Mum, I…”

“No, I won’t hear of it, and neither will Mrs Hadley when I tell her what’s happened. You’ll rest over the weekend and hopefully be fit to go back on Monday. I won’t hear another word about it.”

Resigned, you climb the stairs with Margery on one side, the banister on the other and your bad knee taking each step with the small, high-noted protest that’s now, after the bath and the tea and the stew, slightly less high. Margery sees you to your door, squeezes your shoulder and goes on into the spare room with the lamp. You go into your own room, shutting the door behind you and stand in the doorway with your hand still on the handle breathing in and out, very slowly, for perhaps a count of four.

You look over at the small wooden box on top of the chest of drawers then hobble over to it, lift the lid and take out the folded white square of handkerchief, laying it flat in your palm to look at it.

You set it down on the eiderdown and sit down on the edge of the bed beside it looking at it for perhaps thirty seconds before laying your bruised hand flat on the eiderdown and looking at the dim beginnings of the bruise across the pad of your thumb where his fingers had been.

He’s touched you four times now – the handshake at the dance, retrieving your handkerchief, examining your wrist and now…

You look at your other hand, at your pinkie specifically, remembering the feel of his skin against yours, the curling of the digit, the way your breath had caught, the thought that he might kiss you. And then, your hand in his – the heat of it searing through your skin…

There’s nothing you can do. Despite what Margery says, there’s nothing you can do. You have Henry and Henry loves you and you love Henry and you’re going to marry him one day and go and live on the farm and be a farmer’s wife like Mrs Hadley. And if, God forbid, this war never ends, maybe you’ll have Land Girls assigned to work for you and maybe one of them might meet the eyes of an American airman through the open side of a jeep and have nothing preventing them from…doing something.

Margery has nothing preventing her from doing something. Margery doesn’t have a boyfriend and hasn’t had one since she walked out, very briefly, with Tommy Potter two summers ago and that had ended – in your view – rather badly. And you know she’s been hoping to find someone since and perhaps that someone is Santi Garcia and perhaps you should be putting your energies into helping her get to know him better rather than pining for something – or someone – that you can’t have because you already have a boyfriend.

There is nothing you can do.

But there is, however, you register with the piece of private accuracy that the back compartment of your mind has finally permitted itself, no rule that says that just because you have Henry Whitlock, you have to stop carrying Frankie Morales.

There’s no rule that says you have to take the handkerchief and burn it in the range. There’s no rule that says you have to forget about the glove or the wrist or the pinkie or the hand. The box is yours, the private back compartment of your interior life is yours, and the fierce private discipline you’ve been performing for weeks is the fierce private discipline of a girl who’s quietly conducting, in the narrow space available to her, the only piece of the matter she’s permitted to conduct, which is the inarguable piece of carrying him.

You fold the handkerchief and lay it back in the box then sit for a further interval with the lid open and your hand on the lid before finally setting the box back on top of the chest of drawers and turn out the lamp.

Climbing into bed, you ease your bad knee under the eiderdown and find the hot bag at the bottom with your good foot. Then you settle your bad wrist on the pillow above your head the way Frankie suggested and lie in the dark whilst the rain on the slates above your head goes on coming down in long sheets.

****

The jeep takes the bend at the bottom of Cherry Tree Lane, the slitted headlamps throwing their two thin strips of yellow along the hedge, and Frankie doesn’t look back.

But his hand is still warm.

That’s the small, indefensible fact he’s carrying alongside the operational situation. His pinkie on his right hand is warm in the place where, two minutes ago, the side of your pinkie on your left hand had, in the dark of the back seat, lain along the side of his and allowed his to curl around it.

It wasn’t an accident. Or perhaps it was. Perhaps it was the result of some movement in the jeep that inexplicably pushed your two pinkies together. But what happened after was the two of you choosing to hold that moment until Tom’s voice had come between you.

The offering of his hand to help you down had simply been a courtesy. Not to have done it would have appeared stranger than the doing of it was once, that is, he’d seen the look on your face when he’d offered both hands.

You have a man.

That’s the operational situation. You’re a girl who has a man and an American officer, who’s only known your face for three weeks has no business – no business at all – curling his finger around yours on the back seat of a jeep in the dark.

Tom turns the jeep back up the lane towards the base and back into the brown water that requires him to return to a low gear. He drives in silence, Santi looking out at the dark hedges going past the window with a half-smile. Except that Santi's half-smile, when Frankie catches a fraction of it in the side mirror, is not pointed at the hedge but rather at him.

"Fish,” Santi says casually after a few minutes have passed.

"What?"

"You're quiet."

"I'm always quiet."

"You're a different quiet."

"Leave him, Santi," Tom says.

"I’m only..."

"I said leave him."

Santi huffs a breath through his nose, sits back and doesn’t say anything else for the rest of the drive.

The jeep comes up to the field gate, and the sentry raises the barrier without making them stop. Tom pulls through to the motor pool at the eastern edge of the dispersal pads, parks, and the three of them get out. Tom and Santi head over across the field toward the briefing hut with the paperwork from the run they’ve just been on and Frankie walks across the cinder of the motor pool to Hut Fourteen. Fortunately, it’s empty, Will and Ben no doubt at the mess, and he sits down on the edge of his bunk, puts his cap on his locker, places his hand flat on his thigh, and just…sits.

He runs the moments through in order – the bend by the stile, the bicycle, the verge, your face when you looked up at him, the drive down, your finger, your eyes, your hand – and the box is very full, very quiet and very still.

The door opens and Santi comes in with his cap in his hand and the half-smile back on his face. He crosses the floor to his own bunk, sits down and looks at Frankie in the low light, the half-smile dropping.

"You wanna tell me what happened, Fish?”

"Nothing happened.”

"Come on. Frankie, I’ve known you for years and I know your face. Your face on the drive home was not your face. Your face right now is not your face. Something happened in that jeep and I'm not asking you because I'm a nosy son of a bitch, though…I am. I'm asking you because you look like a man who's been hit by something he didn't see coming, and I'm the closest thing you have on this field to a brother so…spill.”

Frankie looks at him and exhales softly. “She’s got a man, Pope. You know that the same way I do.”

"Yeah, I know that. So, what happened?"

He looks at the floor between his boots for a long second. "On the drive down, her hand was next to mine and I…I said her name and then I moved my hand and my pinkie pressed against hers and then…then curled around it and she didn’t…she say anything or do anything to stop me. She just…held it there.”

Santi doesn’t say anything for a long moment. He doesn’t laugh or smile but rather sits on the edge of the bunk with his hands on his knees looking at his friend.

"That's bad, Fish."

"Yeah."

"That's bad on both sides. That's bad on hers as much as on yours, and it's bad on hers in a way that's not yours to make worse."

"I know."

"She has a man who, for some reason, isn’t away fighting. He’s here and he’s gonna be here every day and she’s probably been going out with him for ages and they’re gonna get married and that’s the shape of her life, Fish. And you don’t get to come into that shape with a pinkie and a jeep on a wet Friday evening and no promise as to whether you’re even gonna be alive in six months’ time."

"I know that."

"Do you?"

"Yes!”

Santi looks at him again. "I've told you about Pilar, right?"

"Of course you have.”

"Well, there’s a piece of that story I don't tell, because..."

Frankie looks up to see Santi looking at the floor.

"When I was home on leave in March of '42, Pilar was already promised to Ernesto, right? Her father had said yes at Christmas, the ring was on her finger, and the date was set for June. And on the Sunday afternoon I went to her house and she came out, and sat on the porch swing with me, and we talked and…at the end of it, she put her hand on the side of my face and she said Santi, if you had said. If you had ever said. And I…"

Santi stops and looks up again.

"I almost said it then, Fish. Even though she had the ring on her finger, I almost said it. And I’ve asked myself every day since whether saying it would have made it better or worse, and the answer, every day, is worse. It would’ve been worse – for her. It would’ve been worse. The thing you don't say when the thing’s already been spoken for by somebody else – the thing you don't say is the kindest thing you have."

Frankie blinks.

"I’m not telling you what to do, I’m just telling you what I did.”

"She didn’t stop me, Pope."

"I know."

"She let my finger curl around hers. She knew what I was doing and she didn’t stop me. That means something."

"It means something to you and her, but it doesn’t mean she’s going to leave her man. It means, that your pinkie and hers curled together for, what, ten seconds? It doesn't mean any more than that, Frankie, unless you make it mean more than that. And making it mean more than that is gonna cost her. Not you – her. Because you get to do your six months here and then fly home to Florida, whereas she has to live here."

Frankie sits on the edge of his bunk knowing Santi’s right. “So, what do I do?”

"You leave it alone. You let what happened be what happened. You let her get on with the life she’s been getting on with, and you get on with the job you’ve been getting on with. You carry what happened in the pocket you carry things in, and you don’t take it out. You let it be what it was and not anything more."

Frankie looks at the floor again. "I don't know if I can, Santi."

"I know,” Santi replies gently. “I'm telling you to try."

“Okay.”

“Okay.” Santi stretches and then rises to his feet. “Supper?”

"In a minute.”

"Fine, but don’t be too long. I'll save you some bread if Benny hasn’t hoovered it all up already."

The door closes behind his friend, and Frankie sits on the edge of the bunk for a long minute before getting up, crossing the floor to the basin, and washing cold water on his face. Once he’s finished, he looks up at his reflection in the mirror above. The face in the mirror is that of a helpless man, but a man who has no business using you to help himself.

He dries his face on the towel, turns out the overhead bulb and lies down on the bunk, his hand on his chest over his heart. His hand is still warm and though he tries to make it not be warm, he can’t.

He tries to make himself agree with Santi because he knows Santi’s right. He turns his friend’s words over in the dark – the thing you don't say is the kindest thing you have – and he tries to lay them down in the small, private box, but they won’t lie there.

He understands that the man you’ve chosen, the one who isn’t away fighting, will be here in December and in March and on the day Honey Queen doesn’t come back. A girl is entitled to choose the man who will be here over the man who won’t, and an American officer doesn’t get to ask her to choose otherwise.

He doesn’t get to ask you to choose otherwise.

He says it to himself in the dark. I do not get to ask her to choose otherwise. And he tries to make the saying of it fill and close the box – but it doesn’t close. So, he lies in the dark and thinks that this is not a thing he’s done to you. This is a thing the two of you have done together.

That’s the trouble.

If it was a thing he’d done to you, he could be ashamed of it and put it down. If he had taken a liberty in the back of a jeep with a girl who was already spoken for, he could do what Santi’s telling him to do, which is to leave it alone.

But it wasn’t that.

It was the two of you, in the dark, and he knows – knows – the choice had been yours as much as his.

That’s the thing he’s carrying, the thing Santi can’t advise him about, because the thing is a thing only you can settle. Only by looking in your eyes again will he know for sure.

But he’ll try to leave it alone. He doesn’t know whether he’ll succeed – he suspects that he won’t – but he’ll try.

He closes his eyes briefly, allows himself one final, vivid memory of your eyes and your hand, then stands up and heads for supper.

➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰🇺🇸➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰

Taglist: @mcthsman @ritchmoor @fatima-marisa @jessthebaker @the-heart-is-an-organ-of-fire @ashleyfilm @vickie5446 @originals23 @izzykinzz678 @hanahleahs @eviispunk

Everything was going so well. Javier truly thought that things were finally working out in his favor; it finally felt like a new chapter in his life was starting. The memories of his time in Colombia still lingered, but never as intense as it was before he met you. 

It even felt okay enough for him to start thinking and talking about his mother. You started helping him and Chucho around the ranch, going so far as starting to grow marigolds again in the garden that hadn’t been used in decades. 

Javier truly felt like he was healing. 

Not only from the events in Colombia, but also from the trauma he carried when he lost his mother too. 

And it was all because of you. 

Because with you, things started to feel better, more tolerable. He even felt comfortable enough to share with you certain details of his time in Colombia. Never too explicit though, just enough for you to understand why some nights he had trouble sleeping. 

Even his father noticed a difference. Javier felt lighter. He was sleeping better too. If he wasn’t at your apartment, you’d be over at the ranch, and Chucho loved it whenever you spent the night. 

Because it meant laughter and warmth filling the home again. 

Javier still continued with his routine and stopped by your coffee shop during lunch and made sure to be there every night to help you close and walk you home. He couldn’t remember a time where he was ever this excited to be around someone, yearning for more time to spend with the other person. Every time he’d make his way to your coffee shop, he’d feel the butterflies in his stomach and the warmth in his chest. 

Because he loved the way your eyes would light up when you spotted him. 

And how you’d stop what you were doing just to greet him with a peck on his lips and a tight hug. 

Everything just felt better with you around. 

Still, he struggled with telling you how he really felt. Not because he didn’t love you, but because saying it out loud made it more real and the thought of ever losing or hurting you would become that much more possible. 

It wasn’t that he was afraid of how you’d react, but he was afraid of what would come after. Telling you that he loved you meant cracking himself open even more—allowing you inside parts of him that he wasn’t sure you’d be okay with. 

So, he didn’t say anything. Hadn’t said anything. Because right now, things were great. He didn’t want to ruin it with the possibility of telling you that he loved you. 

“When did you tell mom that you loved her?” Javier asked one morning, pouring himself a cup of coffee as his father was seated at the dining table. 

Chucho furrowed a brow. “When?” 

Javier nodded. 

“Are you asking me when, specifically, in our relationship did I tell her?” 

“Yeah.” 

“About a month in.” 

Javier almost choked on his coffee. “A month?” 

Chucho smiled. “Well, I couldn’t tell her the day I met her. That would have scared her away.” 

“Did you love her the day you met her?” 

“Oh yeah,” Chucho said, staring down at his wedding ring with a distant look in his eyes. “I knew she was the one for me the moment I met her, mijo.” 

“Wasn’t that scary?” 

Chucho laughed. “Love is scary, Javier.” 

He sighed and sat down across from him. “When do you know it’s the right time?” 

“You just do,” he answered. “You can’t… you can’t plan for these things, you know? They just happen.” 

Javier nodded. “Yeah, that—that makes sense.” 

“When did you tell Lorraine that you loved her?” Chucho asked. 

He cleared his throat. “I didn’t. I mean, I did, but she said it first.” 

“Hmm.” 

“What?” 

“And her?” Chucho asked, saying your name quietly. “What about her?” 

Javier shrugged. “She hasn’t said it.” 

“But you want to.” 

He looked up at his father. “I don’t know.” 

“You do know, Javi,” Chucho said. 

“What if—what if I tell her and she just… doesn’t feel the same way? Or what if she does?”

Chucho’s brow furrowed. “What do you want, Javier?” 

“Her.” 

“Okay, would it be so bad to have her love you too?” Chucho asked. 

“What if she does and—and she finally sees who I really am?” 

His father sighed. Chucho reached out and gently patted the back of his hand. “She already sees who you really are, mijo… and she still is choosing to stick around.” 

“I’m afraid,” Javier muttered. “I don’t know how to navigate this. Everything is just—it’s great, Papá, and I don’t want to ruin it.” 

“You telling her that you love her won’t ruin it, Javi.” 

“And how do you know?” 

“Because that girl is already in love with you too.” 

Javier’s brows lift upwards. “What? How do you know?” 

“I see the way she looks at you,” Chucho smiled. 

“That’s just who she is…” 

Chucho scoffed. “Sure, okay.” 

He sighed. “I do. I really do love her,” he confessed quietly. “And that scares me.” 

“Good,” Chucho smiled. “It should scare you.” 

Javier let out a quiet laugh. “And why’s that?” 

“Because that’s how you know it’s real… that’s how you know how deep your feelings are for her.” 

He nodded in understanding. “I don’t think I’ve felt this before,” he admitted. “Didn’t think I ever would actually.” 

Chucho smiled once more and stood from the chair. “We all deserve happiness and love in our lives, Javier. That includes you too.” 

Javier exhaled slowly. That was part of it too. He didn’t think he was deserving of this, of you, of loving you and being loved by you. 

“You spending the weekend over at her place?” Chucho asked. 

“Yeah. You’ll be okay?” 

Chucho smiled. “Yes, mijo. I’ll be okay. What about you?” 

Javier nodded. “I’m better when I’m with her.” 

He pulled up to the your apartment and parked his truck. Before he could even climb out, you were already running towards him. Javier smiled and stepped out of his truck, extending his arms out for you. Within seconds, you collided against him and he picked you up off your feet, your legs wrapping around him as you held him tight. 

He buried his face against you, holding you firmly against him as he let out a relieved breath. Javier would get this type of greeting all the time from you; the excitement that he had when seeing you was the same kind of excitement you had too. 

“Hey, cariño,” he whispered. 

“Hi,” you smiled, pulling back enough to look down at him. 

Javier set you down on your feet and leaned in to peck your lips. “Work okay?” 

You nodded. “Just glad to have the rest of the day off. It’s been nice… not having to be there all the time.” 

Javier smiled and grabbed his duffle bag from the seat, draping it over his shoulder as he nodded ahead of him. “Me too… means I have more time to spend with you,” he winked. 

You let out a quiet laugh and led him to your apartment, shutting the door once you were both now inside. He kicked off his shoes and set his bag down, pulling you back into his arms once more. 

“I missed you,” he said quietly. 

“I saw you last night.” 

“I know,” he chuckled, hand coming up to your cheek. “Still, I missed you.” 

You smiled and leaned into his touch. “I missed you too, actually.” 

“Yeah?” 

You nodded. “I like sleeping next to you and waking up with you too.” 

Javier felt the butterflies in his stomach. He picked you up with ease and carried you down the hallway and into your bedroom. You had begun peppering kisses along his neck, causing a quiet groan to leave his lips. 

“What else do you like?” Javier asked, kicking the door open and walking you to the mattress. 

“Your hugs,” you smiled, looking up at him once he set you down on your back. “Your eyes. Your lips.” 

“Oh, my lips, huh?” 

You nodded. “Your voice. I like everything about you, Javier.” 

He stared down at you. One hand propped on the bed above your head and the other resting lightly on your hip. He started thinking about his father’s words. Maybe you did love him too. 

“Hmm,” he said, leaning down to brush his lips against yours. “I like everything about you too, baby.” 

“Like what?” You asked, wrapping your arms around your shoulders as he pulled back just enough to look down at you. 

“Your smile,” he said, bringing a hand to brush his fingers over your lips. “Your eyes,” he continued, leaning in to press a soft kiss atop your eyes once you shut them for a moment. “I love how safe you make me feel,” Javier said softly. “And I love the way I feel whenever I’m around you.” 

You felt warmth bloom across your cheeks as you tightened your arms around him to bury your face against his neck. 

Javier chuckled and slowly rolled onto his side to lie next to you. He pulled you against him immediately as your head rested against chest. 

Then, you said something took him by surprise. 

“I want you to meet my family.” 

Javier turned to his side, arm draped over your waist. He knew how important it was to meet your family, how serious it meant. 

“Yeah?” He asked. 

You nodded. “Would you be okay with that?” 

Javier leaned in and pecked your lips lightly. “Yes, cariño. I’d be okay with it.” 

“Are you sure?” You pulled back to look away, lower lip pulled between your teeth anxiously. “I don’t want to make you do anything you’re not comfortable with.” 

“Baby,” he said softly, pulling you back closer to him. “I want to meet your family.” 

Your eyes softened. “Really?” 

He nodded. “Yeah… I want to meet the people that matter most to you.” 

You grinned, then pushed against his shoulders until he was lying on his back. You moved to straddle his lap, placing legs at either side of him as you leaned down to brush your nose with his. 

“Okay,” you said softly. “They’re excited to meet you too.” 

“Been talking about me, cariño?” 

Your cheeks flushed. “Yes.” 

He felt his stomach flip. 

Felt his heart race even faster. 

You were telling your family about him. And god, he could have told you right there that he loved you. 

But he didn’t. 

Maybe after he meets your family. 

“My mom, especially, is excited to meet you,” you continued. 

“Oh, yeah?” 

You nodded. 

“What have you been telling them, hm?” He teased. 

“Oh, nothing… just that I really… really like you,” you smiled, burying your face against the side of his neck as his arms snaked around you tighter. 

Javier chuckled quietly into your hair, one hand coming up to rub your back gently. “Oh, you really really like me?” 

You nodded against him. “I do.” 

“Good,” he whispered. “I really really like you too, cariño.”

But what Javier wanted to say was that he loved you. 

So fucking much that he sometimes forgets how to breathe. 

He should have known something was wrong. The minute he sat up abruptly in the middle of the night, gasping for air, Javier should have known that he couldn’t hide just how troubled he was from you anymore. It was the first time he had woken up like this in a very long time and the worse part about it was that you were here. 

You had a front seat to just how broken he truly was. 

He looked over his shoulder at you, back turned and facing him as he tried to focus on your soft breaths and the movement of you breathing. 

It didn’t help. 

Every small sound, every little thing that caught his attention, put him on edge. So, Javier stood carefully from the bed and pulled on his shirt, slowly stepping out of your room. 

The walls felt like they were closing in on him. His chest felt tighten with each breath. He walked into your kitchen and grabbed a bottle of water, hands shaky as he twisted the cap open. 

He didn’t know what triggered this. Didn’t know why he had woken up the way he did. He couldn’t think of anything that happened about the day he spent with you. In fact, it was a very normal day. Nothing too crazy or over the top. 

He walked to the living room and sat on your couch, turning the television on and keeping the volume low. Javier shut his eyes and tried to focus on his breathing. Everything had been going so well. It wasn’t supposed to happen again—this wasn’t supposed to happen again. 

At least certainly not while he was with you. 

In your fucking apartment. 

While you slept soundly in your room. 

And all of a sudden, he heard a screeching of the car outside. Javier immediately stood from the couch, hand instinctively going behind him to retrieve a gun that he no longer had. His heart was beating out of his chest and he walked to the window, only to see the car speeding away. He cursed under his breath. It wasn’t anything serious, just some stupid driver trying to wake up the entire community. 

Javier started pacing. Back and forth in front of the television. To and from the kitchen and the living room. It didn’t help. Instead, it just put him more on high alert. You hadn’t woken up yet and part of him was relieved. 

But there was a small part—something inside of him screaming for help—that wanted you to wake up so that you could see him like this. 

Because this was the reality of what it meant being in a relationship with him. 

It took you about ten minutes to realize that you were alone in bed. Even in your sleep, you could feel his absence. You sat up and blinked the sleep away, hearing the faint noise of the television from the living room. Standing from the bed, you pulled on your sleep pants and slowly opened the door. 

You could hear his heavy footsteps, could hear that he was walking in your living room. Furrowing a brow, you walked towards the sound of the television. You didn’t know what to expect, but you weren’t expecting to see Javier looking the way you never had seen before. 

His hair was in complete disarray. He was muttering under his breath and you could see the way his shoulders were tense, could see his hands shake at his sides. 

He hadn’t seen you yet. He was still pacing. 

Quietly and softly, you said, “Javier?” 

His eyes turned to you. Wide and glassy. 

“Hey…” you continued, taking careful steps to him. “You okay?” 

Javier wasn’t looking at you. At least not really. There was a distance in his eyes, like maybe he wasn’t really here. 

“Baby,” you said, just a bit louder now. 

“You—you’re awake,” he mumbled. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” you reassured softly. You took another step closer to him. “Are you okay?” 

Javier shook his head immediately. He took a step back. “I should go home.” 

“What?”

“I need to go home,” he corrected. 

“Javier—”

Then, someone from upstairs sounded like they dropped something. It was louder than he liked it to be. It rang in his ears and immediately, he lunged for you, pushing you behind his back as he glanced around. 

Your brows furrowed. Slowly, you reached out to rest a hand on his back. It was light, careful, just enough to let him know that wherever he thought he was at wasn’t reality. That he was here, with you—safe. 

Javier flinched. 

You dropped your hand. 

“I’m right here, baby,” you said. “We’re okay. You’re okay,” you reassured. 

He looked at you. Eyes were still wide, but they had softened just a bit. 

“Stay,” you whispered. “You’re safe here.” 

His lower lip trembled. You wanted to step towards him, wanted to wrap your arms around him and tell him that everything was going to be okay. 

But you didn’t. 

Because you didn’t know how he’d react if you did. 

And this was the first time that you’d seen him like this—this on edge, on high alert. 

You remembered the bits and pieces he shared with you during his time in Colombia. He mentioned that he’d use alcohol to numb the pain and he’d go through several packs of cigarettes a day just to ease his nerves. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. 

“Javier—” 

“Don’t you get it?” He interrupted. “Can’t you see how fucking broken I am?” His voice trembled; it caught in his throat. “This—you—it’s too good to be true.” 

“No,” you whispered quietly. “You deserve me, deserve to be happy.” 

He shook his head. Javier brought a hand up to his face and pinched the bridge of his nose as he exhaled shakily. “How can someone like you ever want to be with someone like me?” 

You bit your lower lip. Hesitantly, you tried to reach out for him but he just shook his head. 

“I have to go.” 

“You don’t.” 

“I do.” 

“Javier…” 

He finally looked at you. He could see the concern etched on your features, the sadness in your expression. He was causing this. It was all because of him. 

“You deserve someone better than me,” he continued. “Someone who doesn’t have all this shit.” 

Tears filled your eyes now. “You can’t make that decision for me.” 

He clenched his jaw. He hated the look on your face, hated that he was the reason why you were about to cry. Still on edge and still on high alert, he tried to step closer to you. Tried to find his way back to some normalcy. 

“I—I don’t want you to regret your time with me,” he mumbled. 

“I don’t,” you replied quickly. “I wouldn’t.” 

“This…” he said, waving at himself. “This is who I really am.” 

“That’s who I want,” you said. “I don’t want some version of you where you keep parts of yourself hidden. I want all of you. The good, the bad. All of it.” 

“What if you don’t like what you see?” 

You took a small step closer to him and let out a relieved breath when he didn’t step back. “I’m choosing you, Javier. All of you. I know the man I want to be with,” you said softly. 

Another step closer. 

You could see the clarity slowly coming to his features. Like the episode he had just experienced was slowly passing. 

“And that’s you. I don’t want you to be perfect,” you continued. “I don’t need it and I don’t want it.” 

“I’ve hurt people. Killed people,” he confessed. “Gotten people hurt because of my actions.” 

You nodded. Then, you reached out to rest a hand on his chest. He let out a shaky breath at your touch. 

“And they don’t define who you are.” 

“But they are a part of me.” 

“I know,” you whispered. “And I’m still choosing to stay.” 

“Why?” Javier asked, looking into your eyes. 

“Because,” you said quietly, taking another step closer to him until you could feel the warmth of his body. Your other hand moved to his cheek, brushing away the tears that had fallen. “Because you’re worth it.” 

He let out a breath that he didn’t realize he had been holding. Javier nodded and immediately wrapped his arms around your frame, burying his face against the crook of your neck. He loved you, loved every single thing about you. 

But this—the fact that you were choosing to stay—made him realize just how serious he felt about you. 

“We’re okay,” you repeated, hands moving to wrap around him as you rubbed his back. “I promise, we’re okay.” 

His arms tightened around you. Javier didn’t want to let you go. He let his eyes fall shut as he allowed himself to relax, tried to wrap his head around the fact that you were still here. 

“You’re safe with me,” you continued, turning your head just enough to kiss his cheek. “You always will be.” 

He pulled back to look down at you. Javier’s eyes softened instantly and he leaned in to rest his forehead against yours. “I don’t deserve you.” 

“Yes, you do,” you said. 

He sighed. 

“Will you stay?” 

Javier nodded. “I’ll stay.”

“Good.” 

“But I can’t promise that this won’t happen again,” he said hesitantly. 

“Baby,” you said quietly. “I don’t want you to promise anything. I know these things will happen and I know that it’s out of your control.” 

He nodded and leaned in to lightly peck your lips. “It’s going to be hard.” 

“I know,” you said softly. “I don’t want easy.” 

He sighed. 

“I want everything with you, Javier… and that includes moments like this.” 

Javier nodded again. “You’re unlike anyone I’ve ever met,” he whispered. 

You smiled. “Good. I like being the only one.” 

He felt himself relax. As the minutes passed, he no longer felt on edge. It felt like he could finally breathe again, and as he stared into your eyes, he knew that he was getting close. 

The words lingered at the tip of his tongue. 

I love you. 

I love you. 

I love you so fucking much. 

Joel stirred awake at the sound of the front door creaking open.

It only took his brain a moment before an immediate wave of relief washed over him—especially hearing it click shut. That simple sound brought him nothing but relief after the evening you two had just had hours earlier. 

Earlier that day - 6:21 PM

Joel sighed as he sat down on the bench near the front door to begin taking off his boots, watching you hang up your jacket a few feet from him. “I'm sorry, I just... I don’t understand why you’re so upset…”

Yeah, that’s not the right thing to say to someone who had been a swirling storm ever since you'd left Maria’s office. Meaning, the walk home had been completely silent. You gave him the cold shoulder, walked two paces in front of him—steam rolling off you in a fiery fit of anger. 

“So upset?” You echoed, scoffing as you let your foot go—your disbelief for such a diabolical question completely stopping the motion of taking your boots off. “Why wouldn’t I be upset? You stood there and told everyone I wasn’t ready to go back out—”

“Because you aren’t!” He looked up at you from where he sat, voice laced with a painful type of honesty.

You stood there for a moment, silent, shocked by his bluntness. 

Joel sighed as he set his boot down beside his leg before continuing, softening his voice a touch. “Baby, you… You can’t act like you aren’t wakin’ up every mornin’ in pain. That going back out would smart with how bad your knee has been treatin' you..” 

You swallowed the sour words you had cocked and loaded to spit back if he’d said anything else, but this? He was right about this. And god damnit, he knew you knew he was right. 

You hated how you couldn’t lie to yourself. Not when you did wake up every damn morning stiff and aching. You hated it—getting older, but also you couldn’t deny that your knee hadn’t been the same since the accident less than a season ago. No matter how hard you tried to push yourself or ignore it—you couldn’t pretend it was ever going to be like it was. You were forever going to be feeling the ramifications of that day.

But on a more important note—you couldn’t stand to wake up and live another day in this.

You needed to get back to the swing of things. You needed some sense of normalcy; you needed to get back to your routine.

And somehow you thought Joel of all people would understand that. But now? Now you felt that maybe he didn't know you at all. 

God, you hated that.

You shook your head and looked down at the ground, trying to keep yourself from boiling over again. “You don’t get to make those decisions for me.” 

When he didn't answer, you looked up just as he shook his head and slightly rolled his eyes—getting ready to cut in. Big mistake. 

“No, you don't get to roll your eyes. You don't get to do that… God, you don’t get to stand there like you speak for me and—”

“And what? Tell the truth?” He scoffed as he stood, cutting you off again—shedding his jacket from his shoulders, moving past to hang it up on the coat rack. “You were there... You heard them ask me what I thought and I—” 

You turned your body to follow him, your voice starting to rise like the fire in your chest as you interrupted now, “You told them that I’d be a fucking liability, Joel!” 

You rarely ever called him by his name in moments like this—but he wasn't stupid. He knew when you did, it was more serious than he was treating it. And especially now, with the way you were looking at him? He knew you were more than just hurt.

“No, I…I didn’t say that—” He started to try and reason, taking a step toward you, reaching out for your hand or to try and ease you. 

But you stepped back.

You stepped back and kept your hand away, putting it behind you, your voice having a fraction of restraint, “No... no, you don’t get to do... that.” 

“Do what?” He asked, trying not to show how much that singular motion wounded him. 

“You can’t do that." You took a shaky breath and shook your head as you looked down at your half-unlaced boot. “You can't act like you did nothing wrong, Joel.” 

“But I didn’t—I just…” He sighed, feeling like no matter what he said, you weren’t in the place to hear him, you were too upset. “What did you want me to say? What would you have me do? Lie?…”

“I just... I just feel it wasn’t your place to say anything…” 

He furrowed his brow, confused by the things you were saying. “Wasn’t my place?”

You hesitated, but then you went to shake your head only for your body to betray you into a shrug, like you were unsure. Your heart's silent way of telling you deep down it was his place—just like it was yours with him.

“I don't understand." He scoffed—now his anger was starting to simmer at how cold you were being. "Then tell me, what is my place?”

The way he firmly planted himself made you clench your jaw in frustration at his stubbornness. He wasn't going to let this go.

“I’m not doing this… You know what I meant.” You muttered as you knelt to lace your boot. You needed to cool off, and he wasn't going to let you do that here. Not now that things were misinterpreted and tempers were sure to boil over.

Joel looked down at you and shrugged, trying to act nonchalant, “Apparently, I don’t. Apparently, you and I are on two different pages of what is and isn’t our place. So enlighten me, please. What is my place?” 

The more he kept pushing, the more he kept pressing on a button that was going to make you react in a way you hadn't around him yet.

“Joel, stop.” You warned, your hands starting to shake in anger or frustration... but it was only making it worse as you had to retie the lace again.

“No, tell me.” He pressed again, his tone losing that softness it started with. 

Your head was swimming with nothing but anger. Enough that you knew if you fed into this, you’d say things out of that ugly place it always took you to. Things you’d regret. 

“I’m not doing this right now. I can’t…” You muttered as you pulled the laces in a sloppy, half-assed bow out of frustration and rose to your feet, moving past him to grab your jacket you’d just hung up. “I... I can’t do this with you.” 

“Can’t do this? What? You can’t talk things through?” He followed you, his heart now pounding in his ears—his anger taking over faster than he could control. “Look, I know we’re new to this… this…” He scoffed a small cold chuckle before continuing, “...God, whatever this is.” 

You pulled your jacket on and kept your gaze down, biting the side of your cheek to keep yourself silent. 

But silence didn’t bring him comfort. But would it to anyone else? With all the things you were saying? All the things you weren't?  

For Joel, it just fed into his insecurities about not being good enough—not being enough to fight for. It cracked the very fragile part of himself that he had only opened for you. 

He watched you for a moment, watched you struggle to line up the zipper to your jacket. Something in him didn't understand that you weren’t stepping away—you were stepping back.

You needed to pause.

You needed to find your head and pull it out of your ass. 

But he just saw someone leaving—someone hurting him. 

So he did what every insecure man does when they feel small…

He kept fucking talking until he would regret it.

He pinched the bridge of his nose and painfully chuckled. “Right, because I guess the only place you see me being is the one between your—” 

But then he stopped the moment his brain caught up with his ass was about to say.

Something that wouldn’t be easy to take back. 

You finally lined up the zipper and pulled it up in a sharp and quick motion, your eyes finding his—filled with hurt at the words he left lingering on the tip of his tongue. 

“What? Between my legs?...” You paused for a moment and looked at him—really looked at him before finishing off with, “You really think that’s all we are?...” Not able to help the way your voice broke on that last word—your eyes suddenly started to burn as they filled with tears. 

His face fell in that sad puppy sort of way that only he could achieve, especially in moments like these—in moments where he knew he massively fucked up.

“N-No, fuck, I didn’t mean that… I–” He took a step toward you, instinct making him reach out for you.

You felt a heat crawl up your neck, and tears suddenly started to cloud your vision. But before he could see any of that, you brushed past him and headed for the front door. 

“Fuck… I was so stupid." You mumbled, wiping a tear that fell down your cheek.

Your voice broke as you felt yourself start to spiral. "You... You don’t give a shit about me if that’s what you think that is all we are...”

"No, whoa, hey... no." He started to scramble, not knowing what to say, what to do. How to fix this. "Sweetheart, you know that you mean more to me than anythin' in this world."

You didn't need to hear this. You weren't going to believe it, no matter how sad or desperate he sounded.

You needed air. You needed to get out of this damn hallway. You needed a fucking drink.

You reached for the doorknob and twisted it. “I need to go. I... I need to leave.” You said a bit louder, your voice still unsteady. 

“No, No… baby—fuck, you know I didn’t mean that.” Joel quickly followed after you, putting his hand on the door from behind you—in an attempt to keep it shut just as you were about to pull it open. “Baby, I didn’t mean that. You know I didn’t mean that. Please. Please don’t leave.”

You stayed facing the door, your hand clenched around the handle, voice small and eerily even. “Joel... let me go.” 

Joel stayed there for a second, contemplating his options before he slowly let his hand off the door with a soft, defeated sigh.

His voice softened to a gentle plea as he stayed where he was, standing behind you, “Please don’t go. Please—” 

You could feel the warmth radiating off of him as he stood behind you. You could smell the comforting scent of his citrus and pine soap with each inhale.

The urge every atom in your being was fighting against? Not to take a single step back? It was painful.

Because in any other scenario, you would fold. You would take that step back and lean into him. You’d surrender in the name of your love for him and let all this anger go.

You’d let him wrap you in his arms and hold you close. You’d melt against him, and he'd lean over your shoulder and kiss your neck—in that soft, sweet way he'd begin to apologize.

You’d stop being so damn stubborn and let the man love you in the way you never felt you deserved—even though he insisted every day he’d never stop trying to show you how much you do. 

But this time, it felt different. This wasn’t any other fight you two had come across in the past.

This struck something deep that you didn’t know how to navigate. It was something you hadn't ever felt.

It was something that only came from the world ending and finding yourself with someone. It was unfamiliar territory, and that was terrifying. 

However, the longer you stood there, the more Joel could feel you fighting back every instinct. He could feel the energy pulsing off of you. 

So he did what he always did: he moved in to offer comfort. 

He moved a few inches closer, closing the space even more so that you would be able to feel his breath against your neck as he continued to softly plead, “All I meant… all I was tryin’ to do was protect you by what I said with Maria. I need..." He sighed softly, his hand hovering the side of your hip. "I need you safe…”  

Your eyelids betrayed you as they slowly closed—only for a few seconds—but it was enough that you felt yourself lean back and touch his chest before you snapped forward and shook your head, shaking yourself out of his spell. “Joel, please…” 

You opened the door to leave when his voice came one last time from behind you, completely broken. “You know that I’d never hurt you. You know how much I need you... how much I love you…” 

You held onto the doorknob—your knuckles now turning white as you allowed a few tears to run down your cheeks before you nodded and swallowed the lump sitting high in the back of your throat. 

“Of course I do.”

Then you looked back at him, and there he saw it: the utter heartbreak you’d been hiding under all that anger since leaving Maria’s office. 

“But that makes what you did hurt even worse…” You choked out before turning around and walking out—softly shutting the door behind you. 

Joel stood there and just stared at the door. He didn't move from that spot for an hour before he moved to sit at the bench—where he sat for a few more hours.

Waiting for you.

Waiting to make things right. To be there when you get back. 

If you came back. 

He’d just drifted to sleep when he heard the front door creak open. He didn’t waste a moment before he moved to sit up in bed—his racing.

He turned the nightstand’s lamp on and saw the time on the clock next to it: 

12:11 AM

He realized he'd been asleep for no more than 20 minutes, and that in some way felt like he’d betrayed you. By not being down there when you came home. 

“Baby?” He called from the bed before rushing to his feet and slowly stepping towards the door—slightly hesitating in case he'd dreamt the sound. 

He heard you stumble and crash into what he could only assume was the coat rack before you called out, “Jesus, you’re still awake?” Your voice filled with a small level of disbelief, like you didn't expect him to wait up.

He rushed out of the bedroom and stopped at the top of the stairs to see you at the bottom, already looking up for him.

You looked lighter than before—not so angry or upset. Needless to say, however much relief that brought him, he couldn’t assume and risk a repeat of earlier.

“Well... yeah, I...” He said softly as he stepped down a few steps before sitting on the top stair, keeping his voice gentle. “I wanted to be awake when you got home. You know, in case you wanted to talk or—” 

“Mm, I was angry... and real fuckin' stupid earlier...” You hiccupped as you cut him off, holding tightly onto the railing, keeping yourself steady as it was clear now that you were a bit tipsy. 

“Whoa, hey... no… I said some really—” Joel tried to start, only for you to cut him off again. 

You hiccupped louder, and you waved your hand out in front of you to stop him, “Mm, stop talking and let me get this out, m'kay?”

Joel couldn’t help the small smile that pulled at his lips before he exhaled in mock defeat and nodded towards you, “Okay…” 

You took a deep breath and stumbled up a few steps, slightly tripping on the third one, but caught yourself and looked up at him again. “I... I was angry for several reasons...” You sighed and shrugged as you saw him soften somehow even more as he waited for you to carry on. “I felt angry for feeling overwhelmed at the way I literally can’t do the one thing I’ve been doing since I got to Jackson.” 

You looked away for a moment, trying to find the words—before looking down.

“For… For feeling like a burden to you and Ellie while I've been recovering.” Your voice changed, like there was shame woven into it.

You heard him inhale, like he was going to speak up, so you quickly continued, needing to get it all on the table.

“I felt—no, I feel like I’m losing my sense of routine. I just—I was or am… feeling a lot.” You looked up at him to only see him give you the softest nod—like he was giving you the small nudge to keep going. 

You swallowed and took another step up towards him—this one more solid—opening up more. “But… what I was mostly upset about is… because I tried lying to myself and everyone else today. But you?” You helplessly chuckled as you pinched the bridge of your nose, slightly annoyed that you didn’t understand this before. 

“You held me accountable."

Joel hummed in agreement before he tilted his head slightly, watching you—like he was reading all the unspoken things you were holding back. 

“Tell me more…” He plead.

Your cheeks warmed at the soft patience of his voice before putting your hand back on the rail, thinking of how to put what you wanted to say into words, before looking up at him.

But then you realized who was looking down at you with those soft brown eyes, and suddenly, the need for perfect words and for it all to make sense left. 

"I uhm, I talked to Gail... at the bar tonight, and she said a lot of things that just… fuck—they obnoxiously made sense..." You started to chuckle. 

Joel grinned as he leaned in to listen. 

"She said that I uhm..." You sighed as you shut your eyes tightly, trying to remember Gail's exact words. “That I didn't communicate my feelings and anxieties before going to Maria's… and so, when it didn’t go my way—she said that ‘I put an unfair amount of blame on you’..." 

You slowly opened your eyes and shrugged as you looked down at the step in front of you. Focusing on the small line of finish that had worn off the wood. "I guess… what I need to come to terms with is, I'm a bit rusty and should probably retire from patrol with how bad my knee is..."

Joel simply hummed again, not in agreement or anything—just to let you know he’d been listening. 

But this time, when you looked up at him, the weight of everything that had been said and happened earlier caught in the back of your throat. Your lip quivered before you whispered, “And I’m sorry. I—I’m so sorry for leaving. I know that—” The shakiness in your voice instantly made Joel move to come racing down the stairs toward you. 

“Hey, hey no… c’mere—” He whispered tenderly before collapsing back down on the stairs in front of you, reaching to put his hands on your cheeks. 

“Can I say somethin’ now?” He asked as his thumb brushed a tear away. 

You let out a sad chuckle and nodded, stepping closer to lean into his warm hold. 

His eyes danced across your face as he studied you for a few seconds before softly tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“You mean more to me than I will ever be able to… say or show you.” His thumb wiped another of your tears away. “But if tonight taught me anything? It showed me a real ugly taste of what my life would be without you.” 

You leaned into his hand and couldn’t help but smile, “That bad, huh?” 

“Mm, horribly miserable darlin’…” Joel murmured as his lips matched your smile and his thumb began gently stroking back and forth over your cheek. “I never want to go up to that cold bed alone, mm?”  

Your cheeks warmed a soft blush, and you closed your eyes as you hummed in agreement, “Can’t say I wanted my evening to be spent nursing a bottle of vodka… getting therapized by Gail of all people…” 

That made Joel chuckle—but the noise only came through his nostrils and through his chest. 

The sound was so small and simple… but it was that familiar vibration that always warmed your soul.

It was the warmth that welcomed you every morning when he kissed you awake. The sound that he couldn’t help but let out when he pulled you close and begged for five more minutes with you—which always made you smile and giggle—as you’d never dare deny yourself of that level of absolute bliss, especially with him.

But tonight, it was the trigger that you needed. It was the spark needed to feel that same wave of relief that washed over Joel after hearing the door click—this was your wave. 

You opened your eyes to find him already soaking you in, in a way only poets could describe. In a way that no matter how deep you looked, you couldn’t find a single ounce of anger or betrayal that was there before. 

Nothing ill harbored towards you. 

Instead, there was nothing but love and respect and compassion and absolute commitment. 

But then again, Joel could never hold anything against you after a fight for long. If there was one weakness that man had, it was his devotion to you. 

He was utterly and helplessly in love with you and could never stay upset for too long—even when you were the one who massively fucked up. 

Instead, he forgave you—every single time.  

He moved on. 

He gave you a second chance more times than you felt you deserved.  

He was the one good and fair thing this world had given you after taking so much away. And you were the same to him. 

You were his second chance at being happy—being truly, stupidly, blindly, and endlessly happy.  

“Well, in that case, how about we finish out the night… the right way…and head upstairs?” He murmured as he pulled down to his lips—adding before his lips touched yours, "Let me make it up to you..."

You leaned into him as you kissed him slowly the first time, lingering on his lips long enough to taste the peppermint from his toothpaste. You then moved your hand off the railing to land on his chest before gripping the soft fabric of his t-shirt and kissing him again, deeper this time. 

He inhaled at what that did to him and moved one of his hands through your hair to cradle the back of your neck—while the other moved down to your waist to pull you up to straddle his lap, muttering, “Mm, c’mere…” 

You blindly stumbled up the few stairs needed to meet him, giggling against his lips before straddling his lap and kissing him deeper. Your free arm easily wrapped around his shoulder—bringing yourself close enough that your chest pressed against his. 

His hand stayed cradled at your neck as his lips moved against yours in a slow and deep passionate fit of kisses. Your hand slowly moved to thread through the soft curls at the back of his neck, softly panting between each pass.

Eventually, you slid your tongue gradually more and more between his lips—a silent plea for more—until his began dancing with yours. 

Joel groaned before his hands moved down to grip your ass, moving your hips to grind against the thin fabric of his pajama pants—sending a clear message he also wanted more. 

You moaned quietly at the growing bulge grinding slowly against the seam of your jeans. You pulled back only for his lips to move to your jawline, then your neck, sucking soft marks into your skin. 

“Joel…” You breathed, eyes fluttering shut as your fingers curled around his hair, holding him right where you wanted him.

There. That was the version of his name he loved to hear roll off your tongue.

He groaned, the rumble coming up from deep in his chest—bouncing off the soft skin he had between his lips as he began making his mark.

His hands stayed on your ass, grinding you back and forth against his lap until you eventually began doing it yourself.

Your breathing became heavier before small whimpers bubbled their way out—making him smirk against your skin. “Mm, I love when you make those sounds.” He muttered before slowly gliding his lips across your skin, back up to yours, before kissing you passionately.

You kissed him back, continuing your rhythm against his growing erection that was now stimulating something for you with each pass it rubbed against your clit. You could feel his hands move up your body and then underneath your shirt to eventually tug your bra down before he cupped your tit—making your breath hitch in between a kiss.

You kissed him harder, a touch sloppier, as you both were too hot and hungry for each other. So when you pulled back, he chased after you—his eyes lidded and grinning wide.

"Where do you think you're going?" He murmured leaning in for you, palming your breast with one hand and gripping your waist with the other.

You moaned again, your breath hot against his lips before you kissed him once more—this time slowly pulling back and leaning your forehead against his.

"Ellie... she's down the hall..." You whispered as you combed your fingers through his curls, your hips slowing down their rhythm.

"Mhm, and she's one of the heaviest sleepers we know..." He grinned as his thumb teased your nipple, making you gasp, and your hips roll once more against him.

"Come on... think about it..." He almost sounded like he was begging.

Your cheeks flushed red at how hot that made you feel. How wet you could feel yourself getting, imagining the thrill of it all—the thought of what could be done on these stairs.

But then you realized two pretty important points:

You were still somewhat drunk. Additionally to that point, you were in no way, shape, or form going to have the coordination to fuck him on these stairs.

You both were not as young as you'd like to believe. Because if you were to put it back in your pants for a second? You'd both agree that the outcome would most likely end in one or the both of you getting hurt, rather than having any fun.

Joel took your silence as a way to further his cause—so he leaned in and kissed your chin, then jawline, humming along with each kiss.

"You could ride me, right here... give me a show with those pretty little tits of yours." He purred before lightly pinching the bud of your nipple.

Your grip tightened on his shoulder—the instant sensation shooting a heat down to your core. You bit your lip to hold in a moan that would be loud enough to stir the house.

"Or I could bend you over... get you on your hands and knees..." Another small pinch and kiss to the soft spot just under your jawline. "Watch that perfect pussy of yours take me so well from behind..."

Your eyes fluttered shut, and you swallowed down another moan. No matter how hard you tried, you couldn't help the way your hips began to grind slowly against him—helplessly weak to feel his cock move against your cunt.

His teeth gently grazed your jawline before he groaned, feeling your hips press further onto him—your passive way of teasing him back.

"You and I both know we don't have the back or knees for these damn stairs..." You breathed before a moan slipped out, as he lightly pinched and tugged at your nipple—easily driving you mad with lust.

"Fuck, well if that’s the case… you gotta stop makin' those little noises you know I like, baby..." He teased before tugging lightly again at your nipple. "You're going to make me weak in the knees...” He kissed down your neck to the hem of your shirt before kissing back up. “…then I’ll really be unable to make it up to the bedroom."

Your head was swimming and everything in you screamed to stay where you were. But, when the perfect moment came, for that small pause of when his lips reached up for yours—you put your hand on his chest and gently pushed him away, putting his back against the stairs.

Something similar to a growl escaped from his chest and rumbled against your palm as he looked at you with that devilish smirk. “What are you up to?"

You kept your hand on his chest as you maneuvered up and off his lap to stand in front of him—his hands sliding off your body.

He looked up at you from where he sat—drinking you in—his chest lightly heaving, lips pink and swollen.

You began to undo your belt, keeping eye contact, trying—and failing—not to grin too wide as you whispered, “Giving you some motivation to get upstairs…”

Joel watched as your pants slid down and off your body before you kicked them down the few stairs behind you.

He bit his bottom lip as his eyes locked in on you standing there—wearing his favorite lacy black panties. “Mm darlin’, you could be wearing a fuckin’ parka, and I’d want you on your hands and knees.”

You crossed your arms over your torso to grab the hem of your shirt before you slowly pulled it up over your head—revealing a matching lace black bra, one that left little to the imagination.

You tilted your head to the side and bit your lip as you noticed his hand had moved into his lap. He had starting to stroking himself slowly—needing relief.

"You're favorite, right?" You teased as your thumb slid just barely, underneath the elastic around your hip.

He groaned as he watched—nodding once at you. "You're being a tease, baby..."

You smirked and tossed your hair to one side, another one of his favorite sights before innocently asking, "Am I?"

He groaned, the sound animalistic as he tightened his grip and nodded. "You know what you're doing."

"Do I?" You cooed, knowing you were getting him pent up.

He watched you slowly draw the elastic down your hip bone—exposing that soft skin between your hip and mound. His jaw clenched, and his eyes fluttered shut as he let out a small whimper. “F-Fuck…”

You smirked as you stepped up a stair to stand more so over him than eye level. You put your hands on his knees and leaned forward—your cleavage was on full display—another one of his favorites.

“Tell me how you want me waiting for you…” You purred, slowly moving in—inches from his lips—making his eyes open immediately.

You now fully had his attention. And as you expected, his eyes dipped down to your tits like the man couldn’t help himself.

"Mm, eyes up here, handsome..." You taunted.

His gaze darkened as it snapped up to meet yours, his smirk widening as he moved to lean forward—wanting to catch your lips—only for you to tease him and pull back.

"Tell me..." You whispered as you began sliding your hands slowly up his thighs.

His breath hitched the further your hands crawled. He swallowed before lightly nudging his nose against yours, "Fuck... we should fight more often if it gets you like this..."

"Joel..." You whispered, like a soft warning for him to focus.

"On your back." He nudged your nose again, his eyes fluttering shut as he tilted his head to the side to kiss you—needing your lips on his. "Legs spread wide, like the good girl you are."

You bit your bottom lip and muttered as you leaned in to meet his lips with yours, "Yes, sir..."

He groaned as your lips collided in a deep and passionate kiss. He waited only moments before he couldn't resist but reach up and cup your cheeks as he continued to kiss you—getting slowly sloppier and heated with each kiss.

You moaned softly, the sound not able to be held back when he kissed you like this.

You felt his tongue begin to dance with yours and for a small moment, you were tempted to say 'Fuck it' and crawl back into his lap.

You could easily pull your panties to one side and pull him out through that buttoned up opening—one that you were no stranger to.

It took everything in you not to give in.

So before you did something you'd both regret in the morning, you ran one of your hands up his abdomen to his chest before gently pushing him back against the stairs again—your lips reluctant to separate as your foreheads stayed together .

"Mm, wait—" He mumbled, out of breath, slightly dazed.

You murmured as you nudged his nose playfully, "Don’t keep me waiting.”

Then you maneuvered past him and began rushing up the stairs, tossing your bra behind you at him.

He snapped out of whatever spell he was in at the feeling of it hitting the back of his head—only to spin around and find you at the top of the stairs with your panties around your ankle—giggling as you kicked them down the stairs at him—swiftly flicking your index finger, beckoning him to join you.

A deep, tender ache throbs slow between your thighs in counter-rhythm to the drum of your heart against his chest.

He stirs first, the hand, which has been tracing slow, lazy circles against your bare upper arm, stilling. His beard, which has been pressed warm against the crown of your damp hair, lifts, and the drum of his heart beneath your cheek picks up a fresh, deeper rhythm. You feel the slow, patient gaze of his eyes settle possessively across the bare length of you draped warm against his chest.

You don’t open your eyes as you feel him bend his head.

His mouth presses a long, warm kiss against your head reverently and entirely without hurry, and the press of his lips draws a soft breath out of your throat against the warm hollow of his throat. He doesn’t speak as he kisses lower, lips moving over your temple then your eyelid and the corner of your closed eye where the long lashes lie damp.

You open your eyes slowly and see his, soft and dark and entirely undone. His mouth meets yours, the kiss warm and entirely wordless. He parts your mouth, drags his tongue against yours and you close your eyes again and kiss him back.

Drawing back, he looks at you again, one thumb reaching to slowly trace your cheek. Then he presses a further kiss against your chin, and another against your jaw, and another at the soft pulse of your throat.

The soft pulse answers him and he kisses lower, his mouth travelling downwards to your collarbone and into the warm hollow there, dragging slow and warm, a soft sound escaping your throat. You raise your hand and lay it against the back of his head, sliding into his hair as he continues to kiss you lower.

His mouth travels across the slope of your collarbone, pressing against every inch of the bone before pausing and moving back along the slope on the opposite side, and you watch his head bowed against your upper chest in the deepening rose light with a drowning tenderness that closes your throat.

He kisses down your arm where the skin lies against the rumpled sheets, drawing sensations you’ve not known your arm could feel from a kiss, then moves lower down your forearm to the inside of your wrist and across your palm. Then he pulls each of your fingers in turn into the warmth of his mouth before retracing his steps, back up your bare arm and across your chest. He pauses to gaze at the drawn peaks of your nipples before lowering his mouth and kissing the soft underswell of one breast, down to where it meets the slope of your ribs. Then he moves up the outer swell where it meets your collarbone, mapping the entirety of you.

You arch, your fingers tightening in his hair, and he pulls back, offers you a lazy smile then bends once more, lips closing around one tender bud.

You gasp as he suckles you slowly and deeply, the drag of his tongue sending sparks down through your stomach to the tender ache between your thighs. He draws your nipple into his mouth and holds it there, tongue working patiently, teeth grazing carefully, before letting it slip back into the air and moving to the other.

Rising, he kisses your mouth again, causing you to whimper as his tongue sweeps inside, before moving back down your body over your ribs, then your stomach, pausing at your naval to dip his tongue into the crevice before continuing. He moves to your hips, his hands settling there and sliding down your outer thighs as you part them instinctively, the swollen wet bloom of you exposed.

He presses a kiss against the inside of one knee, then the other, pausing briefly before dropping his mouth.

“Joel…”

You groan and arch towards him again, as he slowly circles your clitoris, the sparks spreading upwards now, back through your stomach to your breasts. Then he draws the small bundle of nerves into his mouth.

You wail this time. There’s no other word for the sound that tears out of your throat as your hand flies back into his hair and your hips buck helplessly against his mouth. His hands slide up beneath you, cupping the curve of your rear and lifting, giving himself better access.

When it comes, the wave breaks slowly, your body locking helplessly tight around nothing at all, clenching around the empty, stretched ache he left there earlier, and your thighs tremble against his shoulders. Unconcerned, he rides you through the wave, his tongue plunging inside you, drinking the wet of what he’s made of you.

You sob as the second wave rolls over you, his tongue burying deep as you peak and then descend, and he finally draws back to look at you, his beard glistening.

“Oh…Joel…”

He crawls slowly up the wrecked bloom of your body and kisses you again, letting you taste yourself, and you open your mouth and lick deep into his without a single moment of hesitation. Then he gathers you to him, chests flush with one another, limbs entangled and you lay your hand against the scruff of his jaw.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, turning his mouth into your palm and kissing it. “I love watchin’ you come apart for me, darlin’.”

“I love coming apart for you,” you sigh in return, closing your eyes.

You lie together that way for a while until you feel a dryness in your throat and ease yourself upwards. His arm tightens instantly and you lean down to press a gentle kiss against his lips.

“Water,” you whisper before slipping out from under him, rising from the bed and walking across the floor to where the pitcher and cup sit on the dresser.

You pour water into the cup and drink, the cool of it against your throat a blessing, then you set it back down and stretch your arms above your head, lengthening your ribs and your waist and your back, before gazing at yourself in the mirror above the dresser.

You don’t entirely recognise yourself. The woman looking back at you has loosened hair falling in heavy waves and breasts swelling in the light, nipples flushed and tender from her husband's mouth, and her skin glows in a way you’ve never seen on yourself before.

You look at her and she looks back.

Behind you in the glass, the light falls across the bed, and you see Joel rising up on one elbow to look at you. You meet his gaze in the mirror and, for some reason, choose not to lower your arms.

For a long, suspended moment, neither of you move. The breath stills in your throat as you watch his gaze travel slowly and possessively down your shoulders, your breasts, your waist, the curve of your hips, the soft flare of your thighs, and return to your face.

He swings his legs over the side of the bed, rises and crosses the room towards you, the heavy length of him already thickening visibly with every step. You hold his gaze in the glass as he comes up behind you and settles his hands gently on your hips.

Leaning down, he presses his jaw against your shoulder, and you lower your arms, your hands settling of their own accord against the top of the dresser. His hands slide round and over your stomach, fingers spreading warm, the pads of his thumbs brushing the underswell of your breasts, the hot length of him pressing against the small of your bare back, fully hard. You feel the wet head of him leaving a smear against your spine as he settles his hips against yours.

His hands move to cup your breasts, thumbs grazing over your nipples and rolling them, and you groan and press back, your hips meeting the hot weight of him riding the small of your back. He grunts softly, his thumb pinching the tender peak of one breast and rolling it slow and hard until your breath breaks and your hands tighten on the dresser.

Instinctively, you press back harder, and his hands slide back down to your hips, pushing you gently forwards until you’re bent over the dresser, your breasts resting against the top. The porcelain pitcher rattles against its saucer and the cup trembles as your hands flatten on either side of your reflection.

Behind you in the glass, you watch his hand leave your hip and stroke himself slowly through the smear he’s left on your spine whilst the other pushes between your shoulder blade, flattening you against the top of the dresser, your rear arching higher, your thighs spreading open, exposing you to the light.

You feel him drag the hot head of him through the slick of you from behind, coating himself in you, and you moan, his eyes meeting yours in the glass before he drives inside you.

It takes one stroke, hilt-deep, to fill the raw aching heat of you from an angle that strikes on the very first inch of seating, the deep place inside you. Your knees buckle and only his hand on the small of your back and the dresser beneath your hips hold you up as he begins to move.

The high, broken cry that tears out of your throat rings in the empty bedroom as he claims you, his hips slapping against the curve of you on the down stroke, dragging the slick of you up the polished length of him on the withdrawal.

The dresser rocks hard, the pitcher rattles and the mirror shakes faintly against the wall behind it, distorting your reflections. Your hair spills forward with every stroke, your breasts drag hot and damp against the wood and your mouth holds in a steady, broken keening of high, open moans you can’t stop, don’t want to stop and have no part of yourself left to stop.

His eyes hold yours in the glass as the hand at your back drags up your spine, catches the heavy fall of your loosened hair at the nape of your neck and winds it around his fist.

He pulls, not hard enough to hurt but enough to drag your face from the top of the dresser, your back curving beneath his fist. The new angle drives the hot length of him into the deep place inside you so flush on the next stroke that you sob openly, a long, wet, broken sound.

“Mine,” he says breathlessly. “Mine, darlin’…all mine…”

The image of yourself in the mirror is one that should scandalise you. Your face arched, mouth open, eyes wet and black with want, your hair drawn back taut in his fist, your breasts swinging heavy with the rhythm beneath you, nipples flushed dark and tight.

But it doesn’t.

And your husband behind you, broad and scarred and entirely undone, sweat running in beads down his chest, his eyes burning at your reflection, his hips driving into the curve of your rear in a wet relentless slap of skin on skin, only causes the sweet ache between your thighs to pulse harder.

You watch him in the glass, watch the muscle of his arm flex with every drive of his hips, the dark flush bloom up his neck and across the slick line of his collarbone, his eyes burning at you with a worship that has nothing careful left in it.

You hold his gaze and arch into the pull of his fist in your hair. He growls low, the sound guttural, wordless, the sound of something feral riding the bloom of his wife on her own dresser in her own bedroom. His fist in your hair tightens, his hand at your hip locks and the rhythm breaks open.

The dresser slams the wall on every stroke. The pitcher tips and rolls across the top, water spilling in a wide cool pool, and your hands scrabble wet against the wood for any purchase at all but find none.

The heat low in your belly draws tight and you slide your eyes to watch yourself in the glass as you shatter.

This time, it’s harder. Release tears through every inch of you with a devastating force that wrenches the strength out of every limb, and a scream rings through the house, as you clench helplessly tight around the hot fullness of him deep inside you and milk him in a hot rolling pulse of wet contractions.

The breath breaks ragged out of his chest as he bends over you but doesn’t stop. He drives you slow and hard through the rolling wave and holds you there, the hot length of him hammering the deep, raw place inside you on every stroke through the rolling shudders, and the wave that should have broken once breaks again. You clench around him in a long, shuddering aftershock that rolls up out of the first without pause and the deep place inside you, raw and overstimulated and wanting, draws the second wave bigger than the first.

You sob as his hand leaves your hip and snakes beneath you, slick with the sweat of you both, the heel of his palm pressing hard between your thighs, his middle finger finding your clitoris and circling it in counter-rhythm to the hammering claim of him deep inside you.

The third wave breaks before you’ve finished riding the second and you scream again as his teeth catch your shoulder, marking what he doesn’t have the words for. His hand leaves your hair, and both now settle at your waist, pulling you back hard against him – three, four, five slamming strokes that drive the dresser into the wall with such force that the mirror jumps on its hook.

He buries himself in you to the hilt and holds there and you feel the hot pulse of him inside you, thicker than before, harder and deeper though you almost can’t believe it’s possible. The hot flood of him spills into the very heart of you in slow, heavy pulses, his hips jerking helplessly forward into yours with every movement, the wet of him and the wet of you mixing slick around the base of him where his hips press flush against the curve of your rear.

“Yes darlin’…God…!” he exclaims, collapsing against you, his beard scraping warm against your shoulder, his mouth pressing a warm kiss where his teeth have been.

You can’t speak.

He draws slowly out of you, pulling one last broken whimper from your throat. You feel the hot wet of him slip down the inside of your bare thigh, and his hand comes around between your thighs and catches the slow trickle on his palm before it can reach your knee. Then he smears the wet of him against the curve of your hip, marking you with himself, and you watch in the glass, riveted with fascination.

After a moment, he rises behind you, drawing you up from the dresser, allowing you to flatten your hands against the damp wood for balance before turning you in his arms and laying his forehead gently against yours.

“Did I frighten you?” he asks softly.

“No,” you pant. “No, Joel, not for one moment…”

“I love you.”

“I love you too,” you reply, closing your eyes and, for a long, suspended moment, you simply stand there, his breath hot against your mouth, his heart drumming against yours.

Then he moves and kisses you again, slow and soft, allowing you to wind your arms around his neck and for him to lift you and carry you back over to the bed. After he lays you down, he watches you for a moment with a soft smile, then crosses back to the dresser, returning with a cotton cloth. He cleans you slowly and when he’s finished, you rest your palm against his jaw again, stroking your thumb along his cheekbone.

“I don’t know what to say,” you manage after a moment.

He chuckles and kisses the end of your nose. “Which did you like best?”

“All of them.”

“Hmm…I’ll remember that.”

Sighing heavily, he closes his eyes and rubs his face slowly against your palm, occasionally turning to drag his lips across the skin.

You lie there just watching him – your husband – and you feel a pull in your chest that makes you want to bury yourself against him and not move for the rest of your life. You’ve never felt more secure, more safe or more loved – in a way that you never thought you would.

“Is this how you loved Tess?”

The words are out before you can think on the wisdom of them and you feel him still slightly under your hand. The contended smile slips fractionally from his lips, and his eyes open just a little, as though he’s not sure he’s heard you right.

“Sorry,” you say immediately. “I shouldn’t have asked, I…”

“No, it ain’t…” he shifts slightly and you drop your hand back to the bed. “It ain’t wrong to ask darlin’, it’s just…” he takes a breath. “It was different.”

“Different?”

“Wasn’t the same man when I married Tess as I am now. I loved her dearly, but back then, I had no idea what it would be like to love someone like that and then lose ‘em. Makin’ love with you like this…I do know and that…that just makes it different.”

“I understand,” you nod.

“No, you don’t, and I don’t expect you to,” he says kindly. “Just want you to know that…it’s different. And if you’re askin’ me if I was thinkin’ ‘bout her whilst I was inside you…”

“Oh, no,” you say hurriedly, feeling heat crawl into your face. “No, I wasn’t thinking about that. I would never…”

“It’s alright.” He cups your face with his hand. “The answer is no. I wasn’t thinkin’ ‘bout her or makin’ any comparison or anythin’ like that. I was just enjoyin’ you.”

You feel the flush spread and he smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Look at my wife, all embarrassed at the thought that her husband might enjoy bein’ in bed with her.”

“I’m not embarrassed.”

“Yes, you are.”

“I’m not!” You turn your back mockingly on him and he laughs and immediately pulls you back against him, burying his face in the crook of your neck. “But I suppose if you’re going to continue to enjoy me, perhaps we should speak about what might happen.”

“Darlin’, I don’t wanna talk about the damn Reverend or the trial or ‘bout anythin’ like that right now,” he mumbles. “I gotta good feelin’ about that lawyer of yours. He seems to know what he’s talkin’ ‘bout and I also reckon you did a good job of puttin’ the fear of the Lord into Doc Cooper, so we don’t know yet…”

“I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about the…well, the consequences of a husband and wife, freely…” You feel your face burn again. “I have no idea if I’m…capable…and…”

“Capable of what?” he asks, nuzzling into you again. “Drivin’ your husband crazy?”

“No, capable of conceiving.”

He stills again, although this time you feel the difference in him. The stilling isn’t gentle or fleeting, rather it’s immediate and hard, and even though your bodies are still warm from one another, you feel a cold sensation travel between you.

“Conceivin’?”

The word comes out quietly and you turn over again to face him.

“Yes. I’m thirty-four, thirty-five this Fall, but that doesn’t mean…”

You break off as you take in the look on his face. It’s not confusion or concern or even anger – it’s pure horror.

“Joel?”

He opens his mouth and closes it again, then pulls hurriedly away from you, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and sitting hunched forwards, his entire body seeming to sag under the weight of the words you’ve just spoken. Suddenly, you feel naked in more ways than one, and you take hold of the throw at the foot of the bed and pull it over yourself.

“Did I say something wrong?”

“No. But that…it ain’t…” he lets out a long breath. “I can’t…can’t give you that – a child. I can’t.”

You frown. “But…you have Sarah and Tess was…” He rises suddenly, the action startling you, and starts reaching for his discarded clothes. “Joel?”

Once fully redressed, he turns back around to face you, his face drawn in a way that you haven’t seen in a long time.

“Darlin’, I…”

The sound of wagon wheels and the high whinny of an approaching horse interrupts whatever he was about to say, and he moves over to the window, pulls back the curtains and looks outside.

“It’s Doc Cooper.”

A mixture of panic and anticipation rushes through you. No-one on the Miller ranch is ill any longer, so there can be only one reason for such a visit.

“The town council must have decided what they’re going to do,” you say, scrambling off the bed and picking up your garments. “Joel, my dress…”

“Stay here,” he says, crossing the room to the door.

“No, wait…”

“I said, stay here. I can handle this darlin’. Whatever he’s got to say it’s gonna be about me, so I oughta be the one to hear it. You stay here, listen from the window.”

“But Joel, you can’t…”

“I ain’t gonna do anythin’ to him, darlin’, I promise. Ain’t nothin’ in this world gonna make me do anythin’ that could keep me away from you longer than I already have been.” He crosses back towards you and kisses you gently. “Please, just stay here.”

Then he moves to the bedroom door, opens it, and disappears down the hallway.

➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰❤️➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰

The washer is turning at full power, tumbling your threadbare duvet cover at 900 revolutions per minute, your eardrums pulsating to the rhythm of the round vibrations. Over the comforting din of your cotton-scented cocoon, you pick up the unmistakable pace of his gait stepping down the staircase. Unhurried, deliberate, leisured. It’s almost a feeling, an intuition formed on a cellular level. 

Frankie.

It’s insane—frightening, really—how fast new habits form. How little time it takes for the human body to adjust and settle. How powerless the mind is in its rebelling against it.  

Four weeks is all it took. Four weeks since that embarrassing encounter on Veteran’s Day, when he found you with your face buried in his shirt; 28 days of nightly informal encounters in the laundry room. 

Four weeks, and the thrumming of that tense line between your sternum and your belly is now constant. Like a string made of steel, of pure electricity, a strung live wire buzzing low and intense. It’s maddening, but it’s become familiar enough that you can disregard its existence, redefine its meaning. Ignore it. 

That very first week, you meet twice. It could be happenstance, were it not past midnight. 

The following week, he joins you every other night. 

Thanksgiving comes and goes. Jules and her family travel to the Hamptons to visit her in-laws, a tradition established shortly after Anthony and she got engaged. 

Rita goes to Connecticut to spend the long weekend with her niece. Frankie drives her there, a pillow behind her back, a blanket over her legs. You help them down to the street, carrying the old lady’s leather suitcase. Standing alone on the concrete pavement, you wave goodbye until the Ford pickup rounds the block.

Frankie stays away for the entire duration of the extended weekend. There’s no BBC karaoke on Friday evening, no Sunshine or Grump to greet you by the mailboxes, not even 2B to aggravate you with his sheer presence. The building is deserted. 

Growing up, the holiday wasn’t a celebration. Your mother had never been the loving kind, but after your father’s departure left her stranded with you, her bitterness didn’t leave room for merriment. Thanksgiving was like most dinners; she would place a frozen dish on your lap, still cold on the edges but burning hot in the center from its spin in the microwave, and turn up the volume of the TV, dissuading any attempt at conversation. 

Chewing soggy corn, the cathodic light reflected on your face, you’d find a twisted comfort in imagining your father’s whereabouts. In your thoughts, he was far from New Jersey, sitting at a long wooden table, presiding over a bountiful dinner, his beautiful wife across from him, a pretty little girl between them to his right. The wife had neatly manicured hands and freshly pressed clothes. The girl had slick, shiny blond hair and a round-collar blouse. She’d smiled at him, happy, docile. He’d smile back with pride.

Through the years, the little girl grew with you, becoming prettier and more accomplished than you could ever expect to be. You’d invent her first prizes, sport trophies, and spelling bees. The vision eventually died out in high school after you met Jules, but its reality had long been anchored in your psyche, sharp like a splinter. Nagging and tenacious. 

This year, for the first time in decades, the day feels particularly lonely. Its emptiness like a vacuum chamber, inviting in your old daydream. The teenage girl hasn’t aged; her delicate beauty crystallized in her fifteenth year. Slick hair, round collar. Medals and trophies. Time has blurred the wife’s face like an impressionist painting. Under the white sheet, your father’s tall, lean figure disappears. Only you know the gaunt face it conceals. Hollowed cheeks, shut eyelids. Mouth gaping dark and wide like a cavern, like a silent scream. 

Your grandmother’s absence hurts like a fresh wound. A throbbing pain that never quiets. It’s been twelve years since she last held you in her arms. Memories are losing their shapes. You’re beginning to forget the sound of her voice, the inflections in her phrasing. Her warmth, her scent.

The new apartment has never felt so cold. Cold and inhabited, with that thing moving along with the shadows after nightfall. Trailing you to every room you walk into. It has no density, no consistency, but you know it’s there. Wafting cold air, with a sound of whispering fabric, a raspy breathing. You remain deaf and blind to it. 

Clawing cramps contract your calves with increased intensity. You resort to using the blow dryer to warm up your sore muscles. A strange lump forms in your throat, pressing down on your vocal cords, warping your voice into something unfamiliar and hoarse. It becomes permanent. 

December materializes before you know it, icy winds, first snows, and Frankie’s with you in the laundry room seven nights a week. 

It’s a second day that starts with the night. A second life. Adjacent, parallel. A life with him.

By now, you’re conditioned to wait, ears trained on the sound of his bare feet on the concrete steps, anticipation wound tight in your chest, that damn buzzing string. 

The workday has shrunk into a succession of automated tasks, muscle memory inherited from more proficient times. You’ve restricted your interactions with your coworkers to a strict minimum. When you come home, the name of the game is stalling. An exercise in patience as you try to read, tackle the necessary chores, or watch something. Enduring with frayed nerves and failing focus that presence inside your apartment that you refuse to acknowledge, before you can trade it for the one presence you’re longing for, down in the building’s warm entrails.  

Every night, there’s a particular time when the rustling sound gets closer, when the raspy breathing grows louder, closing in on you. That’s your cue. You head out with the basket that’s nothing more than a prop, a safety blanket, leaving your ghost behind. Alone, ignored, denied. 

Downstairs, underground, in the brightly lit, sparsely furnished room, you wait for him. Like clockwork, like a cursed dream, Frankie appears ten minutes before midnight.

Another woman might put in some effort, invest in her appearance. Eyeshadow, mascara, a hint of lipstick. Brushed hair and flattering clothes. A seemingly effortless, carefully crafted appearance.  

Not you. The fleece pajama pants and oversized sweatshirt reign supreme over your evening wardrobe. You don't even check your reflection in the entrance’s mirror before walking out the door. 

Even if you were pretty, which you’re not, there’s the case of your peculiarity. You make everything interesting, Jules will tell you every so often, which is her own affectionate way of saying you’re weird and don’t fit anywhere.  By now, you’ve had enough unfortunate experiences, ranging from comical to humiliating, to understand your worth. You know better than to expect anything from anyone, especially where men are concerned, your ego stifled down to the size of a dormant concept. 

Francisco Morales is no exception. 

You’re nothing more to him than a commodity, and you know it. Available, interchangeable. An alternative to a wandering drive. Another way to kill the empty night hours. Laundry detergent is cheaper than gas, nowadays. 

Four weeks, and you’ve learned to tame the searing memory of that first striking glance, when time and space folded around you. Somewhere deep inside, you know that pull is the same one that brought you to fantasize about your father’s alternate family. A danger zone where you will be hurt to feel alive. You will not give in. 

You ignore the ghost. You ignore the pull. You ignore the warning. 

You ignore everything.

His behavior towards you makes it easy. He’s nothing but pleasant and amicable, and the conversation flows easy, but the banter is just that: superficial. There’s a distance between you like a chasm, or rather, an avoidance on his behalf. It’s in the way he steers the exchange away from anything too personal. The way he maintains physical distance. It’s in the ever-present hat, Standard Heating Oil, brim low over his eyes, concealing his thoughts, his conduct resulting in an unsettling imbalance in your relationship. 

At best, you feel overexposed. Weakened by every little bit of personal information you sacrifice to fill the deafening silences, chipping away at your defenses. Where you grew up, where you work, where your mother lives. Your best friend’s real name, throwing in some of her secrets, too, when you’re running out of yours, and meanwhile, he remains a complete mystery to you. 

You’ve run an impressive, perhaps concerning, number of internet searches on that hat’s logo. Aside from outdated commercial registrations, the only useful information that turned up came from digitized 80s newspapers. Stories about stolen trucks and suspicions of money laundering. Something about a connection to a crime syndicate. The trail dies out in the early 90s with the demise of the company’s owner, a certain Abe Morales. Foul play. No further clue on whether Frankie, who by your approximate calculations would have then been a teenager, and he were related. 

You can’t bring yourself to ask any direct questions, and he gives nothing away. Four weeks, and all you’ve gathered are pieced-up clues based on the beat-up paperbacks he sometimes brings with him downstairs, the time he spends working on his pickup, the discreet gum he chews continuously, and the handful of graphic t-shirts he rotates on a weekly basis. 

It’s a strange form of intimacy, distorted and faulty, where nothing’s named, only tacitly agreed. Where you’re familiar with his preferences in underwear but don’t know what he does for a living. And least of all, what are the ghosts keeping him from sleeping. 

Some nights are darker than others, his mood somber, weighed. The ghosts push harder against the frail door of your shared sanctuary. Neither of you talks. On those nights, you know better than to fill the silence. You watch for the deepening crease in his brow, the tension in his jaw. The hanging clouds, the raging storm. You repress the desire to smooth them under your lips. 

Around 4 am, he goes back up to his apartment. There’s always one last thing for you to do, an excuse not to follow, a pretense under which you can stall and stay behind. Should he really care, he’d probably see right through you. Once he’s gone, you lie down on the table. Wrapped in your duvet, you sleep for a couple of hours before daybreak.

On Saturdays, you manage the strength to execute chores and run errands, but your Sundays are spent on the couch, sleeping in the daylight, when the apartment is, for a few hours at least, finally empty and warm.  

How long your body will be able to sustain this pattern is not something you’re eager to find out. At this point, you’re so caffeinated your sweat smells like ground coffee beans. You’re fractured, fragmented. Fractionated. 

You keep going, day after day, with the promise of the night and Frankie’s presence. Of Frankie, coming down the stairs, barefoot and ragged t-shirt, belt undone. 

The machine gets louder; the footsteps get closer. Your pulse trips and your heart somersaults, fidgety fingers rubbing away the twinge in your chest. 

The door swings open. On your tiptoes, you rush across the room toward the lined-up machines.

“Hey,” he announces himself in a quiet, even tone, crossing the threshold without a look in your direction. 

Compared to the frantic beating of your heart, his entrance is anticlimactic. Head down, his features are partly tucked in the shadow from his hat. The black, beaten rucksack hangs off his shoulder, and in his left hand, the one with the target tattoo, he’s carrying a little red plate with some pastries. 

Amid the artificial clean scent inundating the air, you identify the familiar sweet taste.

“Are those… quesi…” you start but falter. You can spell the word, you can certainly eat the thing, but you’re too self-conscious to butcher its pronunciation when you constantly hear him and Rita converse in Spanish.

“Quesitos,” he finishes for you.

“Yes,” you nod. Are they from Rita’s niece?”

“Yup.”

He drops his rucksack down on the table and strides over to you with the plate in his hand, simultaneously pushing a quesito into his mouth in a sequence of surprisingly graceful movements. Your mouth waters at the evocation of the delicately sour taste and layered texture. His lips round the pastry, crispy golden flakes falling onto the plate, some catching in his stubble, on his gray t-shirt. You swallow thickly, eyes riveted to the movement of his jaw, the bobbing of his throat. The tight string buzzes wild down your core. The effort you put into averting your gaze shaves 5 years off your life expectancy. 

“That’s not fair,” you say. “I can drive Rita to Connecticut, too.” Your shot at playful and casual would be successful if your voice didn’t sound exactly like you’re thinking about what you’re thinking.

“You don’t have a car,” he states in a flat, neutral voice. 

A rogue groan rises in your throat, an expression of your frustrations, plural, that you promptly stifle. 

“S’really unfair,” you grumble, at a loss for a more clever comeback. 

“Good thing I brought you some, then,” he says. 

There’s a flash of a playful grin. The furtive curl of his plush lips, the crinkling corners of his eyes, the dipping dimple in his right cheek. A painful reminder that he’s dazzlingly handsome, despite your best effort to be oblivious to it. 

He’s extending the plate to you, and you look down at the three little rolls of rich, creamy cheese wrapped inside their perfectly glazed doughy blankets, surrounded by crumbs of various sizes, some of which have grazed his lips. The thought fuses inside your brain, rebellious, uncontrollable. If you were to press the tip of your index finger to them and bring them to your mouth, would he register? 

You take the plate and go sit on top of the folding table. The first bite is heaven, crusty against your teeth, melting on your tongue, the sour cheese taste tingling your taste buds. Your eyes flicker shut for a brief instant of gustatory ecstasy. 

When you reopen them, he’s staring at you. You hold his gaze in return. The moment is brief, fleeting, but long enough to throw you off balance. The weight of his dark look, the intensity etched on his face and radiating from his frame, unreadable, pinning you down. Echoing inside you along that tense line. 

He moves first, revealing the stern crease that splits his brow as he lifts his hat to comb his fingers through his hair. That key that still eludes you. 

Turning away from you, he unloads the contents of his bag inside the washer as you chomp on your sweet treat. Something catches your eye, a garment you haven’t seen before. It’s a sport jersey, probably from a university. You make out the name MORALES flocked in bold, capital letters across the shoulders. Blue and gold, you make a mental note to search it later.

“I come bearing a message,” he starts, commanding your attention back. “Or a bargain, I guess.”

“What’s it?” you ask with your mouth full.

“Rita wants you to come to her Christmas party,” he says, straightening up, hand plunging in his pocket to rummage for change.

“Her… what?” you start in a small voice, slowly lowering the plate on your lap.

“Yea, it’s a building tradition, with a Secret Santa and everything. Everyone’s invited. Your predecessor never missed one. Rita wants you to attend. Said there’ll be all the quesitos you can eat if you show up. I guess she knows you well enough,” he finishes, facing you again before you have the time to polish your stunned expression.

It stings, a burning kind of unsettling hurt, the idea of Frankie and Rita discussing your social anxiety in your absence. Jealousy slices through you razor-sharp at the mention of this assiduous predecessor. 

“I don’t… I don’t do well at parties,” you say, talking around the lumps in your throat that strain on your voice. “When is it?” you add with a hint of hostility.

He winces. “If I tell you when it is, you can make up an excuse, and I failed my mission.”

“Well, I can’t come if I don’t know when it is,” you snap, but there’s no bite to your bark, and he knows it.

“Mmh. Twenty-third,” he relents, pulling a rectangular gum blister out of the back pocket of his jeans. He pops the last tablet free, puts it in his mouth, and tosses the empty blister on top of the machine. The logo looks familiar; you’ve seen it somewhere before but can’t quite place it.

“Are you free on the 23rd?”

“I’ll see what I can do,” you mutter. 

“That’s not gonna cut it, Leigh,” he says, shaking his head. “I need a firm answer.”

“You mean you need a yes,” you retort.

He looks at you with a bemused grin, chuckling softly. The sound of which gets on your nerves.

“I do. I need a firm yes from you.”

An image flashes through your brain. Anthony and his Nicorette tablets—Jules complaining that they're everywhere since Enoch was born, the kitchen island, the console in the entrance, the car, the dining table, even the nightstand. 

“I didn’t know you smoked”

He narrows his eyes at you.

“I don’t. I don’t like cigarettes.”

“Why are you chewing nicotine gum, then?”  

“Nicotine without the smell,” he shrugs, as if the answer was obvious, before adding in a softer tone, “I hate to press you, Leigh. Will you be there? It’s not just about the party. It would mean a lot to Rita.”

His expression is almost pleading, entirely new to you, squeezing your heart like a cardiac arrest. 

You can’t remember the last time you were included in something Jules hadn’t organized, or that wasn’t work-related.  

“Sure. I’ll be there,” you fold. 

“Good,” he says with a short nod.

There’s a pause as the tension around you dissipates. You gobble down a second quesito, holding the red plastic plate under your chin to collect the crumbs. He grabs the blister and walks over to the sink to discard it in the trash can.

“So how did your meeting go today?”

“Oh, it went,” you sigh, surprised that he pays attention to your rambling. Your mind quickly wanders back to your boss’s soporific two-hour monologue about cultural programming, which, as the saying goes, could have been an email. “I mean, it was bad, but I was so tired I zoned out for most of it.”

“Still sleeping like shit?” he asks, leaning against a dryer, arms crossed over his chest. His hands are so large, they could probably wrap entirely around your neck and still overlap.

Blinking away the intrusive thought, you take a bite of your last pastry. Stalling for an answer that wouldn’t be a complete lie, but not the naked truth either. Even if he ever noticed that you stay behind to sleep down here every night, you can’t—you won’t explain why you do so, no matter how uncomfortable the lull in the conversation. 

“It’s a struggle,” you timidly provide.

“You ever tried melatonin? Or sleeping pills?” 

So that figure under its white veil can sit on the edge of my bed and watch me sleep? Not a chance. 

“I don’t like the idea,” you say. 

He chews in silence for a second, head tilted to the side, eyes trained on you from underneath the brim of his hat. Another question is coming, ready to shoot through the walls of your comfort zone. You speak first, before it’s too late. 

“What about you? How do you manage with so little sleep? Doesn’t it… doesn’t it affect your job?”

You hold your breath. He keeps chewing his gum, calm and assertive, looking at you in silence long enough that you start wiggling with discomfort on your hard seat because, what if you’ve just made a terrible blunder?  

“I do need to be sharp,” he finally answers. “I’m a pilot. Although I don’t fly much these days.”

“Holy shit,” you whisper. A pilot. His stoic demeanor suddenly makes a lot of sense, not that you’ve met many pilots before him. “What—where?”

“I’ve been working for a flight school upstate for the past two years. As a ground instructor. But I’m used to short nights. I never really had the leisure to sleep long hours until now.”

In the depths of your brain, a small alarm sounds off. 

“Why’s that?”

“Irregular schedules. I was… on call, sort of. I had to be able to wake up in the middle of the night and just go, and immediately be alert and efficient.”

Your discomfort has shifted into something else, something far worse than social awkwardness. Repressed memories of your father reminiscing, rolling his metal tags between his fingers. Boasting about being an early bird, by trade and by necessity.

“You’re not military, are you?” you ask, cheeks ice cold, legs like lead hanging limp off the table.

The chewing stops abruptly. He lifts his chin and looks at you, eyes raking your figure up and down. Inside your chest, the thrumming string is still and silent.

“Why? Is that a dealbreaker?”

Your breathing itches in your throat. Sweat prickles under your armpits.

“I have a problem with people in uniform,” you articulate.

“Like nurses and Girl Scouts?”

“Like army men,” you clarify with a firm voice.

Frankie’s lips twist into a fleeting grimace before he fully stands, pushing away from the machine. Your heart is beating painfully hard in your pulse point. You feel the empty plastic plate on your knees, your fingers clutched on its rim, the clip pulling on your hair, the cuffs of your sweatshirt circling your wrists. 

He lifts his cap, runs his fingers through his curls. 

He’s watching you dead in the eye when he delivers his answer.

“No. No, I’m not military.” 

—

The following days, you briefly—but seriously—consider moving to another building. 

You hate Christmas even more violently than you do Thanksgiving, this national commemoration of a genocide, and here you are, committed to taking part in a Christmas celebration with virtual strangers, a dress code, and traditions that the other attendees are already familiar with. Rita knew exactly what she was doing when she sent Frankie with a plate of quesitos to request your presence. 

The prospect settles like an anvil in the pit of your stomach. 

A few days later, you luck out by drawing Rita’s name in the Secret Santa draft. The opportunity to treat the old lady to something nice alleviates some of your anxiety. Enough that, on the 23rd, you knock on her door right on time, wearing the mandatory Christmas sweater—borrowed from Jules. 

Rita seems relieved to see you, as if your attendance had been optional, but self-consciousness tenses your jaw, pulling your smile down. She’s clad head to toe in a velvet burgundy dress, her short pixie hairdo enhanced by a dazzling pair of ruby clips and an ornate gold cross, in lieu of her usual, more discreet one. Considering how good she looks like at her venerable age, it’s easy to imagine why some of her suitors once upon a time slept on her doorstep. If anything, it’s a wonder they aren’t anymore. Meanwhile, you’re appallingly underdressed in your ironic Christmas sweater and black corduroy slacks. 

Your feeling of unease only increases with Kate’s arrival, who looks both festive and stunning in a red midi skirt and a Christmas sweater that somehow avoids ridicule. Her silver-stranded dreadlocks are coiled in a thick braid around her head, held by a single, long hairpin adorned with holly. 

Frankie shows up shortly after, two folding chairs under his arm, in a black sweatshirt with a Xenomorph dressed in a Santa costume. The garment is tight around his shoulders, hugging his broad frame in a way that makes him look twice as massive. He's wearing jeans, you observe with a sense of relief. Your eyes meet briefly. He greets you with a short nod; you reply with a coy smile. Your gaze follows his movements as he takes off his hat and places it on the small mahogany console in the entrance. To your knowledge, a mark of respect he only ever extends to Rita. 

Envy pinches your heart, playing over that taut, thrumming cord that sings for no one but him. You resent the humiliating emotion, but the tugging thought remains. If only you could touch that cherished, treasured object. Brush your fingers over the rigid brim. Feel the plastic mesh, the embroidered patch. Trace the letters with your fingertips.

The reverie is interrupted by Mike and Jason’s entrance, in cute matching Jacquard sweaters. To your great surprise, they’re followed by 2A and her son.

Rita greets them personally, introducing them to your small assembly as Amy and Emilio. 

“Alright, everyone,” your hostess announces, “some of you already know it, there are only two rules tonight. The first one is no politics. I know everyone here shares the same values, but we would rather not bring up unpleasant topics as we’re gathered to celebrate.”

“That one’s for you, Mister,” Jason nudges Mike with his elbow, earning them one of Rita’s winks.

“The second rule, perhaps even more crucial than the first: no leftovers. Now, everyone, please enjoy the party!”

Seven pairs of eyes dart to the table at the center of the room, its top disappearing entirely under several and various dishes, each more appetizing than the others. There’s a moment of collective hesitation, until Mike takes a plate and digs in. 

Eight people would be a tight fit for any of the building’s small units, so it’s a crowd for Rita’s cluttered living room. The temperature rises to a stifling point, but nobody seems to mind, engaged in cheerful conversation, feasting on delicious food. 

Kate approaches you first, coming to sit near you by your corner of the table, engaging you in pleasant conversation, and before you know it, you’re bonding over the urban nightmare that is the Fulton St. subway station. 

As you should have expected, all the guests brought Rita a present. But yours is the only one she immediately puts on. The vintage Pierre Cardin bolero in black sequins fits her like a glove. The lump in your throat weighs heavier on your vocal cord as you remember your grandmother in it, mostly from faded photographs. You’d rather see it on your friend than let it rot in your closet, though, especially with whatever thing lurks there. When Rita asks about its provenance, you remain vague, blinking away your emotion. You will tell her, eventually, but you will choose your moment. Preferably when you two are alone.

Frankie steers clear of you. No one would believe the two of you spend so much time together, and perhaps that’s the whole idea. Maybe he's ashamed of your relationship, whatever it may be.

You watch him at a short distance, in the crowded living room, his entire face transformed with every smile, every laugh. Crinkled eyes and dimpled cheek, he’s like a sun, like a bright light you wish you basked in. You pick up bits and fragments of jokes, delivered in his deadpan humor, the smooth rumble of his timber an undertone to the joyful brouhaha of the room, playing over that electric string between your chest and your core. 

You watch him blush as he opens Jason’s present, a grayish, short-sleeve button-up, with a herons pattern. Or maybe they’re storks; you can’t tell from where you stand. The fluid material is unlike anything you’ve ever seen him launder. You push away the image of it brushing against his tanned skin, and help yourself to more cod stew. 

The whole gift-exchanging part of the evening is a trial on your nerves. You are cruelly under-equipped to be anything remotely approaching graceful amid these kinds of social situations. The realization is chilling, especially when everyone else, Amy included, seems to be at ease. 

When your turn comes, you’re relieved to find out you’re Kate’s giftee, but the feeling is short-lived as you unwrap the most beautiful cardigan you've ever seen. The wool is luxurious, downy and fluffy like a cloud with horn buttons. The label reads Woolridge; your eyes widen, face flushing hot. 

“Don’t panic,” she laughs, “it’s second-hand! I walk in front of that store every day, and this beauty was in the window, calling out to me… When I drew you, Rita mentioned your place is always extra cold, so I knew what I had to do!” she exclaims, clapping her palms. 

Rita refills your glass with the bottle of sherry she keeps in her sideboard for special occasions, the heat in your cheeks cranking up a notch. 

More food is brought in from the kitchen. Guests break into small chatting groups around the table, some of them sitting around the table, others standing. 

In different circumstances, you probably would have left already. Preferably without notifying your host. But you feel too good to leave, good and warm and welcome, enveloped in your luscious sweater that was bought with your comfort in mind, expensive sherry sloshing in your veins and slowing your movements. When you get up to crack a window open, you’re surprised by the weight of your limbs. You stand with your back against the cool glass panel, taking it all in. The food, the soft light, the warmth and the laughter. The chill air wafting in. The soothing torpor of your mind. The enjoyable company.

Frankie locks eyes with you the moment your head comes to rest against the lintel. He keeps them trained on you as he makes his way toward your vantage point. Whether to pin you in place or give you a chance to escape, you can never be sure with this man.  

“It’s nice you came,” he says with no preamble. “It meant a lot to Rita.”

“Of course, I came. I had promised.”  

Another lie. Breaking a promise has never stopped you before. 

“She’s very fond of you, you know.”

You can’t withhold his gaze. You lower your head so he won’t see your cheeks color. 

“Do you want me to come check the heaters in your apartment?” he asks in his round husk. 

You shiver. 

“It’s fine, I got a nice sweater for Christmas,” you smile tentatively.

His frown is so apparent without the protection of his hat. Ominous. You glance at the room over his shoulder and feel his eyes scanning your face. It’s very subtle, the way he’s standing with his hand splayed wide and large on the wall, a few inches from your head. Leaning ever so slightly over you, shielding you from the rest of the attendees. Keeping your conversation private. 

From this close, you can smell his skin. Amber and leather. You can smell the red wine on his breath. Your mind drifts, numb limbs and sloshing sherry. Would his lips taste like the wine he’s been drinking? What does it look like to the others in the room, the two of you whispering on the side? Has he told Rita about your nightly meetings? Has he told anyone? Is he keeping it a secret? 

“Are you here for the holidays?” His voice summons you back to the crowded place. 

“Erm…” you start, clenching your eyes in concentration. “I’m spending Christmas with Jules and her family. Much to her husband's delight,” you add with a sardonic chuckle. “But I’ll be back before New Year’s Eve.” 

He hums, like a purr, and your blood courses faster.

“What about you?” you risk in a little voice.

“I’ll be here, mostly. I’m working. Our fu–our boss refused to close over the holidays. Like there’ll be any traffic. So I let the guys with the families have the days off. Anyway, my sister lives too far for me to go visit just the one day.”

He pauses. You’re suddenly alert, brain working against the alcohol in your bloodstream to collect that precious, tiny bit of information and store it safely in your long-term memory.

“There’s this cool bar on Manhattan Ave, in Greenpoint. Enid’s. I’m meeting some friends there for New Year’s Eve. If you ever wanna come out of the laundry room…” he trails off, finally taking his eyes off you. 

“Oh god, no,” you exclaim, a little more vehemently than you’d wish to, skin burning from the neck up. “I don’t do well at parties,” you reiterate. 

“So you keep saying,” he grins, “but you’re doing pretty well at this one. Or is something terrible about to happen? Are you gonna get drunk and start singing Total Eclipse of the Heart on the table?”

A rueful smile tugs up the left corner of your lips. You shake your head in defeat.  

“You’re not that far off,” you start. “I either overshare or can’t talk at all, depending on my alcohol intake. And then I ruminate about it for centuries, as I lie awake in bed, and—”

“Whenever do you lie in bed, Leigh?” he cuts, his features hardening. 

The power this man could wield over you, should you let him, frightens you more than the thing that followed you when you moved into your apartment. Why, then, do you keep choosing him?

You stare back into the dark pools of his eyes, if only to prove to yourself that you can.

“When I’m spent. When I’m tired enough. When I can’t think anymore.”

“Alright,” Frankie says. The pink tip of his tongue peeks over his plush bottom lip. “Okay.”

—

Once, on New Year’s Eve, you went out with a man named Michael you had met on the subway. In retrospect, the stakes might have been too high for a public transportation meeting, but Michael was fairly good-looking, and if you had to be honest, his attention flattered you. 

Rookie mistake. Five minutes into the overpriced five-course menu, he solemnly introduced himself as a magician and proceeded to perform tricks for you, talking non-stop about his pet dove as if it were a woman he couldn’t wait to go home and lie with. 

Another time, you let Jules convince you to ring in the new year in a nightclub, on a blind date with her then-boyfriend’s cousin. Both men showed up already stoned, but your date went the extra mile by drinking an entire bottle of champagne and vomiting all over your brand-new velvet jacket. Eventually, Jules and you had to pick up their tab and walk all the way home, having no money left for a cab. 

And then there was also that one time when your date broke down in tears halfway through driving over to Ho-Ho-Kus, parked in front of a closed 7-Eleven, and spent the following two hours reminiscing about his late girlfriend. 

Throughout the years, those misfortunes have become fun anecdotes. To this day, you can use Jules’ guilt to your advantage with a simple mention of Ralph the Barf, and every once in a while, Magic Mike has her keeling over with laughter. 

If anything, time has given you the confidence to guard yourself, and the maturity to discern which societal rituals you don’t need to conform to, peer pressure be damned. 

On some occasions, it’s easier said than done. But tonight, your being home rings like a victory.  You are exactly where you want to be: sitting on top of a dryer in your building’s basement, wrapped in your new favorite cardigan, your faithful duvet draped over your crossed legs, and a Lee Miller biography on your lap. Making good use of the pricey bottle of champagne Jules’ parents got you for Christmas. 

The boiler’s bass droning rolls in steady and soothing through the side wall. Loud voices and 90s house music from Jason and Mike’s New Year’s Eve party bump against the closed door in muffled ripples. Their drunken, cheerful countdown breaches the sanctuary of your isolation. Absentmindedly, you count along with them under your breath until one, when the image of the Crain’s obscured windows emerges in your brain. The vision turns your blood to ice. You can’t fathom anyone living across this place, let alone partying in such an exuberant way. 

Shouts of “Happy New Year!” explode above your head, irreconcilable with the aura of the abandoned place, sitting there like a dormant creature, like a sleeping monster. A black, empty hole, swallowing light, reeking of death and oblivion, exuding decay. 

You haven’t taken any in a while, but your New Year's resolution will be to ask Rita about this place and about the Crains. 

Across various social media platforms, feeds are flooded with recaps, countdowns, and wraps. As always, you will not partake, although if you wanted, you too could take stock. This year, you have a count of your own. Zero phone calls from your mother. One dead father. Eight unanswered calls to your aforementioned mother. Thirty square feet of grave plot in the Hoboken cemetery. A hundred and thirty-two gallons of unshed tears. Fifteen thousand dollars in student debt. 

Six new friendly acquaintances. One new friend. Well, two, if you can count Frankie. 

And of course, one shrouded figure. 

It’d be easy to think of it as an extension of whatever is going on in the Crain’s unit. But you know it’s not where it came from. You brought it in with you. Brought it in from the Hoboken morgue, and it followed along. It seeped out of your nightmares to permeate the realm of the living. And now you have no idea how to get rid of it. All you can do is keep ignoring it.  

Lost in your thoughts, reading the same paragraph for the third time, you’re oblivious to the steps descending on the concrete stairs. 

The door creaks open, wafting in fresh air and laughs and music, and you jump on the dryer, startled, left knee knocking into the bottle of champagne before you can catch it. Some of the liquid spills onto your duvet. You rip it off your legs like it’s on fire, freeing yourself, ready to fly, mind scrambling to make sense of the intrusion, heart pumping pure adrenaline. 

“Did I scare you?” Frankie asks, closing the door behind himself. 

“Jesus Christ! I did not fucking expect you,” you croak, angry. “You scared the living hell out of me!” 

“Sorry, not my intention,” he says, wincing apologetically. 

The clock above the doorframe indicates 12:53. He made quick work of driving back here from Enid’s. 

He’s wearing a thick trucker jacket in midnight blue over a pair of well-cut 501s in selvedge denim, a rather elegant upgrade from his usual attire. No hat in sight at first, but as he takes a couple of steps in your direction, you notice it’s tucked into the right back pocket of his jeans. 

You’re frowning with incomprehension. Probably not a flattering expression, but one that certainly pairs well with your tangled braid and your dirty pajamas. 

“Am I interrupting your celebration?” he asks. “You’re looking pretty cozy.” 

He comes to stand in front of the dryer you're perched on. It’s distracting, how well you can see his face without the hat planted on his head. How deep the crease reaches between his brow. How permanent it seems. How plush his bottom lip, with its central divot. His curls are luscious.  

“What are you doing here, Morales?”

“I can fuck off, if you want.”

There’s no aggressiveness in his tone, merely a possible outcome.  

“No. No, I don’t want you to fuck off,” you say. “I’m just surprised to see you. I thought you were with your friends.” 

“I was,” he says. “But then everybody got drunk, so I took their car keys and I left.” 

Your eyebrows flash up to your hairline. 

“You did what?!”

“I’m the designated driver. With a little bit of luck, they can hitch a cab back home.”

You chuckle, incredulous. Finding a cab on New Year’s Eve in Greenpoint is going to require more than luck. His lips pull to the side in a grin, enough for the dimple in his right cheek to appear, and you quickly look elsewhere.  

“I think I got a little bit of champagne left, if you don’t mind drinking from my bottle.” A real class act. 

“I don’t,” he says, grabbing the bottle from you. It looks disproportionately small in his large hand. His lips round the glass neck, and he takes a swig, eyes on you throughout the entire process. 

Transfixed, you watch the bobbing of his Adam's apple as the liquid flows down his throat. 

“Happy New Year, Leigh Reinhorn.”

He hands you the bottle and you drink in turn, tipping your head back to get the last drop without breaking eye contact. 

“Happy New Year, Francisco Morales.”

He shucks off his jacket, revealing the shirt Jason gave him a week ago. The top three buttons are undone, exposing the plane of his chest. Storks. The birds on the pattern are storks. He’s standing so close, you can’t slide down from the dryer without risking stepping on his toes. Freckles spring like fireworks from the dip of his collarbone. Cranes. The birds might be cranes. What the fuck do you know about birds? He hasn’t really answered your question. 

“What are you doing here?”

“I keep thinking about what you said the other day, at Rita’s. And how relatable it is.”

“What did I say?” you frown. You’ve replayed the conversation in your head a million times in ten days. There was no material for concern. 

“About not being able to lie in bed unless you’re exhausted.”

“Oh,” you exhale, heartbeat speeding up, pulsating inside your wrists.

He lifts his right hand to his head before he realizes there’s no hat there for him to lift. A pause, and his fingers card through his strands. 

The live wire thrums between your chest and your core, vibrating tense and stubborn, impossibly delicious. 

“I think we can help each other.”

His eyes pierce through yours, and it happens again. This complete collapse of time and space, this annihilation of everything outside the connection between you. 

This must be what fate feels like, you think, until your father’s voice smothers the thought and the feeling. There is no such thing as fate. 

Licking his lips, Frankie hooks both hands under your knees, uncrossing your legs and sliding you toward him over the machine’s flat surface in one swift move, with controlled, restrained strength, the memory of which has never left you since he lifted you up from the ground.

Your heart lunges at your rib cage. 

“We can help each other by making sure we’re both spent by the time we go to sleep,” he says, cold and factual, as if what he’s hinting at were harmless and inconsequential. 

His words drip down your spine like flowing electricity, and everything inside you is jolting to life. Pressure pounds in your ears as you swallow hard. 

He tugs on the back of your knees, prompting you down, and you slide off your perch, stunned, docile, wedging your body in the narrow space between him and the dryer, hips knocking against his hips, breasts brushing against his chest. He doesn’t budge. Not an inch. He’s like a mountain, unmovable. Towering over you, looking down at you from his height, head slightly tilted back, teeth clenching. 

“What—are you saying we should…” you start, but you falter, betrayed by your body, lungs closing, shallow, heart full and thumping. 

“I’m saying we should fuck, Leigh.” The crude word rings out like an explosion, resonating in the back of his throat, echoing inside yours. “Get some release, empty our heads, and go to sleep.”

Three simple steps. A mere transaction. He makes it sound casual enough. Meanwhile, your brain is raging static. Your limbs go numb. Your sense of reality is slipping.

He tips his face over yours. Around his blown pupils, the irises of his eyes glimmer in rich mahogany circles. 

The color thrills along the live wire in your belly. Fire and liquid. You blink and nod. 

“S’that a yes?” he asks, leaning down closer, the tip of his nose brushing against yours. 

“Hum… Yes?” you breathe out. 

“Are you sure?” he asks, impatience skirting his tone, body swaying away from yours imperceptibly, and you chase his density, his warmth, his scent, nodding more energetically.

“Yes. Yes, I’m sure,” you repeat, louder. 

His body swings back into yours, crowding you against the hard front panel of the machine. His hands reach for your hips, fingers splaying over the soft swell of them, digging into your flesh, and he breathes in. Breathes you in, long and deep, nose slotted into the spot under your ear. The air rumbles out of him like a growl, primal, terrifying. 

The string buzzes harder yet, the vibrations impossible to ignore. Arousal pooling down your core, molten, leaking down your thigh under your pajamas. You want him so bad, you’re honey and fire, losing yourself to the sensation, like you’ve never wanted anything until now. Like you’ll die if he doesn’t kiss you, and you’ll die if he does. It's overwhelming, your vulnerability, his strength, his mere presence; it bursts like pain in your chest as he lowers his lips over yours. 

“Wait,” you stop him. 

“Yea?” His voice is gravelly.

“No kissing,” you blurt out.

There’s a beat, a pause that lasts forever, the corners of his lips curved downward in a sullen pout. You’ve killed the moment, ruined it like you ruin everything. 

“Okay. No kissing where?” 

“On the mouth.”

He huffs a short laugh, breath tickling your face and torching your pride. 

“Alright. Anything else off the table?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all.”

“I got a wild imagination, Leigh.” 

He makes it sound like a threat more than a promise.

“That’s not what I’m scared of.”

His grip loosens. A shadow briefly plays across his features, understanding setting his jaw, gritting his teeth. It’s over in an instant, and his grasp tightens again, fingers burrowing into your hips, tilting them forward. 

“Good,” he says, tugging your cardigan off you and leaning down so close you think he’ll ignore your plea, crush his mouth to yours. You grow rigid in his hold, giving in to your irrational fear. But his lips brush past your lips, skimming your skin to latch on to your jawline, where he bites down, hard. 

You jolt into the wall of his chest. His smile curls over your skin, large hands sliding over the swell of your ass to squeeze you flush into him, and you scrabble for balance in his tight embrace, fingers clawing his biceps. Tangled up in fear and want and what are you afraid of? It’s a contract. A transaction. Not a commitment.

He soothes his bite with an open-mouth kiss, trailing down the column of your neck, plush lips, searing tongue, scraping scruff. The sensations mix and combine, you’re floating above the tiled floor, mind falling, body anchored.

He breathes hot against your neck, a long exhale, an expression of relief, spanning his hands across your back, pulling you into him closer, so close your spine hurts. 

The first time you wrap your arms around the breadth of his shoulders, it’s a rising high tide. A quiet earthquake, a gentle landslide. Arched into his hunched body, it’s a perfect fit, a flawless shape. It’s unexpected safety, and you cling to each other with a shared exhale. 

Above you, the music is roaring, bodies dancing to the fast beat of a song you can’t hear. 

There’s only his panting and yours, the ruffling of his shirt under your feverish palms, his lips fastening on your pulse point, sucking in the tender skin. 

He kisses you everywhere but where you denied him, kissing your neck and your cheeks, the shell of your ear, the hard line of your collarbone, the soft slope of your shoulder, pulling down on your t-shirt to kiss your naked breasts, stitches ripping, hands roaming your back and clutching, flesh spilling out between his splayed fingers. You hang on to him for dear life, for what’s left of your sanity. 

He bucks into you, once, twice, letting you feel the hard length of his sex against your belly, where the live wire is sizzling. The denim’s harsh and stiff through the thin cotton of your pajamas; you moan into his chest, hitching your leg up to his, seeking more friction, pulling yourself up with a wanton clutch. The fancy shirt is balled up in your fists, and he’s grabbing handfuls of your ass, grinding you down on him. 

“Can I see it?” he mouthes against your clavicle, breathless.

You nod, clueless as to what he’s asking, too disoriented to think, fingers sliding up through the silk of his curls. You rake your nails over his scalp and he produces that sound again, that growl, that rolling rumble inside his chest. His teeth nip at your jaw, hand coming down your front to cup you between your legs.

You hitch a gasp, stilling. 

“Let me see it,” he repeats, fingertips stroking you with a light touch over the dampened fabric of your pants. 

Understanding dawns on you, eyes squeezing shut with embarrassment. 

“Okay,” you whisper, and he peels away from you, your arms falling limp at your sides as he kneels in front of you. You pray he doesn’t notice your trembling legs.

He watches you, pinning you with one of his stares as he tugs your shapeless pants down, teeth gritting, nostrils flaring, like you might flee his touch. Like you need to be tamed, as if you could resist him. His dark eyes travel down your body to your center, and you bite the inside of your cheek so your entire face doesn’t quiver. 

“Hold this up,” he says, lifting your stretched t-shirt. You comply with shaking hands, nerves like a million pinpricks tingling on your nape. 

His fingers part the dampened curls of your mound, exposing how soaked you are for him, sticky slick and reckless want. You’re probably going to faint.

“Fuck, it’s pretty,” he whispers, scorching breath fanning your delicate skin. Your hold on your shirt turns white-knuckled. “Fucking dripping, can I taste it?”

He doesn’t give you time to answer, lunging forward into you, slanting his open mouth over your cunt, tongue darting past your seam with a grunt to collect your arousal, and you bite down on a whimper, a long shiver running down your spine, delightful, terrible.  

“Shit,” he says, resting his forehead on your belly, long curls brushing impossibly soft over your quivering skin. He mumbles something else, something you can’t make out with the static in your head, before he shifts in his kneeling position, hooking your leg over the bulk of his shoulder. You struggle for balance, fingers scrabbling for purchase on the smooth surface behind you as he licks a broad stripe through your folds with the flat of his tongue. 

Your head lolls back. You moan. 

He’s greedy, at first, voracious, pressing his entire face into your heat, fucking you with his tongue, chin pushing forward, fingers digging harshly into the curves of your tender hips, short bristly stubble abrading your skin. You can’t wrap your head around what’s happening, it’s too sudden, too sudden and too real. 

A transaction, you repeat yourself with waning conviction, staring at the roughcast ceiling but not seeing it; a transaction, as you fail to control the twitching of your leg with every drag of his tongue inside your walls, the sharp ridge of his nose rubbing against your clit. 

It’s messy, frantic, and eager; he’s rough in his hunger, and the sounds around you are wet and sticky, wet and sticky like your slick and his spit that trickle down your thighs. His grunts grow shallow and frustrated until he surges upward, pushing you back on top of the dryer. You tumble backward, ass hanging off the edge, your back bent awkward and bowed, the back of your head hitting the brick wall.

 “Shit,” he grits, “you okay?” 

He looks wrecked, tousled hair, glassy eyes, shining chin. 

“Yes,” you nod, almost soundless. 

He slumps over you, his forehead coming to rest on the plump round of your belly again, trying to catch his breath. His mouth wraps around your skin just below your navel, teeth sinking, sucking in, pulling sharp and hungry and needy, and this, too, will leave a mark, you think, aching with it, arching into it, the pain and the hunger and the need. 

He breaks away, letting go of your skin, kissing the surfacing flecks of purple, breathing long, settling himself. His hands a steadying caress along your thighs, calloused palms, thick digits.

You reach down for his hair but he’s moving away, moving down, down into you again. 

Eating you slow and deliberate, this time. Thorough and measured. Flat tongue licking up from your hole to your cunt, teasing the thin membrane in between. Plush lips fastening around your clit to play with it. You chase it, squirming and writhing against his restraint, but he traps you in place, banding his arm over your belly. 

He’s in charge, spreading you wide with the flat of his palm on your knee; eating you out, tongue and teeth and lips, humming with contentment, burning mouth, commanding touch. Repeated motions, alternating touches. Bringing you close but never quite there, relentless, clutching hard and bruising against your rolling hips. The heels of your hands are pressed over your eyes so you won’t picture the working of his throat, the strong column of his neck as he drinks you in.

Until you give in and let go. Until you surrender and relax into it, into the building pleasure, the endless coil, sweat pooling in the small of your back. You let him take you apart piece by piece, kiss by kiss, stroke by stroke. There’s no more fear, no more consequences. Only his appetites and your needs, and the beautiful, wonderful ways in which they meet.

The room is saturated with warmth and humidity, filled with the lewd sounds of his ministrations.

Suddenly boneless and pliant, your legs slack around the breadth of his frame. Like an offering. Your fingers card through the curling strands of his hair, hand resting over the crown of his head, following his movements, a long whine rising from your throat in the heavy air, swirling above you, shaping into his name.

Frankie.

He pauses, just for a beat, the briefest moment, his smile forming between your folds, blooming into you. 

“That’s it,” he rasps, pecking a kiss at your inner thigh. “Like that. Good girl,” and you can’t help but clench at the praise. 

Cool air hits your feverish skin; he’s released his restraining grip. His hand travels upward to your breast, cupping the swell of it, kneading with measured strength, his calloused thumb a teasing stroke over the peaked bud of your nipple. 

“Frankie,” you whine again, louder, the name a stretching plea over the upbeat music coming from upstairs.

There’s a harder suck on your clit; he pulls at it, trapped between his lips, before releasing it.

“Okay,” he says, rueful, “alright.”

The tip of his finger ghosts over your seam, circling your entrance ever so lightly. 

“Please, please, Frankie, please,” you beg, your voice alien, blatantly needy, openly desperate.

“Yea,” he says, sliding his finger in to his knuckles. It’s too much and not enough, and you jolt, hips spreading open so wide the angle hurts. 

“Fucking wet,” he mutters, bending into you again before you can recoil with self-consciousness, lapping at your dripping cunt. His finger still sheathed inside your tight heat, he turns his hand upward and adds a second digit, and you can hear just how wet you are. 

His mouth wraps around your clit, tongue gliding over it like liquid warmth, the hand covering your breast pinching your nipple, the other curling his fingers right at your center, and you know you won’t last long. The pain is exquisite, the pleasure unbearable. He gives a few strokes, fast and weighted, thick fingers spread wide inside your walls, stretching your entrance, and you ascend fast, breath caught in your throat. He’s rough and precise, the tension that builds up inside your belly nearly overpowering, and when he starts grinding against that soft spot deep inside you, the live wire snaps with an explosion.

You come crashing hard with a cry of his name, cunt clenching with a frantic flutter, spine arching, head thrashing back, flooding his hand. 

Dry sobs rattle your chest with the magnitude of your release. Pressing a soft kiss to your clit, he eases out of you gently, making sure you don’t slide off the dryer while you’re struggling to remain conscious.

Slowly, the heaving ebbs, turning to labored breathing, easing into steadier breaths. The sound of clinking metal brings you back to the laundry room, to the hard surface you’re lying on, to the heady detergent perfumes.  

You feel him run his knuckles through your folds, careful, gentle. His breathing comes in ragged, there’s movement in your peripheral. 

A transaction. 

You bolt upright, sitting up with a cinch, disheveled, wild-eyed. Sweat has dampened your hairline. The neon light is blinding.  

His belt is undone, heavy buckle hanging like a dead weight. His black boxer briefs are pulled down. You blink your sight into focus, the ripples of your orgasm still blurring your vision. Deft fingers circling his slick-coated length, he’s stroking himself. 

And oh–he’s big, so big you first fail to comprehend; his cock thick and rigid in the loose hold of his pumping fist, long and girthy and shameless in what he’s doing, watching you watch him, that tongue that was inside you mere moments ago licking over his lips. The same density that applies to every aspect of him, his body, his gaze, his hold, applies to his fucking sex. 

The live wire tenses right back inside your belly as you stare, hypnotized by the shiny tip of his cock disappearing in a steady rhythm between his fingers, by the rippling muscles in his flexing forearms.

A transaction. 

“I can—” you start, but you don’t know what it is that you can, you’re exhausted, awkward, stupefied. 

“Don’t have to,” he says, his tone strained, a groan slipping under his breath. 

A transaction. 

“I want to,” you say. You want to do to him what it is that he just did to you. You want to prove to yourself that you can have that effect on him. Even though you know that you can’t. 

“Gimme your hand.” He sways closer to you, hand grabbing yours and you’re holding him, holding his sex, hot and throbbing, soft like velvet, so fucking thick you can feel every vein, every ridge under your clumsy touch. 

The silky fancy shirt is balled in your fist again as you cling to him, inching yourself closer to the edge of the machine, the up-and-down strokes felt in your palm and against your thigh.  

You’re out of practice, embarrassed by your eagerness to do well, to satisfy him, but his hand guides yours, easing your grip into a slower pace. 

“Fuck, that feels good, Leigh,” he rasps, his other hand sliding under your shirt to find the round of your breast. 

A drop of precome dribbles over your fingers; you risk a glance down between your thrumming bodies, too shy to ask him for a taste. Instead, you bracket your legs around his hips and look up at his face, matted curls over his knitted brow, pitch-black eyes, parted lips. It tears you apart, just how beautiful he is. How intense and needy inside your hand, against your chest. Layers of unfathomable depth you want to slowly unpeel, lose yourself inside him, never to resurface. 

His hand covering yours is going faster, the movement picking up speed and losing amplitude. A deeper groan vibrates in his throat and with your mouth, you reach for it, reach for his neck, corded with effort, the freckled skin warm and fragrant. Tentative kisses at first that grow bolder, wetter, more pointed, encouraged by his guttural moans, trailing up and down until you catch his earlobe between your teeth, lips wrapping around it, and you give it a hard suck. 

“Fuck, fu—fuck,” he grunts, squeezing your hand so tight it cracks your knuckles but you don’t care, he’s coming, his entire frame shaking with it, forehead dropping on your shoulder, come spurting searing and thick on your thigh. 

A long breath shudders from you.

The transaction is complete. You’re both spent. He’s not moving yet, and you won’t push him away, but it’s over, and he will be going soon. Peeling away from your embrace.

Voices spark from upstairs, tumbling down the staircase. It never occurred to you that someone might walk in on the two of you, entwined and engulfed in each other’s satisfaction. No one will. 

Down here, it's just Frankie and Leigh. Nobody will find you. Not even your ghosts.

****

Two Years Later

In the master bedroom of the rented beach house in Cape Canaveral, Florida, the digital clock clicked silently to 3:34 AM.

The room held a cool ocean breeze and the salt-heavy humidity of the coast. When you opened your eyes, even in the dark, you felt him. On the other side of the bed—his back against the carved wooden headboard, his arms crossed over his chest—was the familiar, immovable silhouette of your husband. He wasn't sleeping. He was watching the rise and fall of your chest in the dark.

You shifted in the bed, your skin reacting at once to that silent, magnetic pull between you, the way it always did.

"Joel?" you whispered, your voice raspy with sleep. "What time is it?"

"Too early," he rumbled in that low, vibrating voice. He reached through the dark and rested his hand on your waist, his thumb stroking the bare skin at the edge of your T-shirt. "I was tryin' to sleep, but... not happening today. Your brain's running too loud, Professor. I can hear the gears grinding from over here."

A tired, deep smile spread across your lips. You slid under the blanket and curled closer to him, resting your head against his chest. You took a slow, grounding breath and listened to the beat of his heart.

Today wasn't an ordinary day.

Today was the launch day of the NASA project you had given your last four years—thousands of sleepless nights, countless wind-tunnel tests, endless red-inked drafts. The aerospike thrusters you had designed, turning aerodynamic pressure and turbulent flow to your advantage, were about to carry a multibillion-dollar rocket into orbit.

"I'm scared," you confessed quietly, your fingers playing with the collar of his T-shirt. "What if I missed a variable in the thermodynamic load calculations? What if the nozzles lose structural integrity at Max-Q? What if—"

Joel's lips came down on your forehead and cut you off. A long, warm kiss that stripped the chaotic data out of your mind.

"That rocket's gonna fly, sweetheart," he said, his voice firm. His chin rested on top of your head, his arms wrapped around your shoulders. "Because you designed it. And nothing you build ever collapses. Nobody in this world knows that better than me."

Your eyes welled at his unwavering faith. You were a woman of science; you believed in data. But this man's belief in you felt more absolute than any law of physics. You were about to answer when a small, sleepy voice from the cracked-open door interrupted you both.

"Mommy?"

In the doorway, in astronaut-print pajamas and dragging the plastic toy wrench her uncle Tommy had given her for her birthday, stood your three-and-a-half-year-old daughter. Maya.

Her wild dark curls were entirely yours, but the set of her jaw and those sharp hazel eyes had come straight from her father. The second Joel saw her, the rough Texas contractor mask evaporated. He straightened, his arms already reaching for her.

"My little bug awake?" Joel murmured, the fragile softness in his voice reserved for this room, this family.

Maya ran to the bed in quick, clumsy steps. Joel caught her one-handed in a single smooth motion and lifted her onto his chest. She wrapped her arms around his neck and burrowed into his silver-flecked beard, humming like a little engine. Watching the peace settle over his face as he closed his eyes and kissed her hair squeezed your heart the exact way it had the day she was born.

When you took your vows five years ago, the plan had been clear. Five years, you'd said when you got the IUD—five years to build your career and enjoy the marriage first. However, the universe had other plans for you. In the thirteenth month, the one variable you'd trusted failed, and you walked into the kitchen with a hospital bandage on your hand and pressed that grainy ultrasound strip to his chest, because your voice wouldn't work. You were terrified.

But that day, when Joel set the picture down and took your face in his hands and made you look at him, you watched the last of the old grief he'd carried for twenty years begin to loosen its grip. "The only thing I ever did perfectly in this life was being a father," he'd said once. He was right. The day Maya was born, Joel Miller was reborn. He hadn't just stayed your anchor; he'd become the sun his daughter orbited.

"Ready to inspect your mama's project, Chief Engineer?" Joel whispered, tapping the toy wrench in her hand.

"Is the rocket gonna fly, Daddy?" Maya mumbled, holding onto his thumb with both small hands.

"Yeah, peanut," Joel said, his eyes drifting to you in the dark, bright with that familiar, arrogant pride. "Your mom's gonna pierce the sky today."

Maya gave a slow, solemn nod against his chest. "Gonna watch Mama's rocket," she announced—and was asleep again before she finished the sentence.

The house was dark except for the light over the kitchen sink. You stood at the counter with a mug of coffee you couldn't drink, the launch you'd spent four years building ticking down somewhere out past the dunes.

Joel set a plate in front of you—toast, a few slices of mango—and said nothing about it. He just slid it under your hands and waited.

"I can't. My stomach's—"

"One bite." He leaned against the counter, arms crossed, immovable. "You don't get to faint on the most important morning of your career, Professor. Eat."

You took a bite to make him stop watching you. At the table, Maya was slumped sideways in her booster seat, half-asleep over a bowl of cereal, the toy wrench still in her fist. "...rocket goes whoosh," she mumbled, and let her eyes fall shut again.

Upstairs, you pulled the white silk blouse on over fingers that wouldn't quite cooperate, missing a button twice before it took. In the mirror you watched Joel shrug into a clean flannel behind you—no jacket, no tie, no concession to the generals and senators waiting at the Cape. He caught your look and lifted a shoulder. "They asked me to a launch, not a funeral. I'm goin' as me."

You sat at the vanity to do your make up and that was where it caught up with you. The eyeliner pencil shook in your hand. The wing came out crooked; you wiped it away, tried again, and your hand shook worse. You—the woman who'd carved differential equations on a whiteboard with an infant asleep on her chest—couldn't draw a straight line.

Joel crouched at your side and took your free hand in both of his. He turned it over and pressed his mouth to the inside of your wrist, right over the pulse, holding there until he felt it slow under his lips—then to each knuckle, slow and unhurried, the way you'd steady a level until the bubble stopped trembling.

"Breathe, sweetheart," he murmured against your skin. "You already did the hard part. The math's done. All that's left today is watching it fly." His thumb dragged once, slow, across the inside of your wrist, and his voice dropped half an octave. "Save it for me, baby. Tonight I'll give that pretty body a real reason to shake."

Heat bloomed up your neck, and despite everything—the launch, the nerves, the four years—a startled laugh slipped out of you. The first easy breath of the morning.

He didn't let go until the shaking eased out of your fingers. 

You lifted the pencil again. This time the line came clean and even, in a single slow pass—your own hand, steady now.

You met his eyes in the mirror and reached up to clasp the gold plumb bob at your throat.

"There," he said quietly. "Knew you had it."

5:46 AM.

As you neared the high-security gates of the Kennedy Space Center, the rented SUV was full of a heavy, electric silence.

In the back, Maya dozed in her car seat. You sat in the passenger seat, hands clasped so tight in your lap the knuckles had gone white. Your nerves were screaming.

In the driver's seat, Joel was your monolith, the way he always was—the same flannel and scuffed boots he'd have worn to a job site, the only concession a bright red lanyard around his neck that read "NASA – VIP MISSION CONTROL." The contrast—a blue-collar contractor walking into one of the most elite rooms in science—was, as always, both grounding and a little arousing to you.

He was quieter than the day's nerves alone explained, his eyes flicking to Maya in the rearview every so often, like he was counting her. You put it down to the early hour and the weight of the morning, and didn't ask.

One hand on the wheel, Joel reached over and folded your cold, clenched fingers into his warm, calloused palm. He laced your fingers together and stroked the back of your hand with his thumb.

"Breathe, sweetheart," he murmured, eyes on the dark road but his focus entirely on you. "You're wound up like we're headed to a firing squad."

"Joel, this isn't just a motor test," you whispered, your voice trembling. "This is my design. A multibillion-dollar rocket. If I got the structural mechanics wrong, if those weld seams can't take the heat..."

Joel slowed at the entrance to the VIP lot, shifted into park, and cut the engine. As the armed guards approached to check your credentials, he turned fully to you, unbuckled his belt, and cupped your face in his hands, making you look at him.

"Look at me," he said, soft but leaving no room for argument. "Who are you?"

You swallowed. "I... I—"

"You're my wife," Joel cut in, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones. "The woman who could outsmart every man at that institution with her eyes closed. You took the wind and taught it how to blow. You poured the foundation right under that rocket—and your foundations don't collapse." He leaned in, his nose brushing yours, his voice dropping to a fierce whisper. "Now you're gonna get out of this truck, walk up to those bleachers, and show the whole damn world what that mind of yours can do. Understood?"

His words, the way they had five years ago at your vows, stilled the storm in you. The turbulence dropped; laminar flow returned. You breathed, and touched the warm gold plumb bob at your throat.

"Understood," you whispered, a real smile finally breaking across your face. "I love you."

"Love you too, baby," he said, kissing you deeply.

"Let's go watch this launch."

Inside the launch complex, before anyone could steer you toward the bleachers, a young engineer with a clipboard caught up to you, half out of breath. "Professor Miller—they want you on the floor for the final propulsion checks. It's your system. They won't green it without your eyes on it."

Of course they wouldn't.

Someone handed you a white lab coat and a floor badge, and you slid your glasses up your nose, and the nervous wife from the parking lot was gone. You walked onto the control floor as the woman who had built the thing they were all afraid of.

You moved down the row of consoles—thermal margins, chamber pressures, the turbulence model that was yours to the last coefficient—reading the numbers off the screens the way other people read their own handwriting.

Then you stopped.

One line on the third screen sat a half-degree off where it should have been. A cooling-flow reading on the starboard nozzle, drifting—small, the kind of number a tired eye slides right past. You didn't slide past it. You'd lived inside this math for four years; you felt the wrongness before you finished reading it.

"Hold the count." Your voice was sharp as a knife. The room went still around you. "Starboard thermal margin's drifting. If that's real, the nozzle won't fail on the pad—it'll fail at Max-Q, when the pressure peaks. Pull it up."

A young engineer's hands flew over the keys. The flight director was at your shoulder now, jaw tight. The number bloomed on the main screen: a sensor lag feeding a stale value into the cooling loop—exactly the kind of thing that had melted a simulation of yours, once, a lifetime and a baby ago.

"Reset the loop, repoll the array," you said, already pointing. "Now."

Seconds stretched. Somewhere above you a clock you'd promised the world was waiting. Then the line snapped back into the green and held, clean and steady.

You straightened, breathed once, and gave the flight director a single nod. Resume the count. He held your eyes a beat longer than necessary—that was a catch, Professor—and turned to call it in.

It would hold now. You were almost sure. The real answer was waiting eighty seconds into flight, where the air pushed back hardest.

Then you looked up.

Through the glass wall of the observation gallery, a floor above and walled off behind two inches of safety pane, stood Joel with Maya on his hip. He couldn't have heard a word of it—but he'd read your spine going rigid, your hand cutting through the air, and his arm had tightened around Maya on pure instinct. He wasn't watching the screens or the countdown clock. He was watching you—in your coat, in your glasses, on your floor—with that quiet, wrecked pride he never once tried to hide.

Maya pressed her whole hand flat against the glass. Mama, you saw her mouth, the sound lost on the far side of the pane.

You touched two fingers to your lips and lifted them toward the glass. Then you shrugged out of the coat and went to take your family up to watch the sky—your heart still going hard, the number you'd caught still humming under your ribs.

The VIP bleachers sat at the closest distance to the pad the law allowed, and the air was already electric.

Senators, NASA administrators, four-star generals, and deans from the country's top universities stood in tight, whispering clusters, sipping nervous coffees. The moment you stepped onto the platform, the whispers changed. The crowd parted for you. As the project's Principal Investigator, you were the star of the morning.

But the man behind you drew the more nervous attention.

Joel carried a sleep-tousled Maya in one arm, his other hand at the small of your back with that old, possessive claim. Moving through the white-collar crowd in his work boots, he looked like he owned the place, filtering anyone who came too close with a flat look that dared them to waste your time.

"Professor Miller!"

A familiar voice rose from the crowd. Dean Higgins came toward you, pride all over his face. Behind him was Dr. Preston—the man who, on your wedding day, had smugly told you that you'd leave the wind tunnel to "make babies at home." His hair had thinned a little more, and the arrogance was gone. He watched you with the wide, careful eyes of a man who knew exactly how much power you now held.

"Dean Higgins," you said, shaking his hand with a warm, formal smile.

"I couldn't miss this," the Dean said, his eyes shining. "You're the pride of our university. I hear your design cleared every aerodynamic test faster and cleaner than NASA's own engineers expected. Legendary work."

Before you could answer, his gaze dropped to the little girl in Joel's arm, and his academic expression melted into a grandfatherly grin. He leaned in, eyes crinkling.

"And who's this?" Higgins asked, with a gentle wave. "Another brilliant professor in the making, I see!"

Maya, still clutching the wrench, gave a bright, giggling smile, buried her face in Joel's neck for a second, then peeked back out.

"She's the Chief Engineer, Dean," Joel said with a low chuckle, patting her back. "Here to make sure her mama's math holds up."

"Thank you, Dean Higgins," you said, your heart warm. Then your gaze shifted, cool and deliberate, to Preston. "Dr. Preston. How nice to see you too. I assume you came to confirm with your own eyes that my wind-tunnel research hasn't exactly taken a back seat?"

Preston flushed a mottled red, stammered something about a tremendous success, very impressive work, and found a reason to be elsewhere in the crowd. You let him go; the rocket on the pad was answer enough.

"Daddy, the rocket's so big!" Maya said suddenly, pointing at the white obelisk on the distant pad.

Joel looked at her lit-up face and let out that deep, rumbling laugh. "Yeah, peanut. Real big. 'Cause your mama built it real strong."

Then Joel pulled something from the military-style backpack he'd been carrying: a pair of industrial noise-canceling earmuffs, the kind from an active site, painted bright pink. He'd modified them by hand to fit her small head.

He dropped to one knee, level with her. "Alright, Maya, listen. This thing's gonna be loud when it goes up. Louder than the jackhammers at the site. So we put the special helmet on, okay?"

Maya nodded with the same serious, focused look you got when you concentrated. With startling gentleness, Joel fit the pink earmuffs over her curls, his thumbs brushing her cheeks. "Good girl."

Just as he stood, Maya in his arms, the announcement came over the speakers.

"T-minus ten minutes and counting. All systems are go for launch."

Your stomach knotted. Your heart slammed so hard you were sure the people around you could hear it. You shut your eyes and your mind began to race—shear stress on the airfoils, the inferno inside the combustion chambers, the whole matrix of math that decided whether your thrusters would hold.

Then a familiar weight settled against you.

Joel stepped in behind you and pressed his chest to your back, a wall of heat that cut you off from the size of the world. He wrapped one arm around your waist, Maya still secured in the other, and rested his chin on top of your head.

"Laminar flow," Joel whispered in your ear, the words meant only for you.

And just like that, the deans and generals and VIPs were gone. There was only you, him, and the girl in his arms.

You opened your eyes, brought a trembling hand to the plumb bob at your neck, and let your whole weight fall back into his hold.

"T-minus sixty seconds."

The sky was bright, but a thousand breaths were held. Everyone on the deck rose to their feet.

"Ten, nine, eight..."

Your fingers dug into Joel's arm. He pressed you tighter, locking you to him.

The countdown wasn't only for the rocket. In your head it was counting down everything you'd survived: the blood on the linoleum of a classroom floor, the thirty-two hours of searing labor, the ghosts of your past, the coldness of a man who'd left you to bleed alone, and the grief Joel had carried for twenty years.

"...three, two, one. Ignition."

You saw the light first—blinding, ferocious, a second sun bursting beneath the pad, hellfire pouring from the aerospike nozzles you'd built equation by equation.

Then the tremor hit.

Not just sound—a physical force that tore the air, shook the ground, and rattled the organs in your chest. The concrete shuddered under your feet. It was exactly like the first day you met Joel: the deep, earth-shaking churn of the jackhammer under the engineering building that had brought him to your office door. Except this time, the power was yours.

As the rocket broke from the pad, the roar climbed to something staggering. The combustion chambers held. Your thrusters were ripping that tonnage of metal out of gravity's grip and pushing it smoothly toward the sky.

In Joel's arm, Maya had gone still. Then her whole face cracked open—eyes huge behind the pink earmuffs, mouth round—and she stabbed a finger at the climbing fire.

"Mama!" she shrieked over the roar. "Mama did that!"

It knocked the breath out of you. Two years back, you had watched your daughter's first steps alone, on a screen, in the dark, hours too late. Now she was awake against her father's chest, watching you reach the sky with her own two eyes. This one you hadn't missed. Neither had she.

"Approaching Max-Q," the speaker called.

The critical moment. Aerodynamic pressure at its deadly peak—the exact place the starboard nozzle would have torn itself apart, eighty seconds ago, if a half-degree drift on a third screen had gone unread. If it was going to break, it would break now, and you would know whether your eyes had been good enough.

You held your breath. You didn't blink. Your hand found the plumb bob at your throat.

And the rocket cut through that wall of pressure without a falter—clean, the starboard margin holding exactly where you'd dragged it back into the green—and the VIP terrace erupted in applause.

You'd done it. You'd survived your own Max-Q. 

All the years of loneliness, the cold old marriage, the sleepless newborn nights, the exhaustion, the endless calculations—all of it had led here.

You'd beaten gravity.

Around you the terrace was still roaring—applause, shouts, someone crying somewhere—but it all seemed to be happening behind glass, a long way off. High overhead the rocket had thinned to a single bright thread, then to nothing, leaving only a slow white scar unspooling across the morning sky. The roar that had shaken the ground bled out into a ringing hush, and the salt wind came back in off the water. In the middle of all of it, the three of you stood untouched, in a quiet that belonged only to you.

You turned away from the climbing star to look at the man holding you.

Joel wasn't watching the rocket. For a moment his eyes had drifted up past it, to the emptied sky where the fire had thinned into nothing, and that old shadow you'd seen only a handful of times in five years crossed his face. Then his gaze came down—to Maya, to the curls under the pink earmuffs, and he pressed his mouth to the top of her head—and then, finally, to you. The girl he hadn't been able to keep, the girl in his arms, and you. All of it moved across his face in the space of a single breath.

And then he was just looking at you, his eyes wet, the love in them so open and unguarded your knees went soft. The billion-dollar machine climbing into the sky meant nothing to him. The most astonishing thing in the universe was already standing in his arms.

"They ain't invented a word yet for how proud I am of you," Joel rumbled, the vibration of his voice hitting your skin harder than the rocket had.

You smiled through the tears and took his face in your hands. "I stayed in the air," you whispered, your forehead against his, "because you kept my ground solid."

Careful of the pink earmuffs between you, Joel folded you both into his arms and sealed you to his chest. He didn't kiss you right away. He held there a moment, his forehead pressed to yours, breathing you in, his heart slamming against the hand you'd flattened on his chest—and then his mouth found yours, deep and unhurried and certain. The seal of a man who'd shut his heart twenty years ago and sworn never to build again, finally finding his home, his foundation, and his sky.

Between your two bodies, Maya wriggled a hand loose from the squeeze and patted your wet cheek, then his beard, the way she always did when the two of you got like this. "Don't cry, Mama," she ordered, very serious about it—and you laughed into the kiss, and Joel laughed against your mouth, and for one breath the three of you were just a single warm, ridiculous knot in the middle of a cheering crowd.

The little gold plumb bob brushed your skin in the Florida breeze, still carrying the warmth of the Texas sun.

You had spent your life learning to escape gravity.

But melting into your husband's chest, Maya tucked warm between you, you knew you'd already found your center of it.

And you never, ever wanted to fly away.

🎧 Playlist — if you want to live in their world a little longer:

Sleep on the Floor — The Lumineers

In Spite of Ourselves — John Prine & Iris DeMent

I'm In It With You — Loreen

Run to You — Lea Michele

Sparks — Coldplay

Starting Over — Chris Stapleton

You Are the Best Thing — Ray LaMontagne

Harvest Moon — Neil Young

If We Were Vampires — Jason Isbell & the 400 Unit

The Mother — Brandi Carlile

The bunk is cool on his side. You lay your palm against the place where his hip has been and realise that he’s been up for hours.

You sit up, pulling the blanket around your shoulders, your bare feet on the cool deck plating and listen, the way you’ve learned to listen on this ship, for where he is. The cockpit hum is steady – no jump prep, no manoeuvring. The faint scrape from the hold is him at the workbench, or near it and you hear the small clink of a stylus against a datapad.

Standing up, you pull on your sleep shirt and trousers and pad through into the warm light of the hold, stopping at the edge of the bunk alcove to look at him.

He’s moved the small fold-out table from where it lives against the bulkhead to the middle of the hold and pulled the bench around to face it. On the table, he has three datapads, a stylus, and a small open notebook.

The visor turns when he senses you.

"Morning, cyar'ika."

"Morning.”

"Sit. I made you something."

As you come around the table, you see he’s made you a plate of flatbread with the nut paste from the market three planets ago accompanied by a neat row of dried fruit and, beside it, a tin cup of water with a slice of something pale-yellow floating in it that you don’t recognise.

"What is the…?"

"Ginger root. From Pakuuni. I’ve read that it helps with the nausea. At least, some women say it helps. It's worth trying."

You sit down slowly on the bench, pick up the flatbread and eat a piece. It tastes good and the water with the ginger root is, against every odd, exactly the thing your stomach has been wanting not known to ask for.

You close your eyes a moment against the warm spread of it down your throat, then open them again to see him watching you through the visor with the careful attention of a man who’s just successfully treated a wound and is waiting to see if his work will hold.

"It's good," you say.

The visor eases. "Good."

He picks up the stylus again and angles the leftmost datapad toward you.

"I’ve made some lists."

You slowly set down the flatbread.

"You’ve made some lists?"

"Yes."

"Din. It’s…" you look at the chrono on the bulkhead, “it’s the fourth hour of the day cycle."

"I know."

"I went to sleep at the eleventh hour of the night cycle."

"I know, cyar'ika. I let you sleep because you needed it."

"But you didn’t sleep.”

"I slept some."

"Din…."

"Cyar'ika, I’m alright. Look at the list."

When you look, you see that the list is thorough, the kind of thorough that you’ve seen him bring to a bounty briefing and to a weapons inventory and to the careful planning of a job, and you understand, looking at it, that he’s transferred the whole of that competence in one seamless overnight motion to the baby inside you.

The leftmost datapad is a list of medics.

Nevarro sits top of the list, with the comm channel and a note in his small precise hand - commed 02:14, no answer, message left, awaiting return.

Below that, a midwife that Karga had apparently mentioned once, two years ago, that he’s filed away in the precise inventory of his head against the possibility of a day exactly like this one.

Below that, a Twi'lek obstetrician on Ryloth whose name he’s somehow obtained during the night.

Below that, a backup.

Below that, a backup to the backup.

The middle datapad is a list of foods.

The column entitled tolerated contains the dried fruit, the flatbread, the nut paste, water and the ginger root.

Refused or causes nausea is a longer column, with the caf at the top, and the ration bars, and the meat from Akkadua, and a list of small specific things he’s been quietly cataloguing for three weeks while you’ve been thinking he wasn’t paying attention.

To procure at next port is a third column, longer than the other two, containing more dried fruit, more flatbread flour, more ginger root, more nut paste, bone broth (gentle stomach), unprocessed grains, fresh greens (iron), citrus (folate), and three or four other things in the small precise notation of a man who’s spent some of the small hours of the night cycle reading the small online medical reference library on the subject of pregnancy.

The rightmost datapad is a list of threats.

You stop at that one because it’s a list of things that can go wrong on a ship like the Crest during a pregnancy, and the list is long, organised by trimester, and each item has a small precise notation beside it in his hand.

Carbonite chamber – coolant leak, low risk, retest seals weekly.

Hold ventilation – filter due for change, prioritise.

Bunk – too small for late-term sleeping comfort, consider modifications.

No medbay – nearest equipped facility Nevarro 4-day jump, must remain within 6-day jump radius by month seven.

Rifle cleaning solvents – fumes, relocate cleaning to airlock or post-jump.

Gravity plating in hold – uneven near ladder, mark and pad.

Combat –

You stop reading and sit back. He’s watching you, the visor angled at your face.

"Din…how long have you been awake."

He pauses before answering. "Since the second hour."

"You went to sleep at the eleventh."

"Yes."

"So, you’ve slept for three hours."

"Yes."

"And in five hours you’ve…" you gesture at the three datapads, “you’ve done this."

"Yes."

You sit with the knowledge for a long careful moment, because two things are happening in your chest at once, and you need to understand which one of them is going to come out of your mouth first.

The first thing is a great, warm wave of love so unexpected and undefended that it brings the prick of tears to the corners of your eyes.

He’s stayed up the small hours of the night cycle, read the medical library, made you a plate with a slice of ginger root in the water and has built – in five hours, on three hours of sleep, in the warm dim of the hold with the woman he loves asleep in the bunk – a careful, comprehensive scaffolding of practical preparation around the baby inside you that’s not even, yet, the size of anything.

He’s done it because he loves you and the baby already, sight unseen, certainty unconfirmed, with the same practical, absolute love he brings to every other thing he’s ever loved. He’s done it because he’s a man who loves by doing, and he’s been given a thing to do.

The second thing is that you want to throw the datapad at his head.

You want to throw the datapad at his head because you gave him this thing six hours ago with your hand laid flat across his on your stomach and you said tonight, we have the three of us and you’d meant it. You’d meant one night. You’d meant let us be inside the having of it for the space of one night before we’re organising lists.

And he’d said yes, then waited until you were asleep, gotten up and spent the small hours of his night organising it into lists.

You set the datapad down and pick up the cup of water, drinking it slowly, letting the warm spread of it down your throat steady you. You look at him across the table to where the visor is very still.

"Din."

“Yes?”

"I…” you take a breath. “I love you so much, right now, for what is on those datapads and I want you to hear that first because what I’m about to say is going to sound, on the surface, as if I don’t love you and I do, okay?”

He pauses. “Okay.”

“But I asked you, last night, for one night with just the three of us, and you said yes. And then I went to sleep, and you didn’t."

The visor holds very still.

"Cyar'ika…"

"I’m not angry, I’m just…I’m two things at once. I love you for the lists and I’m also a little hurt about the lists. The lists are the morning conversation, Din. The lists are the thing you and I were supposed to sit down over breakfast and start making together. And instead, I wake up and you’ve made them already without me."

He doesn’t answer.

"I’m not saying the lists aren’t good because they are. The lists are good. The lists are…" you laugh a little, in spite of yourself, “the lists are the kind of lists I couldn’t made if I’d stayed up for a week. The medic on Nevarro, the Twi'lek on Ryloth, the ginger root… I wouldn’t have thought of the ginger root, Din. I would’ve spent six months throwing up over the basin in the cycler thinking it’s a thing I have to endure. You’ve spared me that, so I’m grateful for the lists."

"I…"

"But the making of the lists was supposed to be ours. That was what I was looking forward to about the morning. Sitting on this bench with you and saying, alright, where do we start? And then starting together. The two of us, with our heads bent over the same datapad, working it out. And instead, you’ve done it and I’m a little…lonely, Din. A little lonely about it."

The vocoder catches and the visor angles down at the table. The gloved hand on his thigh flexes once, very slightly, and stills.

"I couldn’t sleep," he says finally.

"I figured."

"I tried, cyar'ika. I lay there with you, and I tried for an hour. And then it was as if…as if every small thing that can go wrong with the Crest between now and the day this foundling is born walked into my head and sat down. All of it. The carbonite chamber, the ventilation, the gravity plating by the ladder, the bunk…”

He pauses.

“The bunk is going to be too small. You’re going to be too big to sleep on your back in that bunk by the seventh month, and we’ll need to widen it, and widening it means cutting into the bulkhead, and cutting into the bulkhead is a job that needs to be done in a hangar, not in flight, and we don’t have a hangar booked anywhere in the next four months, and I…"

He stops again, the vocoder catching a small, uneven breath.

"I got up and I’m sorry. I got up because lying still with all of it sitting on my chest wasn’t a thing I could do. I came out here, I sat down and I started writing. I told myself I would write down one list, the medics list, just so I could put it out of my head and go back to bed. And then the medics list was done, and I started the food list. And then the food list was done. And then…"

"Then the threats list."

"Yes."

"And then it was the second hour and then the third."

"Yes."

You reach across and place your hand on his bracer.

"Din, I understand."

The visor lifts and finds your face.

"I do. The thing that you did last night is a thing I would’ve done too, if I were you. If I were the kind of man you are. It’s the way you love, Din. It’s the way you’ve always loved. You love by building. You love me, and half the things you’ve ever done for me have been by building. The chair lift in the The padding on the copilot's seat for the long jumps, the small shelf in the bunk for my datapad… you love by hands. I know that and I’ve known that for over a year. And the moment I told you about the baby, it became the next thing you were going to build for, and you couldn’t sleep until you’d started doing that.”

You flex your hand against his bracer.

"But I love by sitting, and the two are going to have to learn to live together, on this ship, for the next eight months. Because if you build everything by yourself in the small hours of every night while I’m sleeping, I’m going to wake up in the seventh month inside something that I had no hand in building. And whilst I’ll be grateful, I’ll also feel lonely, and I don’t want that. I want eight months of us. I want to sit at this table with you and write the lists with you, slowly, over weeks. And I want some of the items on the list to be mine and some of them to be yours and I want to argue with you about the ones that overlap. I want the building of it to be ours, not just the finished thing."

He doesn’t answer.

"Do you understand?"

"Yes, I understand.”

"Are you angry?"

"No, cyar'ika,” he says, the visor turning to you. “I’m never angry with you.”

"Are you sad?"

"Perhaps a little."

“Tell me why.”

"I don’t know how to do the sitting. I…I don’t know how, cyar'ika. I’ve not had practice. The Creed teaches the building, not the sitting. When the people I loved were in danger, I built. When the people I loved were hurt, I built. I don’t know how to sit with a thing. I don’t know how to lie in the dark beside you with my hand on your stomach, knowing that my foundling is growing inside you, and not get up and start the lists. But I’ll learn. I’ll learn, if you teach me."

You sit with his words for a long careful moment, because the thing he’s just set down is a thing that matters, and you’re not going to answer it cheaply. Then you draw him toward you and he bends, allowing you to lay your forehead against the brow of the visor and close your eyes a moment, because it helps you think.

"I’ll teach you," you say softly. "I will, but I need you to understand that the sitting isn’t the absence of the building. The sitting is the building done together. Last night I wasn’t saying don’t build. I was saying build with me. The building is good. The doing-it-alone-in-the-dark is the problem.”

You stroke the side of the helmet.

"I know you’re scared."

You feel him tense slightly.

"You’re scared, Din. That’s what last night was and that’s what the three datapads and the lists are. You’re scared and you’ve spent your whole life turning fear into building because the building is the only place the fear has to go. I want you to know that I see it, that it’s alright to be scared.”

"But I’m supposed to be…"

“You’re about to be a father and that’s a scary prospect. I’m scared too and I’m asking you to do the being-scared with me. Not in the dark by yourself at the second hour, but with me. Wake me up, even if it’s the second hour. Shake my shoulder and say cyar'ika, I’m scared, and I’ll wake up, and I’ll sit at this table with you, and we’ll be scared together and we’ll make one list, slowly, between us, and then we’ll go back to bed. That’s the deal I’m offering."

The visor presses harder to your forehead.

"Yes.”

“You’ll wake me?”

He pauses. "Yes, I’ll wake you."

"Good."

You hold him for a long quiet moment, the brow of the visor against your forehead, the warm faint smell of the leather of his gloves, the sharp clean of the oil on his armour and the faint trace of the ginger root in the cup beside you on the table.

"Din, you should eat something.”

“I’m fine.”

"You’ve been up since the second hour. Have a piece of the flatbread. I won't be able to eat all of it anyway. Eat with me."

He hesitates then picks up a piece of flatbread, turns the visor away from you the careful practiced few degrees that’s the privacy he’s built around eating in your presence, lifts the bottom of the helmet just enough and eats the flatbread in three small efficient bites. He’s done it a thousand times. You’ve watched him do it a thousand times and have loved him for it a thousand times. You love him for it now.

He drinks water from the cup and sets it down then turns the visor back to you.

"Better?"

"Yes."

"Good."

You lay your hand over his bracer again.

"Alright, show me the lists."

He blinks – you don’t see it, but you know from the small held pause that he’s blinked.

"Cyar'ika…"

"Show me, Din. I want to see them properly this time. Walk me through them. We’re going to go through them together, all three, and I’m going to tell you what I think, and we’re going to add things you’ve missed, because there will absolutely be things you’ve missed because you don’t know everything about what this is going to be, Mandalorian. And you’re going to listen to me, and we’re going to do this together, the way we should’ve done it this morning, yes?"

The vocoder catches the small modulated almost-laugh.

"Yes, cyar'ika."

"Good. Start with the medics."

He starts with the medics, reading each name and the precise notation under each. The comm channel, the location, the jump radius, the cost. You listen and ask questions. You add a question of your own that he hasn’t thought to ask.

“Does the midwife on Nevarro take payment in credits or in trade? If we’re going to be docked there long enough for a birth we’re going to need to know what the cantina runs the room rates at.”

He nods, picks up the stylus and adds a small careful note beside the midwife's entry, and you feel, watching it, the small warm satisfaction of a thing being built together.

You go to the food list and cross off two items he’s put in the wrong column then add three he hasn’t thought of. You laugh at him for putting citrus in the column without specifying which kind, because he’d once eaten a yellow citrus from a market on Florrum that he’d assumed was sweet, but which had turned out to be the sourest thing either of you had ever put in your mouth. He’d spent the rest of the day insisting it was fine, you’d laughed at him then and you laugh at him now, and the vocoder catches the small modulated almost-laugh underneath.

You go to the threats list and sit with it for a long careful moment. You read it slowly, without stopping, all the way to the bottom. You read every small precise notation and understand that what you’re reading isn’t a list at all but a careful inventory of love, the kind a man writes when he’s trying to put words to the shape of what he’s afraid of losing.

You lay your hand over his on the table.

"Din, this one we’re going to take slowly, one a week. We pick one item, we figure out what we’re going to do about it, we put a note next to it, and we move on. Not all at once. Not all this morning. We have eight months."

"One a week?"

"Yes."

"Cyar'ika, that’s very slow."

"It is very slow, Din, but that’s the point. Slow is the gift I’m giving you. Slow is the way you learn to sit with a thing instead of building around it in the dark. We’re going to take this very slow and you’re going to hate it for the first month, and by the second month you’re going to find that you can sleep through the night. And by the third month you’re going to find that the baby in here…" you lay your hand low on your stomach, “hasn’t, in fact, come to any harm because we paced ourselves, yes?"

“Yes.”

"Good."

You squeeze his hand and sit back. You look at the three datapads on the table and at the man in beskar beside you with his hand laced through yours on the table, and you understand that this is the thing you had wanted last night when you asked for one night with just the three of us.

You’ve not wanted, you understand now, the absence of the lists. You want this. You want the soft hour at the table with the lists half-made between you, the arguing about citrus, the bare hand laced through yours, the careful pace of two people deciding together what shape the next eight months are going to take.

You have it now.

You have it now because you’ve asked for it, he’s heard you, and because he’s a man who, when the woman he loves tells him in plain words what she needs, does the work of giving it to her – even when the work means setting down the careful comprehensive building he’s spent the night on and starting it over, slower, with her.

"Din, you did well."

The vocoder catches.

"You did. The lists are good and I love you for them. I love you for staying up and I love you for the ginger root because I didn’t think of it. You did well and we’ll do better, together, from here."

He bends and presses the brow of the visor to your temple.

"I love you, cyar'ika."

"I love you too, Din."

His hand on the table tightens, once, around your fingers.

It’s a small beginning, but one that the two of you have made together.

You pick up another piece of flatbread as your stomach suddenly grumbles. “Alright, what’s next?”

He picks up the stylus. “I was thinking about the cradle."

"Tell me."

He tells you and the two of you begin – together, slowly, the way you’re going to be doing everything from now on – to build.

➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰🚀➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰

Taglist: @thelittlebats @sassythejedi @millercontracting @porganas @lovely-kitsune-exe @themilkhasjustexpired @dream-alittlebiggerdarling @seikamuzu

He reaches down, past the waistband, cups himself, cock already aching at just one look at you. You’re not even moving, just basking in the sun, eyes closed, ankles crossed, chest rising slow. Your wedding ring glints as you lift your hand to scratch at your sternum, and the pink-gemmed stone glows against your skin.

He watches, ogles even. You must feel his eyes on you, because your hand moves, smoothing along your thigh, then between your legs, all casual as anything, as if you’re not the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

He toes open the sliding glass door and steps out onto the deck, coffee in hand, boxers tented with need. “Jesus Christ, baby,” he growls.

You open one eye, lift your face to the sun with a lazy smile. “Hi,” you say, and then—fuck him—you stretch your arms overhead, and his mouth waters.

He stares, quite rudely. You’ve got a bottle of oil in your hand… some sort of fragrant thing Wendy made you. You open it, pour a thin line straight down the center of your body, let it pool and run around your navel, then spread your palm wide and rub it slow, up one hip and down the other. Your hands trail up your sides, fingers running over your breasts, playing with your nipples.

He means for a chuckle, but it comes out as a whimper, and he’s already on the first step down when you lift your hand to stop him.

“Not yet, you’ll block out my sun,” you tease, hands dragging down your thighs, legs parting wider, heels dug into the towel to gift him a good look at your pussy. You pick the oil up, let a stream run down your stomach to your mound, it pools across your skin, and you rub it in, letting your fingers slip and trace circles across your cunt. You’re a slick mess for him, hips rolling as you begin to touch yourself.

He can’t help but stroke his cock, throbbing when he presses some relief into it, but you know… eyes snapping open, a temptuous smile on your lips. “No, baby. You can have your fun later. Just watch me.”

He wants to protest, but he’s never been so transfixed in his life. The restraint it takes to drop his hand is superhuman. You keep your legs spread, one hand circling your clit, the other splaying oil along your ribs and up to your throat, as if you were anointed. The pink wedding band beckons, bright against your finger as it moves over your pussy.

Coffee’s getting cold, but he holds onto the cup as if without it, he’ll float away from you. He’s sweating, feels like he’s shaking from the restraint, from the need to spread you wide open and know you.

You’re moaning, hips rocking up off the faded green towel. He’s obsessed with the way he can tell your whole body is clenching and releasing as you begin to fuck yourself with more urgency, panting his name. “Fuck, Joel. Fuck, Joel. Fuck, Joel,” floats up and out into the vast wilderness.

The muscles in his back and arms are so tight, he can hardly breathe, hand clenched around the mug, and his boxers grow wet from the steady leak of precum he wants to grip more and more out of.

“Do you want to fuck me, Mr. Miller?” you say it deadpan, head turned so you’re looking at him through your lashes.

He lets out a “Yes,” almost a bark.

“You want to put your cock in me, Mr. Miller?”

He nods, jaw too tight, tongue thick in his mouth. You keep up the torture, fucking yourself with two fingers, thumb pressing your clit. Your breathing turns into little gasps and you stare him down. You know exactly what you’re doing to him, it drives him even madder.

“When I let you. I want you to fuck me hard, Mr. Miller. Can you do that for me?”

He nods again, frantic now. “Anything. Just tell me what you want.”

You smile, lift your legs, and part your knees wide. The slick shine of oil and wet glistens, and you fuck yourself with two fingers, drawing them out and showing him how shiny they are.

“I want you to bend me over that railing,” you nod at the deck rail, “and fuck me hard. I want you to smack my ass, call me a good girl as you cum in me.”

He loses it and groans as his back turns to jelly.

Your face sets in determination as you slip your fingers out of you. You get on your knees, reaching your hand up. “Now, come here.”

His mug teeters on the edge of the table he tossed it on, coffee splashed across the withered wood. In two strides, he crosses the deck, takes your shiny fingers into his mouth, and tastes the sweet slick of you. You work his boxers down and off, and he grunts against your fingers when you take his hard cock into your mouth. Your tongue is warm and swirling as you suck him off, tasting his desperation for you. He hits the back of your throat, your chin shines with spit, hungry eyes staring up at him. Joel’s fingers slip into your hair, resting, anchoring himself to you. He can’t breathe, can’t even fucking think, his world is just this: the hot sun blazing down, the wet choke of your throat, your hands planted on his thighs, his fingers through your hair.

You pull off him, mouth leaking a sticky trail of spit and precum as you grin, tongue out, and slap his cock against it. It’s almost cruel in the way his legs begin to shake and he groans. He wants to beg, fall to his knees and worship you, his perfect bride, but you take his cock back, slower, letting the head of his cock drag over your tongue, sucking the crown. Joel’s hands tighten in your hair, and he can feel every muscle in his arm clench as he fights the urge to push farther, to fuck your mouth full of his cum.

“Fuck, baby. Fuck, you’re—” he chokes when you take him deep again and pull off with a gasp. His eyes grasp shut, and all he can see, hear, and feel is his need for you. He fights the pooling low in his belly, reaches for your shoulders. You read him, letting his cock drag out of your mouth, letting him haul you up and kiss you, sucking the taste of himself from your tongue and lips.

He picks the towel up from the deck, places it against the splintered railing, and bends you over it. The angle is perfect, your feet spread wide, your pussy presented to him like a masterpiece. He grabs the oil, pours a river down the crease of your ass, letting it cascade down across your pretty pussy. He runs his hands over you, smearing the oil across your skin, dipping in and out between your legs.

Back and forth, Joel rubs the head of his cock against your pussy, lingering through the oil and your slick. He pushes forward, just enough to rest at where you need him the most, his hands pressing into the cleft of your ass, pulling you open to watch himself rut against you, the tip of him kissing precum right against your hole. He smears it in, drags his hand across your ass before he pulls it away and delivers a sharp smack to it. The sound of his palm meeting your skin echoes across the cove. Your arms flex, head dropping as you moan.

He can’t help the incredulous shake of his head and the grin he sends to the sky when he pushes in and your tightness swallows him. You didn’t want slow and sweet, and he gives you what you want, setting a brutal rhythm, hands gripping your hips, pulling you back into each thrust. The towel scrapes against the bannister as you fuck against, just as desperate as he is. You’re a mess of sweat and oil, radiant and beautiful under the sun.

He slides his thumb up, pressing it against your asshole, circling it before rolling it into you. You gasp, arch your back, and ask for more. “Like that?” he growls.

“More,” you order again.

He grabs the oil, pours it over your ass until it drips down onto the deck. He rubs circles, works you open with his thumb, fucking both holes so hard the railing groans.

Your pussy pulses around him and he feels you cumming, cunt squeezing him so tight he has to grit his teeth and tell himself not to cum. “Good girl,” he snarls, “feels so good. Cum f’me.” His thumb delves deeper, stretching you as you flood his dick.

“Joel, please,” you gasp, babbling, “Joel, please I want… I need…”

He knows. He pulls out, letting the heft of him thump against your asshole. “You want me here, baby?” You nod, a slithering “yesss,” answers him.

He slides in slow, waiting for the stretch to go from burn to ache for you, but you’re greedy for him, pushing back on him, and he doesn’t know if he’s ever loved you more than in this moment. The sounds that leave you are otherworldly, high, and beaming. He covers your back with his chest, arms locked around your sticky, sun-warmed body, grinding your ass back into him, both of you rutting against the railing.

His hand snakes between your legs, rubbing your clit, your whole body loses tension, knees almost buckling as your muscles go slack and his finger rubs another orgasm out of you. Joel’s arms tighten around you, keeping you standing as he fucks you through it and past it, until he lets himself go, cumming so hard he feels as if he might collapse the whole deck. His hips stutter, and he holds you tight, unable to move as his cum floods your ass.

When he feels his breath again, he nuzzles your neck, sucking at the sweat along your skin. “Good girl,” he groans as he pulls out. “World’s best wife. Jesus Christ.”

You chuckle and slump against the deck before he gathers your cumdrunk body into his arms. He’s never felt freer in his life. Sunlight, the blue sky, the cool wind and the smell of pine needles. His beautiful wife blissed out and smiling in his arms. Joel thinks maybe this is paradise.

—-

This is all Joel Miller could ask for… a crackling fire burning by the cove and a beautiful girl in a pretty dress watching him play guitar. He sits in the half-dark, back propped against a wood stump, legs outstretched, feet at the edge of the fire circle he made. You’re a little ways off, on a quilt, knees bent, dress tucked under your thighs. He picks up his guitar, tries to tell himself he knows the song well enough to perform it and gives you a shy smile before he begins to play.

“All alone in this world am INot a care for this world have IOnly you keep my eyes open wideYes it's trueI live for you”

You tip your head back, eyes on the starry sky as you listen, a sweet smile spreads across your lips. He can’t remember a time he wasn’t trying to earn a smile from you.

“Not a thing in this world do I ownOnly sadness from all that is grownIn this darkness I wait for the dayYes it's trueI live for you

For many years I waitFor many tears I wait

All this time my thoughts return to youGive my love, that is all I can doWait in line till I feel you insideYes it's trueI live for you”

When the chords fade, you clap a delighted sound. “That was beautiful,” you say. He grins, heat rising into his cheeks, hating and loving that he still feels bashful when it comes to you.

For the next song, he picks a low, moody tune that he knows you love. He plucks the strings slow, and you instantly know the song.

“Underneath the bridge, the tarp has sprung a leak…”

He doesn’t expect it, but you join in, your sweet voice joining his, voices harmonizing as you both repeat “something in the way.” Your face is set in thought, the flames flickering over it as you lean forward, elbows on your knees, almost studying the moment, the feeling. The two of you, out here, under the safety of the night sky and a ring of flames. Joel’s voice gravels towards the end, letting you take over.

When he finishes, your smile’s brighter than the fire. “That’s my favorite,” you say.

“I know,” he grins. “C’mere.”

You crawl to him, and he wraps himself around you, arms tight, chin on the top of your head. Your sigh warms the hollow of his throat.

“Play me another, tomorrow?” you whisper.

“Every day,” he says, kissing the crown of your head.

—-

“Homebase to Love Shack, do you copy?” Ellie’s voice echoes, and Joel can hear the smug little smirk in her tone even through the distortion. Joel clips towards the radio resting on the countertop, towel wrapped around his waist, hair still wet from your shared shower.

He grunts, presses the button. “Yeah, we’re here. What’s up?”

Tommy’s voice comes on: “Morning. We’re headed your way with the delivery. ETA thirty… so be dressed.”

You wander into the kitchen, also only clad in a towel. “Who was that?” you ask.

“Tommy ‘n Ellie will be here in a half hour.”

Guests during a honeymoon really aren’t a thing, but Joel doesn’t mind. Gravel crunching under horse hooves announces their arrival. Joel steps outside and waves before heading over to help untie the saddlebags. You’re on the porch, and when Ellie sees you, she hugs you. Joel feels the warmth spread from his heart through his body as you pull away, and straighten her collar in such a maternal way.

The bags are left by the floor, and Tommy pulls a sack from the pack and lays it on the kitchen table, revealing sandwiches from the Tipsy Bison, wrapped in waxed paper and still warm.

You sit at the table, next to Joel and across from Ellie, and he sees the happiness etched on your face. It’s in the way your hand rests atop his, the way you listen wholeheartedly when Ellie talks, and the way you smile at all her jokes… even the bad ones.

“How’s Jefferson doing?” you ask, napkin wiping away the mustard on the edge of your mouth.

Ellie chews, then wipes her mouth on her sleeve. “He’s good. He and Sally are happy. But I know he misses you.”

“How’s the honeymoon? Do we gotta worry about y’all never coming back?” Tommy asks.

Joel laughs and shakes his head. “As much as I love it here, I miss our house… ‘n Jefferson.”

It’s a strange thing to feel so content in a world built amongst chaos. For so many years, every meal was wolfed down in silence, every conversation was quiet, every moment of happiness overshadowed by loss. Now, there’s laughter, and food, and light shining in through the windows of his temporary castle.

He watches you and Ellie, talking and giggling. He looks over at Tommy, also watching the scene with a similar dumb grin, Joel knows is plastered on his own face. “Thanks for hosting us, we’ll get out of here, leave you two lovebirds to enjoy the rest of your time.”

Ellie hugs you again as she and Tommy leave, and Joel gets a clap on the back from Tommy. “Radio if you need anything,” he says before he mounts up. “Anything at all.”

“We will,” Joel promises.

Tommy nods and turns the horse, Ellie falling in beside him, and they ride away.

You slide your arm around Joel’s waist, resting your head against his shoulder as you watch them go. “That was nice,” you say.

“Yeah,” Joel agrees. It was. A reminder of the life waiting for them when this perfect week is over… a life full of people who love them.

You stand there together until Tommy and Ellie disappear from view, then turn to go back inside, hand in hand, back to your perfect honeymoon.

—-

Joel wakes before you do, most days he usually does, but today he lets himself lie there and holds you in his arms. Outside, the sky is beginning to turn from pink to gold to blue, and the light gilds you in a dreamy glow. He gets lost in admiring his wife, how you look asleep, the soft, unfurrowed peace of your brow, the line of your lips. He never imagined having this, a woman and a life so soft, he gets to watch the sunrise as he holds his wife.

He could stay here for hours, but he has a plan. He’s careful not to wake you as he gets out of bed, goes to the kitchen and puts the coffee on. He makes a couple of sandwiches, packs some strawberries, and wraps up a few chunks of cheese before filling the thermos with coffee and tucks everything into a rucksack.

When he comes back to the living room, you’re just getting up. “Morning,” you yawn.

“Mornin’, baby,” he says, and you smile sleepily for him.

“Better get up, we’ve got somewhere to go.”

“Hmm?”

Joel shrugs. “Just wanna show you something.”

—-

There’s something about the way you hold onto Joel as he navigates the horse. Your arms are snug around his waist, your thighs squeezing with every jostle. If he had to pick one way to travel for the rest of his life, this would be it.

It’s a crisp morning, but the sun is climbing and warming the world. You ride through the pines and the hush of the forest, the only sound is the soft plod of hooves and the birds in the trees. The trees break into a clearing, and Joel can hear the gasp behind him when you see the bright meadow full of wildflowers.

The horse is barely pulled to a stop before you’re bounding off, already giggling and spinning amongst the wildflowers as tall as your knees. It’s almost painful in the way he watches you, the smile that breaks across his face is wide and unwavering, and his heart aches in the best way at the sight of the woman he loves joyous amongst a field of purples, yellows, and little stars of white.

He dismounts and spreads the blanket on a patch of soft grass. The rucksack gets unpacked, and brunch is spread out across the faded blue blanket. You’re already deep in the field, plucking flowers from the ground, soundtracking the day with your happy hum.

“Gonna bring half the meadow back to the clinic at this rate,” Joel teases, dropping down onto the blanket. You soon join him, leaving your bundle of flowers at the edge of the blanket. You tuck a flower behind his ear, and he pretends to scowl as you giggle.

Coffee, sandwiches, and cheese are enjoyed under the sunlight in a field of wildflowers swaying in the wind. Joel saves the best for last, picks up a strawberry, and lifts it to your mouth. You take a bite, and then kiss the pad of his thumb that catches the juice dripping down your chin. He pops the other half in his mouth, never taking his eyes off your stained lips.

He grabs a smaller one, nestles it against your lower lip so you have to open your mouth for him. Your tongue flicks it in, and you lunge forward, climbing into his lap to kiss him, sweet strawberry on your tongue and coffee on his breath. His hands plant low on your back, splayed possessively over the thin cotton of your dress, and you kiss him slow in a way that makes him almost feel drunk off of joy and sharing a special morning with you.

He studies the horizon. Storm’s brewing, he sees it in the way the grey clouds choke out the blue and roll in. He wraps his arms tighter, presses a kiss to your hair.

“Rain’s almost here,” he notes.

“Mm, could just wait it out,” you say, pushing him down onto his back, straddling his hips, hands sliding under his shirt, nails dragging up his sides. “I don’t want to leave.” You grind yourself against his jeans, making little gasps that have his cock straining for you, and he digs his hands into the curve of your ass, squeezing hard as you rock against him. “Plus, don’t you want to fuck me right here?”

Joel’s breath stutters. “You want me to?”

“Mmmhm.”

The first fat raindrops pelt the blanket. Joel’s never seen anything so beautiful, your face turned up to the gray sky, mouth open to catch the drops. Raindrops patter faster and faster as you grind, the picnic blanket wilting in the grass, starting to soak through from the downpour.

You unspool his belt, pop the button open, and drag his zipper down. Your wet hand wraps around his cock and gifts him a sweet, wet stroke. He grunts, jerks your panties to the side, finds you already soaked for him, heat searing him even through the rain, two fingers slide through your folds, spreading you, coaxing out those sweet whimpers that float out into the damp air.

Rain streams down your back, soaking your dress plastered to your skin, but you don’t care. You just grab the hem and haul it up and off, baring yourself to the empty world. You’re a tangle of soaked dress and thighs atop him, running your soaked cunt along him.

He surges up, twists and rolls you over, covering you, body hunched over yours, rain pelting down and dripping from his nose and chin to your. He noses at your jaw, sucking your bottom lip, then trails kisses down your neck, your collarbone, your chest. Your breasts are glossy with rain, and he bites at your hard nipples, tongue circling, drinking the water from your skin. The rain makes you taste even sweeter.

You push your hips up, seeking his cock, and he easily finds you and sinks into you, slow and so fucking deep. He waits, groans into your breast, and you clutch his damp hair with both hands. The grass and wildflowers tangle around your bodies, the blanket a sopping mess beneath you. He thrusts slow, letting the pulse of you patter along with the falling rain. Your legs wrap around his waist, ankles locking at the small of his back. Rain plasters your hair to your cheek and forehead, and you’re gasping his name with every drive of his cock. You’re keening under him, hands all over his back, clutching, holding, pulling.

He’s never felt so strong, so wanted, as he does when you’re under him and he fucks you through an orgasm, and then another, until your sobs echo across the meadow over the rain. He laps at the side of your throat, sucking the rain from your skin, and when he cums, it’s with a growl, teeth scraping your collarbone as he spills inside you.

He collapses atop you, huffing against your skin, rain washing over him and pooling across the divots. For a long time, you just float amongst the wildflowers like that, the storm subsiding over the two of you and the small world you can call yours.

When he finally rolls off, everything gleams in the aftermath. You reach for his hand, fingers twining. “I can’t believe it’s almost over.”

“Don’t say that yet,” he says, thumb brushing the rain from your cheekbone. “We got all day. All tomorrow.”

He wants to stay here, just like this, forever. You and him, both lying in a puddle, grass and dirt sticking wet to your skin, in a perfect meadow after a thunderstorm.

The storm slackens to a soft, foggy drizzle on the ride back to the cabin, and neither of you say much, trying to commit the memory of today to your hearts and minds.

—-

Once back at the cabin, you unload all of the flowers you picked while he ties off the horse. There’s a way in which you’re watching him untie the ropes and leads. He looks up, catches your gaze, cocks an eyebrow as he knots the rope and stows it. “Something on your mind, Mrs. Miller?”

“Just thinking.”

“Yeah? About what?”

You step closer, run a hand down his arm, fingers pausing at the rope looped. “I like the way you look handling these ropes.”

He stares at you, surprised, then grins. “That so?”

You nod.

He tucks the rope in his back pocket, grabs your waist, and pulls you in. “We can do something about that.”

He leads you inside and pours a glass of whiskey in the kitchen. You enjoy it together, staring into each other’s eyes with each drink. The empty glass is left on the countertop, and Joel escorts you upstairs to the bathroom.

It’s a team effort as Joel undresses you and you undress him. He turns the shower on, lets you step in first, watches from outside the large panels of glass. God damn, how did he get so lucky? You stand under the spray, water streaming down your face and shoulders, eyes half-closed as you let the warm water wash over you. He follows you in, crowding you up against the tile, hands roaming all over your body, washing away the mud and grass and wildflower pollen from your skin. You do the same for him, over his chest, down his arms, across his stomach. The care you show him, the gentleness of your fingers almost undoes him right there.

When you’re clean, he towels you off, walks you to the bed, and lays you down. The rope is already waiting, coiled on the table.

“I have an idea,” he says.

Your lips part, and he sees the hitch in your breath. You smile, a devilish smirk. “Show me.”

He ties your left wrist to the headboard, then the right, just loose enough that you can move a little, just tight enough that you can’t get free. He stands back, takes in the sight of you, arms stretched, wrists tied, body offered up like you’re his own gift.

He walks to the closet, grabs the blue bandana he usually keeps in his pocket and holds it up. “Can I?”

“God, yes,” you gasp.

He wraps the bandana over your eyes, ties it snug, and you gift him a moan before he’s even touched you. He kisses your forehead, your cheek, your lips. “You tell me if you want me to stop, okay?”

“Okay.”

Joel takes his time, lets himself savor you, hands dragging down your arms, your chest, your ribs. He licks and kisses your nipples, bites gently at the soft skin of your breast. He trails kisses down your belly, nips at your hipbone, then kneels between your legs and spreads you open. You tremble, you’re so wet for him, and he wants nothing more than to get lost in you, drown in you, live in the heat between your legs forever. His tongue finds you, licking you, savoring and slow, tongue pressed flat against your clit, drinking down every moan and surge you bestow upon him. Your arms are spread tight, anchored to the bedposts, straining against the blindings, and it only makes Joel want you more.

He spits across your cunt, slicks his fingers and slides two in, slowly fucking you, pressing into you until you cry his name. Your hips are bucking, frayed pleas of his name leaving your lips.

Joel works you, one hand in your cunt, one hand pinning your hips to the sheet. He pulls away, lets his breath feather over your wet, swollen clit and grins. “Look at you, sweetheart. Can’t even sit still for me.”

He fucks you deeper, curling his fingers against the sweet, gushy spot that makes you squirm. You’re close, he can feel the strain, so he pulls out, denies you exactly when you’re on the edge for him.

You whine a desperate keen, yanking at the ropes. He loves how gone you are for him, how you beg for him. He denies you his fingers, but gives you his tongue, licking a broad stripe from your hole to your clit. You gasp, and he returns it with a hum into you as he sucks your clit. His cock aches, leaking against the mattress, but he ignores it… he’s having too much fun.

“Joel—fuck, I can’t—” you beg.

Every desperate shake, every bead of sweat, every taut muscle of yours only makes him want you more.

His fingers interrupt you, three of them now, stretching your tight hole. He doesn’t pump, only lets them settle and he just waits, feeling the way you clench, seeing how strung up your body is for him.

“I can’t,” you repeat.

“Oh, you can, sweetheart. You’re my good girl, aren’t you?” he growls, fingers twirling, thumb pressing against your clit. You tighten, flutter, and clamp, cunt gripping his fingers as you orgasm for him.

God, he wants that to be his cock so bad. He can’t take it anymore, he grips himself, stroking slow, matching the rhythm of his fingers inside you.

“You look so good,” he gruffs. “I’m touchin’ myself, baby.”

That gets you, your body tightening as you give him an orgasm, shaking so hard the ropes creak. He watches your lips part, head thrashing, sweat and desperation slicking your body. You’re the most beautiful mess he’s ever seen.

He finally climbs up your body, kisses your mouth, lets you taste yourself on his tongue as he palms your thighs, pushes your knees wide, then folds you up so your calves press against the backs of your arms. You’re folded and wide open for him at the same time. “Can you take more for me?” he asks.

You nod all eager and desperate, so he gives it to you slow, watching your face as he seats himself inside your eager hole. You moan so loud he’s sure you’ve moved the mountains back, and he can’t help but groan at how perfect you feel wrapped around him. He fucks you like that, slow and steady, hands locked around your calves, folding you up. He whispers your name, tells you how good you are, how perfect your pussy is, how much he loves you.

He’s obsessed with the way you’re splayed out under him, hands bound to the bed, blue blindfold across your eyes, bottom lip captured between your teeth. Fuck, you’re perfect.

The bed creaks and the sound just makes him want to go harder. He pistons into you, lets his rhythm drum faster and faster into you. There’s a wet slap echoing across the vast bedroom, escaping out of the cracked picture window. Sweat drips from his brow, and his vision stays locked on where you take him, greedy and gorgeous, wet and swollen.

He leans forward, lets his weight press down onto your body, arms braced by your head, hands clasped around the crown of your head, holding you in place. Your breathing is wild, body and rope and pussy so impossibly tight.

You cum again, your whole body quaking under him, your voice hoarse with tears and Joel knows he can’t last, not with you like this. He pulls out, jerks himself twice, and cums all over your stomach and chest, white and hot, marking you as his. His legs want to give out, but he unties you first, peels off the blindfold, and gathers you up, kissing your wrists, your throat, and every salty tear on your cheeks. He rocks you in his arms, lets you come back down to earth, grounds you with each kiss and “I love you.”

The sun sets, and the cabin is filled with the smell of whiskey and wildflowers and sex. You lie tangled together, your head on his chest, your hand over his heart. He looks down at you, kisses your hair, and he feels it again—the peace, the rightness, the sense that maybe he deserves this after all.

—-

Every day of Joel’s life begins perfect now. Even on the days his knee aches, or he wakes up with a knot in his back, or his shoulder clicks when he reaches for something, the first thing he sees is you—warm, soft, still tangled in sleep. And every time he does, he’s reminded that he survived for this. Not just the world, but you, this impossible grace.

He slips out of bed in the early gray of morning, careful not to wake you and pulls on his robe. He pads into the kitchen, sets up the percolator, and leans against the countertop, savoring the ritual. The grounds, the gurgle, the first rich waft of coffee.

The early morning cold hits his face when he walks outside on the porch, but it feels good, makes him feel even more alive and present at this moment. The world is alive, and he’s alive, all because of the woman he loves.

The porch step digs into his thighs, but he doesn’t mind when he settles atop it. He thinks about all the things that should have killed him. Guns, fungus, loss, heartbreak. Things that haunted him every night before you. Anything could still happen, he knows it’s not a safe world by any means. But, he’s grateful to still be here, with you by his side.

You join him outside, robe cinched tight.

“Morning, baby,” he greets.

You smile, sit beside him, and lean your head on his shoulder. He holds out the mug of coffee, and you take it, hands brushing, eyes still half-closed.

By half past two on Thursday the rain comes back harder than before, and it rains through Thursday night and through the whole of Friday. The lane on Friday morning is so deep in standing water in the dip past the second stile that you and Margery walk the bicycles you’ve started to ride because they’re quicker the long way round by the upper footpath and arrive at the Hadley gate with your boots full of water.

“Get those boots off, girls, both of you, and put them by the kitchen range, I’ve got two pairs of my own that will do you for the day,” Mrs Hadley says, taking one look at you and shaking her head. You milk in her boots, which are two sizes too large, and the day goes on from there.

It’s the hardest day yet.

You spend it in the dairy because the work you would normally carry out in the field isn’t possible. Mr Hadley decides after breakfast that the long stretch of fence in the upper field can wait another fortnight, on account of the fact that no man with sense is going to send a girl out with a maul in such weather.

Instead, you’re tasked with the list of jobs he keeps tucked into the back of his almanac for days when the weather’s against him. You and Margery spend the day mucking out the loose box, limewashing the inside walls of the small calving pen, turning the heap in the corner of the yard where the byre-sweepings go, and carrying down sacks of mash from the upper loft of the barn to the small store off the dairy.

You do all of it in oilskin coats Mrs Hadley lends you that smell of forty years of being lent to other people, and your hair is under your cap by ten and your shoulders are wet under the oilskin by half past eleven and your wrists are wet inside your sleeves by twelve. You eat your dinner standing in the doorway of the barn with the rain coming down so hard off the eaves you can’t hear what Margery is saying to you from three feet away for the noise of it.

By four the light is going, and the rain has got worse.

Mrs Hadley arrives in the dairy doorway with her own oilskin over her head and a small lamp in her hand. "Right, girls, that’s enough for today. You’ll not get through that lane on your bicycles in much more of this, so get yourselves home before it’s properly dark. I’ll not have it on my conscience."

"Mrs Hadley, we can…" you protest, shaking out your damp sleeves.

"You can’t, so off you go. Your boots are dry now so leave those ones by the kitchen and have a hot cuppa before you go."

You drink your hot tea standing at the kitchen range with your hands round the mug and the steam going up into your face, and Mrs Hadley presses a small parcel of currant scones on the two of you that her sister-in-law baked yesterday and sent down with the milk. You and Margery, with the shamefaced gratitude of girls who’ve learned in the last few weeks that Land Army pride does not require you to refuse a currant scone from a farmer's wife at the end of a wet day, take them, and put them in your canvas bags. You pull your own boots and coats back on over the wet shoulders of your pullovers and go out into the yard, where your bicycles are leaning against the wall of the byre under the small overhang that gives a little protection.

"Mind the dip, girls,” Mr Hadley says. “The one past the stile. There’s no road in it now, only water. Take the upper path if you can manage it, and if you can’t, then push the bicycles along the verge, and don’t try to come down the dip, because you won’t see the bottom of it and you’ll go in over your axles."

"Yes, Mr Hadley," you both parrot.

"Off you go, then. Quick about it."

You wheel the bicycles out of the yard onto the lane, swing your legs over and set off, with Margery half a length ahead of you and the rain coming down on the two of you in long, cold, grey sheets. The yellow circle of Margery's bicycle lamp lights the road, and you bend your head down over your handlebars, put your weight into the pedals and try, with the grim determination you’ve been bringing to life for three weeks, to get home before dark.

The lane is a river.

The surface of it has become an inch of running brown water over the course of Friday afternoon that is more than an inch in places, and the gravel and packed earth that ordinarily make up the surface of the lane have become invisible under the brown water. You can’t see where the gravel is and where it’s given way to deeper ruts, and the bicycle, under you, jolts in ways you can’t predict.

You take the upper footpath at the fork on Mr Hadley's instructions, and the two of you wobble along it for perhaps a hundred and fifty yards, with the rain coming down on you in a way that’s no longer a piece of weather but a piece of personal harassment. At the end of the hundred and fifty yards the upper footpath drops you back onto the lane proper, on the far side of the dip, and the lane from there runs the last three-quarters of a mile to the village.

You’re perhaps four hundred yards further down when it happens.

You don’t know exactly what you hit. You know that the front wheel of your bicycle goes down into something that’s not where the lane was last week, the bicycle bucks, stops, and you go over the handlebars and land in the mud and water with your right hand out to break your fall and your right knee taking the rest of it.

The bicycle, behind you, goes down with a clatter into the standing water of the rut, and the world, for perhaps two seconds, goes very quiet.

It’s not actually quiet. The rain is, in fact, deafening on the brim of your cap and the surface of the puddles around you. It’s only your ears, in the interval after a fall, which aren’t processing sound.

Margery's bicycle lamp swings, stops and comes back.

"Oh my Lord, old girl! Are you…are you alright?"

"I'm…I'm alright, I think.”

"Are you sure, are you…?"

"Yes, I’m…I'm sure. I'm alright."

You’re not entirely sure that you’re alright. Your right knee is singing a small high note that you don’t have a particular point of comparison for. Your right palm, inside your wet glove, is doing something similar and you’ve landed on the canvas bag with the currant scones in it, which has taken the corner of your hip in a way you suspect is going to be visible in colour by Sunday.

You sit in the mud on the verge with the rain coming down on your face, take stock of yourself and find, on inspection, that nothing’s broken, but very much sore.

"I'm alright, Margery. The wheel's…I think the wheel's done in though."

"Damn the wheel. Stand up slowly. Slowly."

You stand up by carefully getting your good knee under you first, and then your hands on the verge, and then your weight up by stages. Margery, who’s laid her own bicycle down in the lane and waded the four yards back to you in her boots through the brown water, has her gloved hands under your elbows by the time you’re upright. You stand in the rain and breathe, in and out, the high note in your knee holds, and you decide, with relief, that it’s not the kind of high note a knee makes when it’s been broken, and you are, in the narrow definition of the word, alright.

The bicycle, however, is not alright. The front wheel is buckled and one of the spokes is sticking out at an angle a spoke ought not to stick out at. You realise immediately that you’re not going to be riding it the last three-quarters of a mile home.

"Alright," Margery says. "Alright, old girl, here’s what we do. We’ll lift the bicycle out of the ditch, and I’ll push it as best I can along with mine. It’s a dreadful three-quarters of a mile but we’ll walk, as slowly as you like, and be home in half an hour and…”

You don’t hear the rest of what Margery is going to say because the far-off sound that’s been making its way up the lane towards you for perhaps thirty seconds, suddenly becomes a close noise and resolves into the unmistakable chuntering throat-noise of a jeep in low gear coming down a wet lane. The twin yellow circles of headlamps come round the curve of the lane and throw, very briefly, your own long shadow across the puddles, as the jeep slows and then stops.

You don’t look right away because you know who’s in the jeep. You don’t know it on the basis of any evidence, but you know it. The steady humming in the middle of your chest, which has been running all day at the banked, working note of an exhausted girl, comes up the scale in one short, hard climb and holds.

"Evening, ladies. You alright there?"

You recognise the voice of the captain, carrying over the rain and you finally look with Margery's hands still under your elbows.

The jeep is open with a canvas top that the rain is running off in long sheets. The top is up but the canvas sides are not, and you can see, in the small sideways yellow spill from the headlamps reflected off the wet hedge, that there are three men inside. The captain is at the wheel in a brown leather flight jacket and a peaked cap, Santi is in the front passenger seat with his cap tipped back and his eyes already on Margery and in the back, is Frankie.

By the time you turn around and register him, Frankie’s already half out of the back seat, with his hand on the side rail and his right boot finding the running board. He’s on the ground in the lane in the next half-second and coming the four yards toward you through the standing water.

He stops at a respectful three feet and doesn’t let his face do anything in particular.

"Did you fall, Ma’am?”

"Yes, I’m afraid I did.”

"Are you hurt?"

"I…my knee and my wrist, I think. But I’m alright. I…”

"May I?"

At first, you don’t understand what he’s asking permission for, but he clarifies it by lifting his right hand, very slightly, and turning it palm up, the small open-handed may-I of a man indicating that he proposes, with permission, to take your wrist and look at it.

You hold your right wrist out, and he brings his right hand up and takes your wrist between two of his fingers and his thumb, in the careful, diagnostic grip of a man who seems to know what he’s doing. The grip goes round the sodden leather of your glove just below the joint of your thumb, and he holds and turns your wrist, very gently, twenty degrees one way, and then twenty degrees the other.

You feel his fingers through the wet leather with the same vivid accuracy with which you felt them in the porch through the dry leather. The wet leather doesn’t, in fact, dim the feeling at all, but seems instead to conduct it with the additional clarity that water gives to such things. You feel the dry warmth of his fingertips through the cold, wet leather of the glove, and the steady humming under your sternum goes up another note.

He doesn’t look at your face. He keeps his eyes on the small turn of your wrist between his fingers, holding the composed face of a man performing a piece of practical first aid in a wet lane.

“Are you…medically trained?” You stutter out.

“I’ve got some experience,” he replies, eyes still on your wrist. "It doesn't seem like it’s broken. The bone feels alright, but you’ll likely have a bruise."

"Yes, I suppose so."

"What about your knee?"

"It's…I can stand, so I know it's not broken."

"Alright, that’s good."

He lets your wrist go and steps back the small half-step between you. “Tom, she’s alright. Her wrist's good and her knee’s bruised, that’s all.”

“This bike’s no use though,” you hear Santi say and turn to see him out of the jeep and peering at what once was a ridable thing.

“We live in the village,” Margery says, her eyes on Santi.

"Well, we can take you home,” the captain – Tom – says with a nod. “Can the bikes go in the back, Frankie?"

"I'll lift them in,” he nods. “Give me a hand, Pope.”

You look round to witness Santi step forward and help Frankie lift your buckled bicycle out of the rut. The two of them carry it the four yards back to the jeep and lay it in the back behind the rear seat across the small piece of cargo space then repeat the same motion with Margery’s bicycle.

Santi immediately turns back, moves over to Margery and says something to her which, in spite of the situation in which you both find yourselves, causes her to produce a low laugh. Tom gets out of the jeep on his side and comes round the back, arriving at your other elbow.

"Can you walk, or do you want a hand?"

You step tentatively forwards, the note in your knee singing, and clamp your lips together. “Mmm…”

"I’ll take that as you needing a hand,” he nods. “Miss Cole, you take that side, I'll take this side and we'll get her in. Frankie, you alright to ride in the back with her and the bicycles? Miss Cole can sit up front with us.”

"No problem."

In that moment, you don’t register the small piece of arithmetic Tom has just performed. You register it half a second later, when you’re already taking your first step toward the jeep with Margery on one side and Tom on the other.

There are three seats in the front of the jeep. Tom and Santi will sit in the front, and Margery will take the third seat. The bicycles are in the back. The back of the jeep has a bench which seats two. You will sit on the bench, and Frankie will sit on the bench beside you.

Margery, on your left elbow, doesn’t say anything and you realise that she too has run the small piece of arithmetic at exactly the same speed you have, and is electing to keep her face blank. She hands you off, at the side of the jeep, to Tom who takes your good elbow in one hand and places his other hand around yours.

"In you go, Ma’am. Mind the running board, it's slick. Put your good knee in first, then sit and swing the other in. That's it, good girl."

You go in by Tom's precise method, and settle, with some awkwardness, into the back compartment of the jeep, slipping your gloves off as you do so. Tom touches the brim of his cap, goes round to the driver's side, and Frankie climbs in.

He shifts his cap from the bench where he’s left it to the ledge by the rear window first, then gets his right boot up onto the running board and hauls himself up by the grab handle on the canvas frame. Then he sits down on the bench beside you, with his weight settling in the careful, measured way of a man who’s acutely conscious of the lateral distance between his thigh and yours which is perhaps four inches.

Four inches.

"All good back there?" Tom calls, over his shoulder from the driver's seat.

"All good," Frankie replies.

"Right. Miss Cole, where's home?"

"Cherry Tree Lane,” Margery replies. “Her’s is the second cottage past the post office, the one with the green door.”

"Right. We’ll be there in five minutes. Hold on, ladies, I just need to get us turned around.”

The jeep starts forward, then reverses, swinging around to face the way from which it’s come, then moves, in low gear, through the standing water of the lane at perhaps eight miles an hour. The canvas top above your head runs with rain in long sheets, and the yellow circles of the headlamps go ahead through the brown water, the steady chuntering of the jeep's engine, after the intolerable noise of the rain on your cap, a piece of relative quiet you’ve not known you need.

In the front, Santi is saying something to Margery, very softly whilst Tom concentrates on the road ahead.

Beside you on the bench, Frankie has gone very still.

You look at his hands.

You let your eyes go down and over the four inches between his right thigh and your left, and the four inches resolve themselves into geography – his bare right hand, on his right thigh, wet, with rain. The fingers are curled, very slightly, in the natural curl of a hand at rest, and the fingers are not, you register with dispassionate observation tonight, fingers you’re going to be able to forget about.

You feel his eyes on you.

He’s looked down at the same four inches you’ve looked down at, in the natural sweep of a man checking his own composure by checking his hand. He’s registered that you’re looking at his hand, and his eyes have gone, after a half-second, to your face. You feel them there, because your entire nervous system has become, over the past three weeks, a small piece of equipment that’s tuned, at all times, to the receipt of his gaze.

You look up, though you haven’t planned to.

You’ve planned to look at your hands in your lap for the duration of the five minutes and get out at your front door with the composure of a girl who’s been given a lift home by three American officers. You’ve planned to thank them politely and limp into the cottage with Margery's arm under your elbow and put the whole thing into the small box on top of the chest of drawers for examination at a later date.

You’ve not planned to look up but you do it anyway. You look up because the piece of you that’s been performing the fierce, private discipline of not looking for three weeks has simply run out of the currency such discipline requires. And the looking up is the honest thing your face is going to do whether you give it permission to or not.

His eyes meet yours.

He’s looking at you the way he looked at you across the chart on Monday morning, only at six inches instead of thirty yards, and the six inches does the same thing the four inches of his hand has done, which is to compress the private register of his looking into a piece of intimacy you have, in nineteen years of your life, no point of comparison for.

His eyes, on yours, do the small thing – the smallest possible adjustment, the fractional easing of the corner of his mouth – and his face, in the dim half-light, is the honest, tired face of a man at the end of a long week of his own work.

You understand that he’s been performing his own fierce, private discipline for three weeks on his own ground with his own crew in his own quarters, and that you’re not in this alone.

You know he won’t say anything because he can’t. There are two men in front of you, not to mention Margery with her ears which, you know without checking, are on full operational alert. Frankie isn’t a man who says things he’s not going to be able to say without the saying showing on his face. His face, at six inches, is composed and that composure is costing him exactly what your own composure is costing you – the cost of it being the most honest piece of communication the two of you have performed yet.

Your eyes sweep downwards again and his right hand, on his right thigh, does the smallest possible thing and moves, perhaps half an inch in your direction.

He stops it moving further and your left hand, in your lap, performs exactly the same movement in exactly the same register, and stops at exactly the same half inch. The two mirror movements settle into the four inches between you and hold there.

You don’t look at his face again because you can’t afford to. You look, instead at the four inches between you, and at the wet back of his right hand on his right thigh, and let the slow, steady warm humming hum on as the jeep chunters through the brown water of the lane.

Then – he says your name.

You think, at first, that you must be mistaken, because he’s never said your name, not even after it was presented to him at the dance. He’s always called you ma’am and therefore you tell yourself that the syllables of your name, carried on the air between you in his soft accent, must be some sort of private hallucination.

Then he says it again and you realise that it is, in fact, very real.

Slowly, you lift your gaze to find him still looking at you. At some point, when you’ve been staring at his hand, he’s shifted his upper body incrementally closer to yours and now he’s close enough for you to feel the soft, warm puff of his breath on your cheek.

The slow, steady warm humming climbs to a new, violently high, note.

“Lieutenant…”

“Frankie.”

“Frankie…”

You swallow and realise that your throat is bone dry. You feel, in your chest, the sensation of your heart starting to thump, loudly and painfully against your ribcage and you know you should look away, but you can’t. It’s as though your gaze is moulded to his in a way that doesn’t need interrupted because you’re alone in the back of a jeep and everyone else around you is facing away.

He blinks, you blink, and then you see his eyes shift fractionally lower, away from yours, rest for a beat and then come up again. For the briefest of seconds, you wonder what he’s found to look at, then realise, as the action repeats itself, that he’s looking at your mouth.

You exhale softly and his gaze sweeps downwards again, lower this time. When you follow, you watch his right hand move further across his thigh so that it’s on the edge, closer to your left, and his pinkie stretches suddenly away from the other fingers as though reaching for yours.

And, as though you have no control over it, your hand responds in kind, your pinkie extends and skin meets skin in the faintest of touches. It’s a slow sweep, the side of his finger sliding against the side of yours, but as the jeep makes the turn out of the lane, into the centre of the village, and you both shift involuntarily on the bench, his pinkie crosses over the top of yours and curls around the opposite side.

You exhale harder this time before you can stop yourself, your gaze flying upwards once more to meet his, his eyes even darker in the dim light than they were before. As his gaze flits to your mouth and then back up again you think, for one terrible, hot moment, that he’s going to close the distance further and kiss you and realise, in that same moment, that if he does, you’ll kiss him back.

"Did you say the green door, ma’am?”

Tom’s voice from the front of the jeep jolts through you cold and sharp, as though iced water has been poured down your back. You jerk your hand away and Frankie slides along the bench away from you, leaving a large gap now between you where once there had been barely anything.

“Oh…yes,” you reply shakily. “The green door, thank you.”

The jeep slows then stops outside your front door and, for many reasons, you’ve never been more grateful to see it in your life.

The door opens and your mother comes out in her apron with a lamp in her hand and you watch as she takes in the jeep and the Americans and you in the back.

"What's happened? What's happened?” She exclaims. “Who are…?"

"Mum, it’s fine,” you call out. “I came off my bicycle in the lane…"

“Ma’am, I’m Captain Davis, United States Army Air Forces,” Tom says, getting out of the jeep and moving to the gate. "Your daughter had a fall in the lane, and we were lucky enough to be driving past. Her bike’s in a sorry state but she's alright. Apologies for the fright."

Your mother takes perhaps two seconds to reorganise her face from that of a woman expecting a piece of bad news to the face of a woman receiving, instead, a piece of ordinary news about a fall in a lane.

"Oh…oh, thank you so much, Captain. Please – all of you – come in out of this rain, I’ll put the kettle on and…"

"Ma'am, thank you, but we won’t, on account of us needing to get back to the base.” Tom turns back to the jeep. “Frankie, help the young lady out. Santi…”

But Santi’s already out of the jeep and holding the door for Margery, offering her his hand to assist in her stepping down.

Before you can look at him properly again, Frankie swings himself out of the jeep, turns and reaches his hands up towards you. You realise, with a clarity that makes your heart thump even harder, that the manner in which he’s holding them out isn’t so that he can take one of your hands in his and brace your descent, but rather so that he can place both his hands on your waist and lift you.

He registers your understanding of this a second later and you watch a slight flush bloom at the base of his neck. Quickly, he rearranges himself, holding out one hand instead and you put your good hand in his, the heat of it searing through you, and let him take your weight at your elbow and the small of your back to set you gently on your feet on the path. He keeps his grip at your elbow until you’re balanced, and then releases you, stepping back at least three feet, as though wanting to maintain distance.

“She’ll bruise, Ma’am,” he says, his voice directed to your mother but his eyes on you. “It doesn’t look as though either her wrist or knee are broken in any way, so I’d recommend a hot bath and she'll wanna keep the wrist up tonight.”

You swallow hard once more as he finally breaks your gaze and turns to give his full attention to your mother.

“The bike’s in the back. I can lift it out and lean it against the wall here, if you'll permit, and someone can hopefully take a look at it.”

"Oh yes, thank you,” your mother says, beaming.

"Ma'am."

He turns away from you, and Santi joins him, helping to lift the buckled bicycle out of the jeep, carry it the four yards up the path, lean it against the wall of the cottage under the eave then perform the same action on Margery’s.

He doesn’t look at you again.

“I hope you feel better,” he nods to the ground then steps back and nods respectfully to your mother. “Good evening, Ma’am.”

"Good evening,” your mother replies, glancing at the three Americans in turn as she steps forward towards you, “and thank you again."

Margery is already at your other elbow, steadying you as they get back into the jeep – Tom and Santi in the front, Frankie in the back.

He doesn’t look up the path – he keeps his face turned to the business of getting himself into the jeep, sits down on the bench and sets his hands flat on his thighs the way his right hand had been flat on his right thigh during your journey home.

Tom puts the jeep in gear and pulls away, the twin yellow circles of the headlamps swinging across your front door and on down Cherry Tree Lane in the direction of the post office and the road back to the base.

You stand for perhaps two seconds on the path with Margery's hand under your elbow and your mother at your other side watching the red rear-lamps of the jeep go.

You watch them all the way to the corner, where the lane bends past the post office, and then they disappear, the chuntering noise of the engine going on for perhaps another twenty seconds in the dark before being lost in the rain.

And you realise that the small, steady, warm humming in your chest has completed imploded.

➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰🇺🇸➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰

Taglist: @mcthsman @ritchmoor @fatima-marisa @jessthebaker @the-heart-is-an-organ-of-fire @ashleyfilm @vickie5446 @originals23 @izzykinzz678 @hanahleahs @eviispunk

May 7th, 2009

Summers and children do not go well together, contrary to popular belief. 

Lorraine spent her time preaching that when summer hit, she could just open the front door and let you, Tommy, and Joel go in and out wherever you pleased. She only needed to holler once for dinner, and you three would come running from different directions, coming to where you knew best: home. 

However, 2009 was a different time.

Keeping many kids under five entertained to watch hundreds of undergraduates cross the stage was bad enough.

Kevin and Benji were trying to bite and kick each other, and were now separated among the sea of Millers. Raymond had Benji in a tight grip, the six-year-old glaring at his older brother. Kevin stuck out his tongue from Tommy’s lap, hugging their dad tight.

Even Sarah, at twenty, was buzzing around in her seat, putting her hands underneath her thighs to keep them from sticking to the bleachers. You fanned your face, the sweat unpleasantly mixing with your makeup. Of course, graduation had to be at the start of Texas summer. 

Your dad was making the most of it, though. He couldn’t bring Aspen—no pets allowed—but at least he got to see his favorite team’s stadium one last time.

“Y’did the right thing marryin’ that man,” He would tell you every time Joel handed over his tickets to him. “Free tickets are the best gifts a son-in-law could give to his wife’s daddy!”

Sure, out of the many reasons for becoming Mrs. Miller, keeping you and Joel’s dads' college football rivalry was the main one. 

Darrell K Royal-Texas Memorial Stadium was huge. Unnaturally so. You knew that the culture was so interconnected, but seeing it in action was something else. Everyone was in either white or orange, and screams echoed throughout the whole stadium after each person crossed the stage.

You tapped your heel impatiently as the names went down the line. A, B, C, D, E, F, G, H, I, J, K, L… 

And finally, M.

You looked down onto the field and saw a row standing up and making their way to the stage. You couldn’t see your husband, though, and neither could your kids.

Sarah groaned, leaning back and running her hand over her slicked-back hair, “This humidity is going to be the death of me. Look at this! My hair’s already sticking out! Do you know how much product is on my head right now?”

“I know, baby; I was the one who put it in…” You murmured, your attention split three different ways.

One, to Sarah.

Two, to make sure you didn’t miss Joel.

Three, to your two little children fussing on your lap.

While only three, Jonah Ray Miller was so curious. It didn’t help that his comedically sized glasses magnified his eyes, making them bigger than they looked. He looked exactly like Joel, in every way that mattered. The skin tone, the eyes, the hair. You sometimes wondered if any of your genes even tried with this one. 

Though, his usually calm demeanor had been thrown out the window for today. His face was scrunched up, and he kicked his legs, almost nicking the person sitting right in front of him. 

“Mama!” He cried out, tugging at your shirt, “It’s hot!”

“Honey, it’s hot for all of us. Just be a bit more patient, daddy’s gonna be crossing the stage soon—”

“I wanna go home! I wanna go home!” He shirked, and you instantly saw that he was about to put himself in a toddler tantrum. You almost gave him your mom-glare—you’d been practicing—when his shoe pushed and landed smack on his sister’s leg.

Not the older one, the younger one. 

Juniper Lo Miller was a heavy, heavy sleeper, only a couple months old. She wasn’t even supposed to be sleeping; she was supposed to be awake because if she slept now, she would spend all night awake and crying. But having the energy to deal with her right now was not something you had.  

Luck had decided to abandon you in that moment, because the second Jonah’s foot landed on her cubby leg, she jolted her eyes open. She took in all her surroundings: the loud announcer, the colors, the screaming people, and promptly opened her mouth and cried out like a siren.

You cursed, trying to attend to her while balancing both kids on both of your thighs. Jonah saw his sister crying, and like a mimic, started to bawl as well, twisting in your arms. Faces turned back to you, clearly annoyed or concerned. 

“Juni, baby girl, it’s okay—Jonah, where do you think you're going?! Sit back down and stop—” You tried, but nothing seemed to work. 

Your dad, who finally decided to open his mouth and say something, cooed and took Jonah from your arms before you could blink.

“Aw, look at ya son, kickin’ up a storm and stressin’ out your mama. That ain’t nice.”

“But it’s hot!”

“Yeah, I heard ya the first time.” He sat Jonah on his lap and blew softly on the boy’s forehead. Instead of losing his mind, Jonah relished the feeling of moving air, closing his eyes and sniffling as he got control of himself. 

You looked at the duo in awe, Juniper still crying in your arms, “How the hell did you manage to get him to be so… so quiet?!”

“Takin’ care of generations of Millers gives experience.” He chuckled. Then, looking at Juniper, he gave her his finger, which she blinked at in confusion. She looked up at him, then back down, before taking it into her grubby hands and opening her mouth, trying to gnaw at her grandpa’s skin, “Plus, it helps they’re just like you. I know exactly what’ll help.”

“What, you’re saying that I kicked and screamed when it was hot?”

“Nah, you were more of a biter.”

You were about to land a solid jab at his shoulder when a gasp and Lorraine’s excited voice cut through the noise. 

“He’s ‘bout to go out!”

Eleven heads suddenly looked down at the large screen. Another Miller was crossing the stage, and at the edge of the display, you could see Joel awkwardly shuffling back and forth, waiting to be pushed into the spotlight. 

Juniper let go of your dad, and gurgled, “Ba-ba-ba!”

You grinned, “Yeah, that’s dada. That’s your dada—”

“Joel Miller!”

Not a single Miller could keep their screams down at the sight of Joel half-waving at the camera he somehow spotted, his face holding the biggest grin possible. You were the loudest, watching him shake hands and get his degree, posing for a picture. 

Even while he walked off the stage, you kept your eyes trained on him. You saw him walk and walk some more until he made it back into his seat. He looked over his shoulder, trying to see where all the cheering came from, but it would be impossible, with how high up you were. 

But you were glad knowing he knew everyone was there for him.

The hours droned on after that. Name after name got called until finally the last person with Z in their last name crossed the stage. Eventually, everyone on the field stood up, tossing their caps high into the air. Everyone cheered, yelling for their family members and friends. You clapped Juni’s hands together as she gurgled, and Jonah even managed to find some joy in it all. 

Though, getting down the steps to see the now-alumni was the worst part. Thankfully, you had set a plan with everyone else long before you arrived—everyone else but you, Sarah, Jonah, and Juniper headed back to the cars and waited, while you four found Joel and brought him back.

After managing to get out of the stands and into the parking lot, you took Jonah back from your dad and carried both your youngest kids, while Sarah held onto the back of your shirt. Quickly, you guys separated from everyone else, taking a right to get inside the stadium, then flushed out into the open area where families called out names and hugged them. 

“Do you think if we did some echolocation, we could find Dad?” Sarah piped up, her grip on you tight so she wouldn’t get lost. 

You shook your head, “I was thinking of looking for a tall man with a mean mug, but hey, your idea might work.”

She laughed at that, before grumbling when she saw a family of at least twelve hug one person, “God, I don’t know how Dad does it. Having everyone here? Jeez, I’d lose my mind.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” you clicked your tongue. “One more year, and we’re all heading up to New Haven for your graduation.”

“Ugh, do not remind me.”

“Please, you know us. We’ll probably book an entire hotel for at least two weeks before it even happens, so we can follow you around and see the Connecticut life.”

“Connecticut will put grandmama into a coma.”

“I think it’ll liberate her.”

“Connie-cut?”

You looked down at Jonah, who was clutching your neck in your left arm. “Yeah, baby, Connie-cut is where Sarah goes to school. She’s so, so smart; she goes to Yale.”

Jonah ignored your whole sentence, content with just looking around the crowd, craning his neck to find his dad. “Where’s daddy?”

“That’s who we’re looking for. Did you see him yet?”

“No…”

Sarah peeked her head over your shoulder toward her little brother, “Hey, I think mama’s getting slow. How about I carry you for a bit? Huh?”

Jonah wasn’t a big talker, so instead of smiling, he just nodded and reached for her. Sarah let you go, and with a grunt, took him with no complaint. She fussed over his hair, cooing over his curls, before winking at you.

You nodded in thanks, before leaning to your right to Juniper, who had started to fall asleep again—even though a million people were yelling around you both. “Baby girl, come on, you can’t sleep now.”

This time, she looked up to you, and the same colored eyes as yours blinked at you. Juniper cooed, stretching her little legs before kicking and looking around. She immediately started babbling to herself, opening and closing her mouth as she looked over every person passing by. Not even a year old and people-watching was her favorite thing to do. 

You followed shortly behind your eldest two kids, watching as Sarah had a seemingly deep conversation with Jonah. He pointed, and she followed. 

“Seems like your brother and sister have a plan,” you whispered to your youngest. She didn’t seem interested and instead went to reach for your hair. 

You winced, trying to pull her off and say something to Sarah—

“Dad!”

“Daddy!”

The sound of heels against concrete was the only sound you could focus on. You watched as both Sarah and Jonah ran to the man before them, and this man rushed toward them with his gown fluttering behind him. 

Joel reached around Sarah’s torso, picking two of his kids up and twirling them around like he hadn’t seen them in days, not hours. He laughed into her hair, and she in his. He placed them down gently, and before you could blink, he had Jonah in his arms, tossing him slightly into the air. Jonah’s giggles rang like the lightest bells and were the thing that pulled you into the trio.

“Well, look who came to see me!” Joel stopped throwing his son, placing him securely on his hip. “Thought you guys would head over to the cars and wait there.”

“No way.” Sarah scoffed, clinging to her dad’s side, “We had to come see you. Were you shocked? Were you?”

“Shocked the hell outta me, baby girl.” Joel nodded solemnly, then turned to Jonah, “And did you see me cross the stage? I waved at you.”

“I did! You waved like this—” Jonah lifted his hand and waved just like his daddy had before.

“Got it down to the look, son. So smart, both of ya,” Joel kissed Sarah and Jonah once more, earning giggles from both. “And please tell me you were good for your mama. All three of you at once is ‘nough to send anyone into a coma. Speakin’ of which, where is she—”

“You really think they’d care about that?” You chuckled as you made it up to him and your kids. “I think it’s time we invest in those hand-held fans. I’m sure there’s some with the long horns on them.”

Joel blinked at your voice, and you saw the exact moment his eyes landed on you. Quicker than lightning, they filled with a love different than what he had for his kids: admiration, devotion, dedication, just to name a few. The flush crossed over his face from adrenaline, and the heat became more red when he saw you.

Pride took over you as you looked at him, in his black cap and gown, his cords and stole that said he graduated not only from MaCombs, but also Summa Cum Laude. You had never seen him shoot up so quickly from his chair and start holding you and spinning you around the living room, kissing you stupid all the while.

He took two steps toward you and placed a hand on your hip, pulling you the rest of the way into his chest. He kissed you then, his lips ever-so gentle against yours. Then, he looked down, and his face broke into a grin, wider than the one he had when he crossed the stage.

“Now, what’re you lookin’ at, little miss?” he said to his youngest, now kissing the top of her downy head. She kicked her legs at the feeling. You and Joel made quick eye contact before swapping his degree for his baby. His arms now full—he pulled Sarah into the mess somehow—he smiled at you. “Now, this is right.”

“As much as I love our kids, they’re getting heavier by the day to carry. Both of them? A death sentence.”

“Ah, what can you do? All of ‘em are big-headed.” Joel took Sarah’s smack with grace before looking over your head. “South parkin’ lot should be that way.”

“Lead the way, Miller.” 

It wasn’t simple getting five people through the crowd, but with Joel’s side steps, you saw the crowd thinning. Now, it was only the people leaving, making it to the sea of cars that had been cooking as early as this morning. 

Finding the truck was not hard at all. Having seven people practically screaming when they saw you five walk up made it pretty easy to locate. As well as the flash of Lorraine’s camera. 

Raymond and your dad were the first to walk up to Joel, clapping him on the back and squishing your children’s faces. Sarah grumbled when your dad pinched her cheek extra hard, and went her way to Maria and Tommy, who were keeping their sons from running around.

Joel put Jonah onto the ground, which immediately meant he came toddling over to you. You picked him up before he could even speak, and placed him back to where he was on your hip. 

Jonah looked at you, “I’m hungry.”

“We’re going out to celebrate daddy, though, so I’ll make sure you eat really good.”

“At the—”

“Shush, shush!” you lowered your voice, glancing over your shoulders to make sure no one had heard, “What did mama say?”

“Oh, secret.”

“Yes, sweetie. Our secret, right?”

“Mhm. Okay.”

You kissed the fat of his cheek, “Good boy.”

❛ ━━━━･❪ 🎕 ❫ ･━━━━ ❜

Adding McDonald's into the mix doesn’t help either.

You didn’t mean to evade all your family. They really did want to celebrate Joel and all his accomplishments over the past four years. However, Joel had told everyone that he wouldn’t be organizing a group dinner. When interrogated, he simply stated that he’d go home and crash into his bed, too tired for anything.

Lies, of course, but no one needed to know that.

Now, both Jonah and Juniper were reaching up, desperately trying to fight for Joel’s attention. Your son was trying to force a fry through Joel’s lips, while Juni held her chubby fingers on his mustache. Sarah wasn’t any better than her siblings, only she was on your side of the booth and clinging to your shoulder.

“And you’ll bring me something back from New York, right?” she insisted, leaning over her burger. You smiled at her while sipping your Coke.

“I’m already getting you that Dior bag you wanted. You want something else?”

“C’mon, y’know she brings you a lotta stuff.” Joel raised his eyebrow, “What more could you want?”

“I do need some more dorm stuff…”

“Sarah.”

“What?” She grinned at her dad, “I’m not asking her to buy a store for me. Though I’m sure she could, right?”

You bit into your fry, “Lemme see your last semester’s grades, and I’ll think about it.”

“All A’s!” She puffed up her chest with pride, and you leaned over and kissed her cheek. “I’ll even print it out and send it to you.”

“Knew it,” Was all you said.

Juniper cried out, grasping Joel’s salty finger and putting it in her mouth. She sucked once, spit it out, and on cue, started to cry. 

Joel pulled his hand away, sighing before glancing up to you with a smile, “I dunno why she keeps suckin’ like it’s gonna change my finger’s taste.”

“Mhm, maybe you need something sweet there. Sugar cubes?”

Joel huffed. He then swapped Juni into his other arm, wiped his hand, then looked up at you, “Want me to take her?”

You shook your head, “Nah, I got her. Could you try to get your son to eat his pickles instead?”

Jonah, who was trying to shove his pickles out of sight, froze. He then took the one he tried to hide and held it up, “Don’t make me eat it. Please.”

Joel just shook his head, handing a flailing baby over the food. You took Juniper from him safely and put her in the crook of your arm. You then looked over to your side, not seeing your purse, and gestured to Sarah.

“Baby girl, will you hand me the baby bag?”

Sarah nodded, brushing off her hands before grabbing your bag from beside her. She sighed dramatically. “I can’t believe you turned your Birkin into a diaper bag.”

You shrugged, taking the bag from her and opening it, digging around for Juni’s bottles of milk. “It’s just a bag.”

“It’s a Birkin.”

“You know I have my collection.”

“Something I’ll never get over.”

You just shook your head, taking a full bottle and bringing it to Juni’s lips. She fussed a bit more before wrapping her mouth and suckling, ceasing her crying. You stared down at her with complete love, wholly onto her little face. 

Juni’s birth had been some of the hardest times of your life. So much so that your work trips to New York had to take a pause. An uncontrollable sadness and loneliness had taken over you, and you found little interest in anything. Eating—no matter how much Joel tried—bathing, being a mom to your two kids, even crying every time Juniper needed to be breastfed.

Postpartum depression, your OB/GYN had said. 

It had shocked you. Jonah’s birth had been traumatic, almost deadly for you and him, but you hadn’t any depression afterward. The words scared you more than anything, so much so that being separated from her was like knives on skin. It was so bad that you had decided that you would sleep in her nursery in the rocking chair. Joel had tried to say something about healing and it not being good for your back, but you had snapped at him and taken your things to her room. It was only recently that he had finally soothed your worries to let her sleep alone. Though you kept a tight grip on the baby monitor 

Maybe it was because she was your last baby—you and Joel swore it—or maybe it was the thought that something would happen to her if you weren’t watching. Either way, those feelings only now had started to lift, and your smile graced your face more often. 

You sighed in relief, rocking Juni back and forth to keep her quiet. Your hands were full, so you leaned over to sip your drink. You watched as Joel stuck a pickle into Jonah’s mouth, and his face scrunched up in distaste. 

“Daddy, I don’t like it,” he whined, but he still came closer to Joel and practically sat in his lap.

Joel pulled him to sit more comfortably and watched to make sure Jonah didn’t spit it out. “Don’t you want to grow big like me?”

“No, Daddy.”

Joel huffed, “Alright, then who do you wanna be like?”

“I wanna be like Uncle Toms.”

“Well, bein’ like Uncle Toms means you gotta eat your pickles. How’d y’think he got so funny? Happened ‘cause he ate what his mama put on his plate.”

“But you don’t eat your mushrooms.”

“I’m a bit different, so what? Thought you were hungry, isn’t that what you were whinin’ ‘bout for?”

“I ain’t hungry now.”

Joel gave Jonah a blank stare. “Really?”

“Really.”

“Fine, fine. Guess you really don’t wanna go to the library after school tomorrow—”

Jonah gasped like he had heard the worst news in the world, “No! No, I wanna go to the library. I’ll eat the pickles, I eat!” He then took a handful—as much as his hand could take—and shoved them into his mouth.

Sarah laughed at the sight, “That’s one way to do it.”

You turned to her, “You eat too, or I’ll feed you just like your sister.” You nodded down to Juniper, whose eyes were drowsy, nodding off. Sarah rolled her eyes and went back to eating. 

Soon, Juniper latched off, lips parting to reveal her milk-drunk expression. You smiled down at her, kissing a soft kiss on the top of her head. 

Technically, Jonah was supposed to be your last kid. You already had Sarah and him, and combined with Joel and your ages and careers, two was enough. 

Unfortunately, you and Joel loved to travel, and that meant you loved to enjoy the adult things in life. Your trip to Cabo was supposed to be a way to celebrate your four-year anniversary and his upcoming vasectomy. But you two also had terrible luck with it came to alcohol and hotel rooms, and also with pregnancy scares. Juniper was all that came true. 

When you looked up from your daughter, you noticed Joel was already staring at both of you, a pickle dangling from his fingers. His eyes flickered from Juniper to you, then back down, then up when he noticed you staring. His face turned pink, and he smiled at you when you ran your heel on his jean-clad leg underneath the table. 

Soon, everyone had finished eating, leaving just you and Joel. Sarah was leaning her head against your shoulder with her eyes shut, and you couldn’t tell if she was awake or not. Jonah had fallen asleep on Joel’s lap, curled up perfectly, and Joel had taken off his glasses. Juniper was fast asleep too.

“Quiet table, huh?” you said to Joel with a smile. His face softened, staring down at his son and patting his back.

“Hm, think today drained ‘em?”

“You think? Baby, I had three kids out in the heat all day and sitting them with some of the most dedicated UT fans.”

“So your daddy?”

You scoffed, “Of course it’s my dad. When we got to the B’s, he started throwing Juni around like a football and trying to pass her your dad.”

Joel tutted, “Poor baby, they got her runnin’ ‘round UT like a headless chicken.”

“More like a hungry chicken,” you laughed, then winced when she stirred. 

Joel noticed instantly and put a hand on the table. He looked over to your right, eyes falling onto Sarah. “She dead to the world?”

“I’m not.” Sarah groaned, but nuzzled deeper. 

“She’s tired. She was trying to finish some of her internship applications before we headed to the stadium.”

“Did you finish, baby girl?”

“You know it…” Sarah said drowsily. 

Joel chuckled, and so did you. A small silence fell over you both, and only the sound of the workers behind the register.

“Think we should head out?”

Joel checked over Jonah one last time before nodding. “Yeah, yeah, probably should.”

You and Joel started to clean up, with him leaving Jonah to rest on the seat while he dumped the trash away. You made sure that your diaper bag was organized again, and you had Juniper. You then patted Sarah’s shoulder, telling her to get up, which she groaned at. 

Finally, the five of you got up and left the McDonald's, making the small trek back to the truck. Joel made room for Sarah to take the middle seat in the back, then strapped a sleeping Jonah. You got Juniper in her car seat. You and Joel got into the front, shutting the doors.

He looked to you, and you to him. You leaned in and kissed him softly. When you pulled away, he was chasing your lips.

“What’s that for?” he asked.

You shrugged, “I love you.”

“Mhm… I love you too, sweetheart.”

The drive back home was silent. You didn’t dare turn on the radio, fearing you’d awaken the Kraken that was your youngest. Joel just kept his hand on your thigh, and you held him there.

When you pulled up to the house, only the porch light was on. Sarah started moving, fully awake now, and helped get Jonah out. Joel was the one who got Juniper, making sure to be gentle and soft. Then, the five of you went toward home.

Inside, Joel put his cap, gown, and degree onto the couch. He kissed Juniper’s downy head before putting her on the floor on her little mat. She fussed ever-so-slightly before going still again. You put Jonah next to her, and he stayed quiet, too.

Joel put his hands on his hips, turning to you, “Now, I think that we should put these lil’ troublemakers to bed.”

“Took the words outta my mouth, but where to start…” You tapped your chin, then gestured to Sarah with your head. On Joel’s face, an uncharacteristic smirk slipped onto his lips. 

“Oh, might as well go down the chain—” Then out of nowhere, Joel scooped her up bridal style, earning a shriek from Sarah. She hit Joel's chest and swung her legs.

“Dad! Oh my god, put me down!” Despite her words, that doesn’t stop the smile growing on her face. You followed, coming close to her head.

You smothered her face with kisses. “But we have to put our baby to bed!”

Sarah fought you off too, but couldn’t shake either one of you. Joel took her down the familiar hall into her room—he had refused to change anything about it—and flicked on the lights somehow. Her room was neatly arranged, with her suitcase in the corner.

Joel brought her to her bed, flipping the blanket, and tucking her inside. 

Sarah grumbled as Joel tucked the blanket under her chin, “You know I still have to change, right?”

Joel shushed her, “C’mon, can’t have your daddy have this one thing?”

“Actually—”

“It’s only cause he missed you,” you added. “You only just got back, but trust me, he wouldn’t stop complaining about you taking so long to get here.”

“Oh, stop it.” Your husband’s face went pink.

“It’s true! You should’ve seen him when we were at the airport; he almost started crying—”

“Alright, alright, let’s not spill all my business everywhere.”

“Aw, Dad, you missed me that much?” Sarah propped herself up, tilting her head.

Joel could only nod. Sarah smiled, then opened her arms, which he immediately took. He hugged her tight, and she hugged him back. They didn’t let each other go, and he whispered things only meant for them in her ear. 

Sarah caught you staring, then opened her arms again. You wordlessly shifted toward her and hugged your oldest kid and your husband, the three of you caught in a tight ball. Before Jonah and Juni, it was just you, Joel, and Sarah. Those years of you three traveling, taking her to her games, and a quiet house just as it was meant to be.

You loved that version of your life just as much as the one you live now. 

Yet, the moment was cut short when, from the living room, Juniper’s cries instantly called you. You sighed and pulled back, looking to your husband who also had his head turned to the hallway.

“You go to sleep now.” You stood, pointing to her as you stood and started walking backwards to her door, Joel following you, “I want you up early so I can take you to the mall, got it?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Sarah gave you a salute, “Love you. Love you, Dad.”

You smiled, stopped at the door, “I love you to, baby girl.”

With that, you and Joel exited her room and shut her door with a soft click. Joel slipped his hand over your hip.

“Think Juni’s a bit jealous,” Joel said while guiding you down the hallway. 

In the living room, chaos came quick. Juniper was twisting and kicking in her playmat, while Jonah just watched, his face a little ball of frustration. When he saw you in the reflection of the TV, he turned and stood, toddling over to you. You picked him up while Joel went to his daughter.

“Mama, she woke me up.” Jonah wiped his eyes. 

You frowned, kissing his baby-fat cheek. “I’m sorry, baby; I’m here now.”

Jonah nodded and buried his face in the crook of your neck. From the corner of your eye, you saw Joel rocking Juniper.

“Think we got ‘nother hungry cry over here.” He chuckled, coming close to you.

You groaned, closing the rest of the distance between you both. You brushed her hair back, studying her face, "Definitely. Trade again?”

Your husband nodded, but you were about to take your daughter when Jonah wrapped his little arms around you tighter, shaking his head.

“I don’t wanna go. Mama?” He looked up at you with the biggest possible eyes, and it worked in an instant. 

It worked wonders on Joel as well, who just leaned in and kissed Jonah’s forehead. “Just go to sleep, baby boy.” He turned to you, “I can feed her, get her ready for bed.”

“Thank you, baby.” You pecked Joel’s lips before turning and going back down the same hallway, this time to Jonah’s room.

His room was a light blue, but it looked like the depths of the ocean in the night. His rocket lamp was next to his bed on his side table, and when you flicked it on, it showcased everything your son owned for the past three and a half years.

Books on books. You didn’t think you’d met anyone who loved to read as much as your son. He read just about anything he could comprehend at his age, specifically about dinosaurs. A lot about dinosaurs. You knew too many facts now. 

You took Jonah to his dresser, placing him on top so that you could pull off his tiny shoes and socks. You then picked out his pajamas, which were—not surprisingly—dinosaurs. He even helped you slip his shirt off and put this one on, earning him a big kiss on the forehead. 

You took him through his nighttime routine, even though it was late. Brushing his teeth, washing his face, and brushing back his hair. Soon, you were tucking him in, kneeling by his tiny bed with a blanket twice his size.

Jonah looked up at you as you tucked it under his chin. “Mama, you should sleep here,” He patted the space next to him.

Your eyes softened despite yourself. Jonah had issues with sleeping on his own, always leaving his room, knocking on your bedroom door, and crawling between you and Joel. The pediatrician said it was probably separation anxiety, which ticked Joel the wrong way. 

“I gotta sleep with daddy though.”

“He gets you every night.”

“He does…” You tap your chin as if in deep thought, “But he’s such a baby, and he needs me.”

“I need you, though.”

You couldn’t help but coo over him, moving to sit next to him and opening your arms. He slipped in perfectly, lying over your torso. “I know you do, but you have to be a big boy.”

“I don’t wanna.”

“Wanna what?”

He shook his head, “Be a big boy.”

“Now why don’t you want to be a big boy?”

“Cause then I have to sleep by myself. And I feel lonely when you aren’t here.”

God, if you had it your way, Jonah would have been taken out of this room in a second and tucked in by your side in your bed. Damn what the doctor said.

Jonah had always been a nervous, shy child. When he was a baby, he couldn’t be put down without instantly sobbing. Forget leaving the room, he’d shriek for hours. 

It was draining and mind-numbing. No matter what you did, no matter how much you fed him, rocked him, carried him, he could not be without either of you. You never mentioned it, but you and Joel had your theories about what was wrong. 

He rambled to you about genetics and being more predisposed, blaming himself. It took the next appointment with the pediatrician to assure him that with time and consistency, it would go away. White noise and a dark environment were all the things that helped, but despite the methods, Jonah wanted you. 

You opened your mouth to speak, but the knocking on the door frame caught your attention instead.

Joel stood there, Juniper over his shoulder, sleeping silently. Your husband’s brows were furrowed, looking at the sight of you and Jonah.

“Now, why didn’t y’all invite us to the party?” He entered the room and made it to the bed.

You ran your hand up and down Jonah’s back, “He got nervous again.”

Joel’s face softened, “Did ya, son?”

Jonah nodded, “I did.”

“Well then,” With a groan, Joel sat on the edge of the bed, putting his hand on Jonah’s tiny leg, “Tell daddy, tell me what’s wrong?”

Jonah nosed closer to your skin, “I want Mama.”

“You want her to sleep in your bed?” Joel chuckled when Jonah nodded vigorously, “But what ‘bout me?”

“You’re old, Daddy, you’ll be fine.”

Joel scoffed, “Ain’t that rude? I’m the most youthful man you’ll ever meet.”

Jonah giggled, and you smiled at the noise. “You’re funny.”

“He is, isn’t he?” You murmured, glancing up at Joel while kissing the top of Jonah’s head, trying to push the worries away. Joel leaned in closer, putting his hand over Jonah’s head after you moved out of the way and ruffling his hair. 

“Let’s make a deal, son, if you ain’t asleep when that clock says ten-thirty,” Joel moved Juniper to a cradle in his arm to point at Jonah’s alarm clock, “Then you can come in and sleep with Mama. I’ll even give you my big pillow.”

“Promise?”

“With all my heart.”

Jonah considered the proposition for a long second, his bottom lip jutting out in thought. Finally, he looked up and smiled, “Okay, I can do that.”

Joel smiled with pride, “Good boy, ain’t you?”

Jonah soaked up the praise like a flower in the sun. He hugged you extra tight, which you reciprocated. You slipped out of Jonah’s way as he lay down and got comfortable in his bed. 

You kissed Jonah’s face over and over, mummering words he’d only hear, “I love you, baby, love you so much.”

Jonah smiled even bigger, “I love you too, Mama.”

You made room for Joel, who came and smothered Jonah’s face with kisses as well. Jonah squealed, running his small fingers over Joel’s beard. 

Then, Joel brought Juniper to Jonah’s face, “C’mon, say goodnight to your sister.”

Jonah leaned up, placing a kiss on Juniper’s cheek, not enough to wake her, “Good night, Juni.”

Joel spoke for his daughter, “Juni says thank you.”

With that, you and Joel stood, but not before Joel reached into his jeans’ back pocket and pulled out Jonah’s glasses. He put them on his bedside table for easy access in the morning and flicked off his lamp, casting the room into darkness. 

Joel exited the room first, but you lingered by the door. You turned and saw Jonah watching you both with wide eyes. You smiled. 

“Sleep well, alright?”

“Yes, Mama.”

You shut the door behind you and turned to Joel, who was watching you. In an instant, you leaned forward and planted your hand over Joel’s chest. You kissed him, lips moving with him. For a moment, it was only you, him, and your baby in his arms.

When you pulled away, he cocked his head to the side, as if confused. “What’s got into you? Bein’ all kissy with me.”

You shook your head. “Thanks for getting him down.”

He smiled, then kissed you, and muttered against your lips: “Just doin’ my job.” He looked down at Juniper and smiled. “Last one?”

You nodded and looped your arm over his bicep, taking careful steps to her nursery. 

Juniper’s nursery was also like her brother’s, shades of blue turned dark by the night. This time, you didn’t flick on any lights, only giving Joel room to put his baby in her crib. 

“Did you change her diaper?” you asked, watching him lower her, then pull back to his full height. 

He nodded, running his hand over her tiny chest, watching her breathing. “Changed, fed, knocked out. We probably got a good four hours of sleep ‘fore she wakes.”

“That’s good.” You made your way to Joel’s side and leaned your head against his shoulder. “Better than usual, at least.”

Joel hummed, knocking his head against yours. You both stood there in peace, staring down at your daughter, whose face twitched and lips curled. 

You only moved when Joel moved first, slipping his hand into yours. You turned back to Joel, and he was simply staring down at you. You shrugged, wordlessly asking what he wanted. He merely shook his head and guided you out of the room.

You managed to grab the baby monitor, then let yourself be guided to the living room. 

Together, you and Joel cleaned up what was left of the mess. Joel took care of the toys in the living room, while you straightened the pillows on the couch. Both of you cleaned dishes in the kitchen, working in perfect union. 

By the time you finished, it was ten-fifteen. You prayed Jonah was asleep, but you didn’t dare stir him by checking. Back in the living room, you gathered Joel’s cap, gown, and degree from the couch, while he went to check on all the locks. 

You headed back to your bedroom by yourself, toeing open the door.

You placed Joel’s things carefully on the dresser, then placed the baby monitor on your side table, then quickly changed, throwing your clothes into the hamper. You ruffled your hair, sighing and silently padding to your bathroom. 

You washed your face and brushed your teeth, and when you came back, Joel was waiting, slipping off the tie around his neck. The door was shut behind him.

You leaned against the bathroom doorframe, just watching your husband. He cursed once when it got tight instead of loose, and you snickered. He turned at the noise, unamused. 

“Laughin’ at my sufferin’? Guess I know where Jonah gets it from,” he huffed.

You waved him off, coming to him and turning him. You started undoing it for him, “He is my son, after all. And he loves what I love, and I love tormenting you.”

Joel hummed, hands landing on your hips while he let you work, “I know, it’s my favorite thing ‘bout you.”

“That I like torturing you? Machonist much?”

“Hey, don’t blame me. All ‘cause of you.”

“Don’t you pin your kinky tendencies on me. If you wanna be spanked, just ask.”

He laughed at that, and so did you. His tie slipped off, and you tossed it mindlessly onto the dresser. All of his attention was on you now, and his smile was light and loving. 

“It was nice seein’ you with the kids,” he said, “It was sweet.”

“I liked it—not herding all three of our mini Joels—but I would do it again.”

“Yeah? Even when we go to the beach next week?”

You groaned dramatically, looping your arms around his neck. “If you mention our vacation one more time, I’m going to book my own flight and leave right now.”

“Need it that bad, don’t ya?”

“So bad. You do not know how bad Michelle has been riding me. She acts as if she doesn’t have a million teams for her every whim. Why me?”

Joel nosed your cheek, pressing a smooch there, “Maybe ‘cause you’re brilliant, lovely, and the only one she can trust?”

“I guess,” you huffed with pride, “Where would she be without me?”

“Exactly. So ‘stead of focusin’ on her or our vacation—” you groaned again “—focus on me.”

You tilted your head, letting Joel walk you backwards to the bed, “You want more attention? I could give it—Joel!”

Joel pushed you back onto the bed, letting you flop like a fish. He put his hands on his hips, laughing like this was the funniest thing he’d seen all day. 

You frowned, and, grabbing his wrist, pulled him down over you. He yelped, barely bracing in time to not crush you. You giggled at his face.

“Pay back.”

“Oh, pay back?” he tilted his head.

You nodded, “Yeah.”

Joel shook his head in disbelief before closing the distance, “I’mma show you pay back.”

He proved his words, kissing you. Joel’s didn’t fight his hands, letting them roam and take over your entire body. You let him, and he let you do the same. Your legs wrapped tight around his waist, and your hands glided down his broad back and spine. He shivered, and you enjoyed it.

You pulled back for half a breath, “I’m getting payback for something else, though.”

“Tell me, sweetheart.”

You leaned in and tilted toward his ear, “It’s unfair.”

“Is it?”

“It is. How can you look so damn sexy being a daddy, and make me want to have more of your kids? Why would you do that to me? Do you hate me?”

Joel paused, then you watched live as he flushed pink. Even after almost five years married, he still couldn’t handle your blatant flirting. What a darling your husband was. 

Joel stammered, “I… It ain’t my intention—”

“Don’t act innocent, I know you loved me pregnant.”

“I love you in every version.”

“Yeah, but you really loved me pregnant.”

“...I did.”

“Do.”

“I do.”

“Shame though,” you tut, “That pesky vasectomy of yours.”

“I always planned to have a vasectomy—”

“For my favorite reason.”

Joel became truly red now, “—‘cause we don’t need another unplanned Juni cryin’ ‘round here.”

“Hey, it’s not my fault you lost control in Cabo—”

“Drunk me lost control. So did drunk you. And we had drunk sex that brought us our lovely daughter.”

“And I’m very grateful for her.”

“I am too.”

“But forgive me if I want my husband to creampie—”

Before the words could exit your lips, Joel’s hand clamped over your mouth. You let out a small squeak, but still met his eyes. 

Joel huffed over you, leaning closer, “Speakin’ so dirty ain’t a nice thin’ to do.”

You cocked an eyebrow up, and against the calluses on his hand, you smirked.

You wordlessly spoke with the spread of your thighs, letting the weight of him sink deeper over where you both wanted the most. Joel groaned, but you didn’t let him go.

The invite was simple. 

You saw the exact moment Joel took it, his own smirk show up as he leaned in closer, his other hand trailed down your side to your sweats and his fingers found their way to your—

Bang, bang, bang!

You’d never had Joel jump off you as fast as he did in that moment. It was as if the wind itself had taken him away. He lay next to you on the bed, hands on his chest like his heart would fly out.

“Daddy? It’s ten-thirty.”

Shooting yourself up to prop yourself on your elbows, your voice came out shaky, “Baby? I thought you would’ve been asleep by now.”

There’s a pause before Jonah spoke again. “I didn’t.” he knocked more on the door. 

Joel let his head flop onto the bed, running his hand over his mouth to hide his groan. Yet, he was the one who sat up, got up, and walked over to the door. He opened it, and through the crack, you could see your little son staring up at him, blanket in hand, glasses on crookedly. 

“Took my words to heart?”

“You said it was a promise.”

Joel looked back at you, then shrugged, “Guess I did.”

You shook your head, internally laughing at the whole situation. You held out your arms, “Come here, baby.”

Jonah’s eyes went bright, and he rushed past Joel’s legs, climbing onto the bed and into your arms. He held you tight, letting the blanket drop onto the sheets. 

You looked up at Joel, “You wanna change?”

He nodded, quickly folding up his cap and gown, placing his degree on top to deal with tomorrow. He grabbed some fresh clothes from the drawers. “Yeah, I will.”

Glancing down at Jonah, you covered his ears and hissed: “And take care of yourself, if you need to?”

Joel’s face brought back that flush. He quickly turned and headed to the bathroom. All he could give you was a thumbs-up before disappearing and shutting the door. 

All that was left was you and your son. Still clinging to your body, you brought Jonah to the pillows, laying his head there and pulling the sheets over his chest. You curled up beside him, placing a hand on his chest.

“Didn’t sleep?”

“I didn’t want to sleep without you. I waited, Mama.”

“I can see that,” you sighed. You patted Jonah’s chest in a rhythmic pattern, trying to lull him to sleep. “But if you wanna sleep here, you actually have to sleep. Yes?”

“Okay. I can do it.”

“Good boy.”

Jonah turned himself to tuck his head underneath your chin. His tiny hands curled into themselves, and in almost an instant, he closed his eyes. 

You ran a hand through his hair, playing with the strands that reminded you so much of your husband. You glanced over to Juniper’s monitor and saw a sleeping baby, exactly what you wanted. 

You don’t know how long you lay there, but it was long enough that the shower turned on, then off, and after a few seconds, the creak of the bathroom door caught your attention. You watched as Joel stepped out, lips curling into a smile. His hair was sopping wet, dripping onto his bare shoulder. He was in gray sweats and shirtless, though the band on his boxers peeked through. 

While Joel had kept his body fit from his job, that didn’t stop his stomach from gaining a curve. His hair had gotten thicker and coarser over his chest, and that wonderful, amazing strip of hair that went down his navel was more prominent. 

Joel sighed, throwing his clothes into the hamper. He made his way to his side of the bed, lifting the sheets and slipping in. Jonah whined at the cold air, coming closer to you.

Joel hooked an arm around Jonah’s middle, causing the boy to squeal as he was pulled away from you and against his daddy’s chest. Jonah didn’t fight it much, accepting his fate and curling there.

Smiling, you propped your head up with your hand. “What about me? You’re gonna leave me out in the cold?”

Jonah seemed offended by this question. He reached up for you, wordlessly calling for you. You slipped in closer, letting your son wrap his arms tight around you. Joel’s arms came soon after, pressing against your back. You buried your face into Joel’s neck, breathing in his scent, and placed a small kiss there.

“I’m proud of you,” you muttered, keeping your voice low for Jonah’s sake.

When you pulled away, Joel was already looking at you. He matched your tone, “Yeah?”

“Always. You graduating means so much to you, and I’m happy you could get to your goals.”

“Wouldn’t have been able to without you and the kids.”

“That’s not true.”

“But it is,” Joel kissed you then, “Without you, I would’ve lost motivation a long time ago. You helped me with all ‘em study techniques.”

“I just taught you what helped me in college.” 

“I’m lucky then, that you graced me with your brains.”

You shook your head, “Well, with my brains, I’m gonna have to find another frame that matched my degree. I wanna put yours up there as well.”

“Won’t it be awkward? You graduated ‘92, I’m ‘09. That’s a seventeen-year difference.”

“So? Does that matter? You earned that degree, Joel. I’ll put it on our front porch if I have to, show off to everyone my cool, educated husband.”

“Only ‘cause I got the smartest woman in the world by my side.”

“Smart family,” you giggled, “Me in New York, you at Austin, our oldest in Yale… makes me wonder where the other two will go.”

“Somewhere good and great. I’m thinkin’... Oxford for Jonah?”

You huffed out a laugh, "Perfect, and Juni’s in Harvard.”

“Ain’t that the life?”

Looking down one last time, you noticed Jonah had completely knocked out. Your heart thudded at the sight.

“He’s out like a light.”

“Hm,” Joel played with Jonah’s ear, “He was tired. Deserves this.”

“I’m tired. It doesn’t help that I could have a conversation with you forever.”

“Then I’ll shut up.” Joel snuggled you closer to him. “And you sleep.”

Ugh these two are so sweet. Too sweet. I think I have a cavity now after writing this.

Tag List (link open):

Joel doesn’t wait. He pushes the carriage door open and climbs down in a single fluid motion. Then he turns and reaches up for you, his hands closing around your waist, lifting you down out of the brougham with the careful, possessive thoroughness of a man who’s been counting the miles for half an hour and is no longer prepared to count any further.

He sets you down on your feet in the yard, his hands never leaving your waist, as Tomás appears from the barn, wiping the back of his neck with a flannel.

“Good to see you Patrón,” he says with a grin.

“And you,” Joel nods. “See to the driver, will you? He deserves some rest and a cold drink before he heads on back to town. Mrs Miller and I ain’t to be disturbed.”

“Consider it done,” Tomás replies, nodding at both of you in turn before moving over to the driver and extending his hand.

You don’t wait to witness the outcome of the exchange. Joel's hand moves from your waist to the small of your back as he gently guides you towards the porch steps. His palm presses warm and possessive through the fabric of your dress, the heavy boned stays and the thin torn linen of the chemise beneath, and you can feel the tremor in his fingers against your spine. Glancing at him, you understand that he’s holding himself on a tighter rein in the last twenty feet between the brougham and the front door than he’s held himself in the entire journey before.

Pushing open the door, he guides you across the threshold before closing and locking it behind you, the key turning smoothly. The decisive click of the bolt sliding home echoes in the quiet hallway, and the late afternoon sun falls through the side window in long warm bars across the floorboards. You stand in the dim, cool entry hall with your back to him and don’t turn around.

Behind you, you can feel the heavy heat of his body and the ragged drag of his breath at the back of your neck – the careful trembling restraint of a man who’s been holding himself on that rein and is now about to drop it entirely.

“We should go to bed,” he says calmly, his voice wavering slightly over the last word.

“Yes,” you reply breathlessly. “We should.”

But you don’t move, and neither does he, his breath hot at the back of your neck. The tremor in his fingers has spread into a visible trembling that you can feel through the warm pressure of his palm at the small of your back and the heat in your stomach, which has been simmering patiently, gives a patient, answering pulse.

You draw in a careful breath and finally turn around.

His eyes are inches from yours, and they’re not lazy or crooked or careful at all. The man looking down at you is a man exhausted by restraint. And yet, you can see he’s still trying – can see the clenching muscle at the hinge of his jaw beneath his beard, the ragged restraint of his breath, the visible trembling of the hand that’s left the small of your back and is now hovering, uncertain, between you, as though he doesn’t entirely trust himself to lay it back against you.

“Joel?” Reaching out, you place one hand gently on his chest and his entire body reverberates under it.

"Darlin’, please. If I touch you in this hallway, I ain’t gonna make it to our bed and I ain’t gonna take you for the first time on these damn floorboards. So, let me walk you to our room.”

You look up at him, well aware that the careful side of you, which was entirely absent from the brougham, would take her husband's offered arm and walk with him in careful, dignified silence down the hall to the bedroom.

The spinster, of thirty-four years, would expect it.

You ignore her and, reaching up with both hands, find the top brass button at the high collar of your dress that he so carefully fastened back into place in the brougham not ten minutes ago, and work it loose, followed closely by the second and the third.

Joel's eyes follow your fingers, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

"Darlin’…”

You undo the fourth button, and the dress falls open by half an inch revealing the scarlet flush again on the bare line of your collarbone. You turn slowly, your back to him, and begin to walk down the hallway, your fingers continuing to work the buttons free as you go.

You feel him follow, his hand catching your elbow after a few paces, and he turns you, his mouth on yours before you can draw the next breath.

The kiss is not slow or careful, rather it’s the kiss of a man whose restraint has cracked clean down the middle and his mouth opens against yours with a low, rough sound in the back of his throat that’s almost a growl. His tongue slides against yours with a demanding heat that takes the breath out of your chest, and his hands leaves your elbow and your waist, gather up the entire length of your dress and hold you hard against him.

You let the small brass buttons go, your hands flying up of their own accord and fisting in his shirt at the muscle of his shoulders as you kiss him back with a hunger you haven’t known you possess, the heat in your stomach now drawing tight in a single drowning heartbeat.

He walks you into the wall, your back hitting it hard, but with too little force to cause any damage. His fingers pull the folds of your dress higher, and you feel the cool air settle against the bare skin of your stocking-clad ankles, then your calves, then your knees.

"Joel…you said…"

"I know what I said."

His hand reaches the soft tender crease at the top of your thigh again, the pads of his fingers tracing the slick heat of you beneath the gathered fabric, the slow, patient pressure of his thumb settling once more against your clitoris. You let out a high, helpless sound against the rough scratch of his beard as his lips dance over the skin of your throat.

He stops, pulls back and presses his forehead hard against yours, and you feel the long, ragged shudder that runs the entire length of his body as he lets out a low, rough broken sound against your mouth.

"Darlin’…I’m tryin’ to get us bed. I’ll get us there, I swear I will…”

"I know,” you pant.

"Help me."

You exhale against his mouth and press your hand flat against the heavy thud of his heart beneath his chest feeling the ragged drag of his breath and the visible trembling of every line of his body beneath your palm.

You understand that he refused you in the brougham not out of any lack of want but out of the deepest possible declaration of intent, the declaration is costing him every shred of restraint he has left, and he’s asking you, now, to help him hold the last of it.

Drawing his hand carefully out from beneath the gathered layers of your dress, you lace your fingers through his. Then you turn, and start walking once more towards the bedroom, pulling him gently after you.

He follows closely with his hand tight in yours and his beard scraping warm and slow against curve of your shoulder where the dress has fallen open from the loosened buttons. His other hand fists in the fabric at the small of your back to keep you pulled against him and you make it another three steps before he stops, swings you round to face him and kisses you again.

You slide your hand from his and work the next brass buttons of your dress loose against his chest.

Then the next and the next.

The dress falls open from the small notch at the base of your throat all the way down to the high boned edge of the stays, and the scarlet flush is now blooming all the way down across the soft unstructured curve of your breast above the boned edge. The torn chemise has given up the fight of staying tucked beneath the stays and now hangs loose and disordered around the climbing heat of your skin.

He draws back from your mouth just far enough to look down at the bloom of you in the warm gold light. “Darlin’…”

"Yes?”

"Take off the dress.”

"Joel, the bedroom is…"

"You ain’t makin’ it to the bedroom in this dress, darlin’ ‘cause I won’t let you. So, take it off here, now.”

The scarlet flush blooms warmer across the soft swell of your bare collarbone as you raise your arms, allowing him to draw the dress up over your head with a patient, possessive thoroughness. He catches it in his hand, folds it once and lays it neatly on the floor at your feet, then he reaches up behind your head and gently draws the pins from your hair, teasing it with his fingers until it loosens from its knot.

A smile finally pulls at the corner of his mouth. "There, darlin’, that’s better."

You stand in your heavy boned stays and your loosened torn chemise and your layered cotton petticoat and your stocking-clad legs with your hair falling around the scarlet bloom of your bare shoulders and let your husband admire you.

His eyes travel slowly from your hair to your collarbone to the swell of your skin above the stays to the chemise to the petticoat to the line of your white stocking-clad ankles and he draws in a shaky breath.

“We need to keep movin’.”

You laugh and it comes out small, breathless and slightly hysterical, and he laughs too, low and rough and entirely undone. Catching your hand in his, he turns and starts to walk backwards, taking you with him, growing closer and closer to the bedroom door.

You make it there, then he turns you against the wall outside, his mouth dropping to your bare collarbone above the stays. His fingers find the heavy laces at the back, and you understand with a small, dizzy heartbeat that the stays aren’t going to make it to the bedroom either.

He works the knot at the small of your back, his fingers not entirely steady. The knot resists and you hear the low frustrated breath through his teeth. Reaching back over your shoulder, his hand closes around your wrist and together you work the knot loose. The first lace gives, then the second, then a third, and a fourth, the heavy boned structure loosens against your ribs, and you draw in your first deep breath of the afternoon.

He draws the stays away from your body and lays them, with the same careful, reverent precision he gave your dress, on the floor outside the door.

The torn chemise falls soft and loose against the bare skin of your ribs, your unbound breasts and your waist, and the small dark peaks that he drew so thoroughly tight in the brougham are entirely visible through fabric, his eyes finding and focusing on them with a heated intent that makes your knees tremble.

He doesn’t speak as he raises his hand, his thumb tracing one, very slowly, through the torn linen, the heat in your stomach draws tight again, and you sag back against the wall behind you with a whimper.

"Joel… the bedroom…please…"

He gathers you up, one arm going behind your knees, the other behind your shoulders, and lifts you off your feet against the heavy, hot length of his body. You wind your arms around his neck and press your face into the warm, slick hollow of his throat as he kicks the door open with his boot and carries you across the threshold.

The bedroom is cool and dim, the curtains still drawn from the morning, the room lying in a soft amber half-light, the late afternoon glow filtering through the gaps in narrow gold seams across the floorboards and the foot of the bed.

He lays you down on it, the sheets cool against the heat of your skin through the chemise. Your loosened hair spills across the pillow in a wave and he stands beside the bed for a long moment looking down at you, his hands at his sides, the ragged drag of his breath visible in the heavy rise and fall of his chest beneath his shirt, the tremor in his hands at his sides now entirely visible.

"Darlin’ I…I need a moment.”

You raise yourself up onto your elbows, the chemise slipping down off the curve of one of your shoulders, one nipple becoming visible through the loose, disordered linen, and Joel's eyes squeeze briefly shut at the sight of it.

"Joel…you’ve seen me before, that night…”

“Not like this,” he says, his voice hoarse. “Not in this light. I haven’t…not like this.”

"Take your shirt off, my love," you encourage him, your voice lower and richer than you think you’ve ever heard it before.

His fingers go to the buttons at the front of the shirt and work them free. The trembling makes the work clumsy, the third button resists, and he makes a frustrated sound through his teeth and simply tears the rest of the row open with one hard, sharp pull. Buttons scatter across the floorboards, but he doesn’t look at them.

He shrugs the shirt off his shoulders, and it falls to the floor in a heap behind him, the soft light of the dim bedroom falling across the plane of his bare chest, the rise and fall of his ribs, the dark scattered hair at his sternum and the pale scars from a life lived hard.

His hands go to the buckle of his belt, working it free, followed by the row of buttons at the front of his trousers. They fall to the floor around his boots, which he toes off, and he steps out of them, now naked before your eyes.

You draw in a small breath as the heat in your stomach draws tight, your eyes falling to the thick, heavy, hardness between his legs. You’ve never seen one before, other than in pictures in a medical book at the mercantile, and no drawing could have prepared you for this.

Sitting up slowly, you reach for him with both hands, and he comes to you, his weight pressing the mattress down beside you with a heavy creak, his hands settling at the loose, disordered chemise.

"Take this off, darlin’,” he instructs softly and you raise your arms again, allowing him to draw the torn linen up over your breasts, over your collarbone, over the loose waves of your hair, whereupon he tosses it carelessly on the floor.

The layered cotton petticoat follows. He finds the tape at the waist, works it loose with fingers that no longer tremble but move instead with a hot, inexorable focus, and draws the petticoat slowly down the bare length of your hips and your thighs and your stocking-clad knees and your calves and over your boots. Then he sets the petticoat aside on the floor and sits back on his heels at the foot of the bed.

You’re bare beneath him now save for the boots and the white silk stockings held in place by the ribbon garters tied above your knees. He doesn’t speak as he bends his head and works the laces of your boots, one at a time, his fingers moving with a possessive thoroughness. The boots come off one after the other and drop quietly to the floor beside the bed. Then he works the ribbon garters at your knees, rolls the white silk stockings slowly down the length of your calves and over your ankles before drawing them off your bare feet and setting them aside.

He looks at you now, his eyes traveling the length of you with a rolling, devastated reverence. “Look at you."

"Joel, please,” you beg. “I can’t wait.”

His eyes return to yours, a smile curving his lips again. "I know, darlin’. I’ve made you wait too long and I’m gonna fix that now.”

He comes up the length of the bed, his bare body settling along yours, his chest pressing against your breasts, nipples dragging against the dark scattered hair of his chest. The thick, hard length of him settles against the slick, bare heat between your thighs without yet pressing in, and you let out a long, broken, shaking sound.

His hand comes up, thumb tracing your cheekbone, eyes locked on yours. “Don’t be scared, darlin’. I’m gonna be careful with you, I promise.”

"Joel…"

"I gotta be careful, darlin’. It’s your first time."

"Please,” you whimper, your hips involuntarily sliding against his. “I don’t need you to be careful.”

“Yes darlin’, you do. I gotta be careful with you this first time and then, once you’re warmed up to me, we can do things differently.” He drops a soft kiss on the end of your nose. “Do you trust me?”

“I trust you,” you whisper.

He presses his forehead against yours, the visible trembling of his body returning in a long, ragged shudder along the muscle of his back where your hands have wound. The ragged drag of his breath comes hot and uneven against your mouth, and you feel the slow, careful press of him slide once along the slick bare heat of you without entering, the patient drag of him learning the shape of what he’s about to do.

“Feels like you’re ready for me.”

“I am, please, I am.”

"I love you, darlin’," he says gently.

"I love you too,” you reply, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes.

"I’m gonna love you and protect you for the rest of my life, darlin’. Now take a breath and hold on to me."

You inhale sharply and he presses in slowly, so slowly, to the slick, stretched heat of you, an inch at a time, filling you in the amber light of the bedroom while his hand cradles the side of your face and his thumb strokes slow against the curve of your cheekbone. There’s a small pain partway in, a bright thin sting that makes you whimper, and your fingers tighten on his shoulders, and he stills instantly.

"Darlin’, if I’m hurtin’ you…"

"You’re not, I promise. It’s only... only new. Please, my love, don’t stop."

He keeps going, slow and patient, the sting easing into a deep, full, astonishing stretch as he settles the last of the way into you, the hot length of him coming to rest fully inside you. His hips press flush against the inside of your bare thighs, and the heavy thud of his heart drums against yours through the bare press of his chest. He doesn’t move. He holds himself perfectly, trembling still, his forehead pressed against yours, his breath hot against your mouth, his eyes burning down into yours from inches away.

The bedroom is utterly silent.

You can hear the slow tick of the clock and the distant sound of cattle outside the curtained window, the ragged drag of his breath against your mouth and the ragged drag of yours against his.

You feel the heavy press of him at the very heart of you, fuller and deeper than you’ve imagined a man can reach inside a woman, and the realisation settles through every limb at once that the spinster in you is, in this single, suspended moment, being entirely and finally replaced by something else, by the woman who will lie in this bed for the rest of her life beside the man who loves her.

"You feel…so good…” he murmurs. “So good darlin’. So warm and wet…”

The heat in your stomach answers the heavy hot press of him with a slow, patient pulse, and you shift experimentally beneath him, making the smallest movement of your hips against his, and the hot rolling wave of sensation that subsequently travels the length of your spine causes you to let out a moan against his mouth. His eyes squeeze shut and his hand at the side of your face tighten.

"Don’t move, darlin’, not yet. Just…just give me a moment."

"I can’t, Joel. Please, I need to feel it all…”

The careful patient husband who’s been promising you all afternoon that he’ll be careful makes one last valiant attempt to hold the line and loses.

“You’ll feel it darlin’,” he promises shakily. “You’ll feel all of it – every damn inch.”

The first slow withdrawal and the slow, heavy press back in take your breath away entirely. You arch against the bed, your hands gripping his shoulders, and a broken sound escapes your throat which he answers with a low, rough sound of his own against the side of your neck.

He finds a rhythm, slow at first with a heavy careful roll of his hips into yours, the broad heat of him filling you and withdrawing and filling you again, slowly, carefully learning how your body answers his. He braces himself on his forearms on either side of your head, his chest moving slick and warm against your breasts, his beard scraping slow against the curve of your jaw with every slow, heavy roll.

The rhythm builds and the heat in your stomach draws tight at the heavy claim of him with a speed that startles you. The flush blooms warmer across your collarbone and your hands slide down his shoulders to the broad line of his back, your fingertips finding the shifting muscle beneath the slick skin, your heels pressing into the back of his thighs to pull him deeper.

You’ve never felt like this before.

"Joel…more, please…more…”

He makes a rough, undone sound against your mouth, and the careful roll of his hips deepens, becoming harder. The bed beneath you begins to creak softly with the rhythm, the headboard rocking, just perceptibly, against the wall behind it. His hand at the side of your face slides down along your throat and your collarbone and settles at the curve of your breast, his thumb finding the peak that his mouth so thoroughly suckled in the brougham, and the pressure of his thumb against it sends fresh hot sparks down to feed the slow, tightening boil low in your stomach.

"Joel…I’m... already, my love, I can feel..."

"I know, darlin’."

"How can I be... already... how…?"

"You’ve been waitin’, so long, darlin’, we both have.”

The slow, careful patient man is nowhere now. What moves above you is something hotter and more focused, the heavy claim of a husband who’s finally been given the run of his own house, and the heat in your stomach draws to a crescendo.

"Joel…"

"Come apart for me,” he pants, “come apart for me in our bed."

"Joel…"

"Look at me.”

You look, his eyes burning, as the heavy roll of his hips doesn’t falter. His hand slides back you’re your body, in between where you’re joined, and once more finds your quivering clitoris, circling against it in counter-rhythm to the heavy press of him deep inside you, and you realise you’re going to break as a rolling wave gathers itself in every limb.

"Joel…” you gasp. “Joel, I’m…”

“Yes, let go for me darlin’, let go. Scream my name.”

"Joel…”

“Yes…”

“Joel…!”

The wave breaks and you arch up against him with a high-pitched cry that fills the bedroom and doesn’t need to be muffled. Your fingers grip tightly to the slick skin and the muscle of his back, your heels dig into the back of his thighs, and your body clenches helplessly around the hot full length of him deep inside you. The wave rolls through you and keeps rolling, and the heat of him, deep inside you, turns every wave of it incandescent, and you hear him swear low and rough and absolutely undone against your throat.

"Oh…darlin’…mine…my girl, my sweet girl…! I love you…I’m gonna give you everythin’…!”

His rhythm shatters, the roll of his hips becoming something harder, faster and entirely unrestrained. The bed creaks harder beneath you, the headboard knocking harder against the wall, and his hand leaves your slickness and slides up to the curve of your hip, pulling you open wider and gripping you there with a force that will leave fingerprint bruises by morning that you’ll carry like a benediction.

He drives deep and hard, pressing so tightly against you that you can barely draw a breath. Then a long, ragged shudder runs through his entire body, and you feel the hot pulse of his seed deep inside you, deep, full and astonishingly intimate. The broken sound he makes against the curve of your throat is nothing you’ve ever heard out of any man and something that you’ll carry in your bones for the rest of your life.

For a long, suspended, trembling moment he holds there, his hand still locked at the curve of your hip, his chest heaving against your breasts, the heavy drum of his heart beating hard and ragged against your sternum. His forehead drops to the hollow of your throat, his beard scraping wet and warm against the slick skin of your shoulder, his breath hot and uneven against your collarbone.

The headboard stops knocking against the wall.

The bed stops creaking.

The light pools warm and unchanged across the floorboards and the foot of the bed, and the cattle continue to low outside, entirely unconcerned with what’s just unfolded.

Joel doesn’t move for a long time.

His weight presses you down into the warm tangled linen, his hand at your hip slowly relaxing, his breath gradually evening out and the heavy drum of his heart gradually slowing. Eventually he raises his head, eyes soft now, the heavy claim of a moment ago entirely drowned in the warm aftermath.

“That was…you were so good, darlin’, so goddamn good…”

You can’t, in that moment, form a word. Every breath has been torn from your body by the very act of loving and being loved.

His hand comes up to trace your cheekbone with a careful tenderness that makes your eyes sting again. Then he brushes a loosened strand of hair back from the slick skin at your temple, bends his head and presses a long, slow, reverent kiss against the corner of your mouth.

"My wife."

"Yes…"

"Mrs Miller."

"Mr Miller," you echo, your voice catching slightly over the word as you regain your breath.

"Did you enjoy that?" he asks, nuzzling the tip of your nose with his own.

You laugh, small and watery, feeling absolutely, profoundly, gloriously undone in his arms. “Yes…yes I enjoyed it very much.”

“I’m glad,” he murmurs, kissing you again, “’cause we got forty-eight hours before I need to go back to jail.” Slowly, he withdraws from you, the resulting coolness making you gasp. Then he rolls over onto his back, his arm sliding beneath your shoulders, and he gathers you against the warmth of his chest. “And once ain’t gonna be enough for me darlin’.

“Me neither,” you reply.

“You were too damn good. I’m gonna need to love you again before sundown and beyond. Lord…” he squeezes you gently. “Never thought I’d get to feel this way ever again.”

You gently kiss the top of his chest, your hand sliding over the sweat of his stomach, fingers gently stroking the skin there before slowly slipping lower into the hair under his naval.

“Easy darlin’,” he murmurs against your hair. “You gotta give a man a minute to recover from an encounter like that.”

“Tick tock,” you giggle, as his free hand moves to your jaw and pulls you slightly upwards so that his mouth can meet yours again.

The amber light of the bedroom holds the two of you in the bed, and you can honestly and truly say that the careful spinster of thirty-four years is finally, and entirely, gone.

➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰❤️➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰

THEN

The party is so loud Frankie can barely hear himself think. Bodies bump into his shoulder, alcohol-soaked breath wafting over him. 

And he can't stop smiling. 

Frankie is twenty one, he's in the air force and he shouldn't be this giddy at the thought of being someone's boyfriend. But with Pip, he's nearly beside himself with joy. 

He sneaks a look at you across the party, watching with fondness as she talks to her girlfriends. He's in love with you, he acknowledges. But he's too scared to admit that part out loud to anyone. It's too soon to tell you that. Liking you feels safer. 

Even though it's not just liking that has him fantasizing about them living in his house when they're both done with school and training. Of shared dinners after work, long nights of lovemaking and laughter. He thinks of the marriage his parents had and how he will do everything different.

He's always been quiet, prone to deep reflection and slower to anger than most of his peers. The air force has taken a bit of that from him. It can feel dehumanizing at times, exhausting and frustrating. But when he's behind the stick of his favorite chopper, everything else fades.

He just wishes Texas wasn't so fucking far away. 

He thinks about asking Pip for a photo he can bring back to his barracks. Something to look at that reminds him he has a future waiting for him back here. Would it scare you to know how much he's imagined a future with you? That this summer hasn't just been amazing because of the sex, but for the quiet moments in between?

"Can you believe my parents locked the liquor cabinet? 

Frankie is brought back into the moment, Travis at his side holding a solo cup and whining. 

"They have so much in there and they never started locking it up until now. Fucking idiots. I wish they'd leave and never come b-." He catches himself, eyes going wide as he looks at Frankie. He's said an impossibly stupid thing. "Shit... I'm sorry, Frank."

"No worries," Frankie mumbles with a wince. "You seen Santi?" 

"Nope. But I've seen Christy," Travis replies, briefly flashing a wag of his pink tongue. "Damn, she looks good." 

"Oh yeah?" Frankie replies distractedly, dark eyes scanning the room. Travis watches this, voice turning exasperated. 

"He's here with some hot date apparently," Travis says with an eye roll. "Surprised you don't know about it, being his boyfriend and all." 

Frankie's jaw feathers. He's always had to maintain a civil relationship with Travis, but as they've gotten older he finds the boy more and more annoying.  It's also painfully obvious that he has a thing for you even though she's given no indication that she feels the same. And why would you? You like Frankie. He still can't quite believe it. Seems almost too good to be true. You’re so smart and gorgeous and funny and... He feels his cheeks heat delightedly. 

"I've been sorta busy lately," Frankie finally says distractedly when he sees Pip's head weaving through the crowd. 

You glance Frankie's way and he feels his whole body going warm when their gazes connect. Everything about you is just so fucking perfect. Even the subtle smirk you send his way.

Travis' must notice the gooey look Frankie shoots her. The small smile you share before averting your gazes. 

"You try anything with Pip and Hilary will kill you," Travis murmurs. "If she doesn't, Santi will."

Frankie is quiet, unhappy that he's been so obvious in his desire for you. 

When Travis turns, Frankie can see the young man's attention is fixed on your smiling face. The way you throw your head back when you laugh. His eyes scan down your body in a way Frankie knows he wishes his hands were. 

"Would be worth it though," Travis continues in a low voice. "I've been dying to get a piece of that ass for years." 

Ugly jealousy twists in Frankie's guts. His fingers are curling into a loosened fist at his side. 

"Yeah, well, like you said, Santi and Hilary would kill us." 

Travis laughs in response and Frankie watches as his attention moves over the other girls in your group. They land on Christy and her skimpy outfit. 

"Can you believe Christy's a real beauty queen?" Travis says, clicking his tongue appreciatively. "I mean I always thought she was hot, but that's insane."

"I guess." 

Frankie knows that Christy is attractive. He's not blind. But he also knows she only ever flirts with him to get to Santi. He also knows he doesn't care what she looks like or what she does because the only girl Frankie has ever truly wanted actually wants him back. 

It's hard not to smile when he thinks about that. How the girl he grew up alongside became the woman he can't think of life without.

You're standing there stiffly observing what Christy is saying. You look upset. This look is magnified when he notices Christy approaching from the corner of his eyes. 

"Hi Travis. Hi Francisco," Christy says. He notices her voice is pitched higher, bubblegum sweet. 

"Hey."

"Enjoying the party?"

She steps closer and from this distance he can smell the floral perfume she wears. Can see her nipples jutting through her thin camisole. He forces his eyes to the ground, feeling lecherous. 

"Sure." 

She tilts her face forward, ignoring the way he doesn't look her way. She's so close he feels the heat of her body. 

"You look good tonight, Francisco."  

Knowing that you're watching from across the room this makes Frankie flush with embarrassment. "Thanks," he mutters, voice low. 

Travis excuses himself with a sneer. Clearly Frankie is taking the attention he wants for himself. Once he's out of earshot, Christy leans forward again. 

"I need to tell you something."

"Okay."

"I always liked you, you know, during school," she says, giving a girlish giggle and ducking your head like she's feeling shy. "I can't believe I just told you that. I must be drunk."

Frankie takes a sip of his beer, head rising to look for you. But you've escaped somewhere, lost in the shuffle.

"I hear there are some empty bedrooms upstairs," Christy purrs, her hip bumping into his. "Should we go check one out?"

Frankie cringes, trying to think of a nice way to say no. 

"You said you're drunk," he says flatly. "I don't fuck drunk girls." 

"I'm not that drunk," she insists. 

He feels his jaw tighten. He's not an unkind person at heart, but her closeness is making him uncomfortable. "Not interested, sorry." 

Christy gives an overdramatic pout, jutting her chest his way. When she sees he's not giving in she moves her face in again. "C'mon Francisco," Christy says, lips almost brushing his cheek. "I'll make you s-"

"I'm with someone," Frankie interrupts, no longer interested in being polite. She pulls back in shock, eyelids fluttering dramatically.    

"What? Since when?" 

"For a while," he replies smoothly. "And I'm really into her." 

Saying it out loud makes his insides quiver delightedly. He almost wishes Pip was there to hear it. 

Christy looks like she's just swallowed a stink bug. She's not used to being rejected and that's clear in her expression. But then her face slowly smoothes out. She leans her hip against his again, trying her best to get him to grind against her. 

"I won't tell if you don't," she says, her mouth curling into a mischievous smile as she drops her voice. "Could be our little secret." 

Frankie places his empty beer cup down on the nearby side table. "Maybe Travis wants to hook up," Frankie replies. "He's heading back now." 

Christy briefly lifts her eyes to see Travis returning with two new solo cups before her attention flicks back to Frankie. 

"You're telling me you don't want to fuck a beauty queen?" She asks with a disbelieving scoff. 

Frankie shoots her a piteous look.  "Have a good night Christy." 

He gives her a kind smile, hoping that it will soften the harshness of his departure. She doesn't seem to enjoy it though. She rolls her eyes and goes stalking off in the direction of upstairs. 

Travis smirks, handing Frankie one of the cups. 

"Damn what did you say to Miss Florida? She looks pissed." 

Frankie shrugs. He doesn't care that Christy is offended. He doesn't want her. 

"You seen Pip?" 

He wants you at his side. Or at least he wants an eye line of you. 

"You really like her, huh?" 

Frankie feels his stomach bottom out, turning his attention to Travis. The young man is looking at him in a way he's never seen, or perhaps never noticed, before. A dark kind of look: cold and dangerous. 

"What are you talking about, man?"

"Pip. I see the way you look at her these days," Travis says smoothly, like this is a fact everyone knows. "And we all know she's been in love with you for years." 

The tips of Frankie's ears burned in both embarrassment and delight at the word. "I'm just used to her always being around." 

"Is that why you wear that hat everywhere?" 

Frankie's cheeks burn as he absently taps the rim of his hat. 

"This?" he says forcing a laugh. "I'm just used to it is all."

Travis laughs back but it’s a hollow sound. It doesn't touch his eyes, his mouth barely moves. 

"Right. Sure." His eyes flick to Frankie's head again. "You won't mind if I borrow it then?" 

His arm jerks out, hand swiping Frankie's ball cap right off of his head. Frankie goes to snatch it back, but Travis has already popped it on over his shorn curls. Before Frankie can attempt to take it back again, Travis hears his name being called. 

"You can have it back in a bit," Travis said with a cruel kind of amusement as he walks backwards towards the call. 

Frankie feels his teeth clench. Not just at having his shit taken, but knowing that Travis is probably on his way to tell Santiago about Frankie's obvious affection for his cousin. 

"Hey, man." 

A frustrated Frankie glances over to see several young men on the couch. All are fuzzily bearded and sleepy-looking. The bigger one with a baseball cap extends his arm, a joint held out in his fingers. 

"You want a toke?"

Frankie hesitates briefly before shrugging. "Sure." 

He didn't smoke pot often; his dad always knew when he did. He tried popping gum and spraying cologne but it couldn't compensate for the scent that clung to his clothing. But now his old man is gone. Frankie could do whatever he wanted. He's free in so many ways. 

He takes a deep inhale, letting the sweet smoke fill his lungs before thanking the guy on the couch, handing him back his joint. 

When the pot hits him a few minutes later it feels good. He takes a seat in one of the free chairs, listening to the men talk about government cover ups. But he's not really listening. He's daydreaming about his girlfriend. 

Pip. The most beautiful, smart, funny, sexy woman he's ever known. A woman who never takes bullshit. Who sees him at his worst and still likes him. 

He thinks he sees you stealing through the crowd and his heart leaps. He jumps to his feet, moving clumsily towards you. He calls your name but you don’t hear him over the crowd.  Frustrated, he tries to muscle through the groups when he tumbles into a familiar figure. 

"Frank? What're you doing?" 

It's Santi; one arm around a cute blonde. He looks at his friend with amusement, much to Frankie's relief. Travis must not have said anything. 

"I was looking for.... Well, you actually." Frankie runs his hand through his short hair, frustrated to feel his cap still missing. He feels naked without it. "Can we talk?" 

"Sure." 

"Uh... It's private. Can we talk outside?" 

Santi trails a look over Frankie before glancing back at his date. He mumbles something and she nods, shooting Frankie an annoyed look as she moves to grab another drink. 

Santi nods towards the back door, indicating Frankie should follow. "C'mon. Let's go." 

They make it into the backyard where several groups talk loudly. Some playing chicken on the grass. 

"It's Pip," Frankie says, rubbing his clammy hands on his jeans when they find a quiet spot. 

Santi furrows his thick brows. "What? She okay?" 

"Yeah, yeah, she's fine." Frankie feels his stomach twist, his head spacey. He's trying to say it but he feels like he is outside his body. 

Santiago Garcia is his best friend. The two of them have suffered through childhood, puberty, heartbreaks, abusive fathers, shitty home lives. There's the potential that he'll be giving all of that up. Years of friendship, of brotherhood, taken from him with this confession. 

So he has to ask himself, is Pip worth it? 

The speed of his decision surprises even him. 

"I like Pip," Frankie says, feeling the tips of his ears grow hot. "Like, a lot. And I want to date her."  

He physically flinches, awaiting the discipline for his affection. He waits for Santi to start cussing him out, for hatred and ugly accusations. 

"You ask her out yet?" 

A beat. 

Frankie isn't sure that Santi actually said that or he hallucinated it. He's further confused when Santi laughs, pointing across the room at one of their old friends. 

"Oh shit, did you see Jordan just bail off the table?" 

Frankie doesn't bother looking over in the direction of the laughter and whoops. All he can fixate on is his friend not looking upset at all. 

"... You're cool with it?" He says incredulously. "With me dating Pip?" 

"Does she like you back?"'

Frankie has to bite back a grin. "Uh, yeah. Pretty sure." 

"Then sure, why not? I mean.... She's a grown-up," Santi shrugs, eyes glazed from booze. "She can date whoever she wants." 

"You're not upset?"

"This has been a long time coming as far as I'm concerned. Plus I know I can trust you to treat her well." Santi shrugs, giving Frankie a mischievous look. "Better you than Travis." 

The two men laugh and the tightness in Frankie's chest unravels. He feels like he can breathe again. 

"Speaking of which... I'm pretty sure I saw Travis heading upstairs with Christy a while ago," Santiago says with a bemused look. "I just know that's going to end disastrously." 

"You never know," Frankie shrugs, smiling toothily. "Maybe it's fate." 

He doesn't actually believe that. He's just so relieved at Santi's response. 

"C'mon, lemme kick your ass at beer pong."

Frankie follows Santi to the other room, the two of them watching the game currently in progress. Frankie intends to only watch, but eventually it's dragged into the game but a very convincing Santi. 

"You're gonna be family soon enough," Santi jokes over the gathered crowd. "You better stay in my good books." 

Frankie knows he's kidding, but something about the concept of being a family with Santi and Pip and even Hilary makes his eyes water.

They win the next three games, hands sticky with booze, throat raw from cheers. Frankie feels naked without his hat the entire time. He taps out when the suggestion of a fourth round is mentioned. 

"I gotta go find Pip," he says with a light slur. 

Santi only punches him lightly in the shoulder, giving him a knowing look before turning back to start on the next round. 

Frankie manages to walk away from the busy table, his mood serene, and his heart full. He feels happy and warm and he wants his girl with him. He can be public with her now. He can't wait to tell her. 

He notices something dark blue on the coffee table, the familiar logo staring at him. It's half under a pizza box, forgotten, and Frankie grimaces. 

"Fucking Travis," Frankie mutters, grabbing his baseball hat and shaking crumbs from it. He places it on his head, feeling more secure already. 

"Oh my gosh are they making out?" 

Frankie hears the scattered whispers of amused teens nearby. Several of whom are gathered by the large bay window, peering out into the front yard. Normally he wouldn't care about something as banal as a party hookup but he wants to laugh about this with Pip later.

He pictures them back at his place under the covers, laughing about the party, holding each other as they fall asleep. 

He walks to the window, an amused smirk on his face. He joins the search in the darkness, eyes weaving until they land on the couple making out against the tree. Frankie goes to laugh when he sees that the boy is Travis, his movements quick and jerky. 

But the laughter, the smile, all of it dies the second he sees the girl Travis is making out with. The girl who holds onto him and kisses him back ardently. 

No. No she wouldn't. 

But the longer Frankie watches the more the figures become clearer. So clear that Frankie feels like he can hear your whines, the same ones you gave him only hours ago. He feels his heart crack when he observes how you touch Travis in that same soft way you do with Frankie. 

With that he's surging through the crowd, shouldering the front door open with a growl. Like a missile he's guided directly towards the oblivious couple. 

A part of him is so desperate for this to be a nightmare. A bad trip. Anything but Pip willingly making out with Travis after admitting her feelings for Frankie. His mind is completely blank, his feet marching quickly across the grass. His face is on fire, his heart breaking as he sees Pip being pressed into the tree by Travis. 

This turns Frankie's vision red. 

He doesn't remember much of what happens next. The memory is like snapshots of moments. Travis falling to the ground. The anger in a Pips eyes, the casual sneer at the thought of sleeping with Frankie. 

Pulling Travis off of you wasn't an issue. Having everyone circle and whisper didn't affect him. It was the coldness in your voice, the ugly look in your eyes and the disgusted scoff when you said you'd never sleep with him.  

What the fuck had happened?

He's numb by the time he turns away, everything in his body cold. He doesn't notice the laughter or whispers. He couldn't care less about that. All he can think of is your disgust, the chill in your gaze. How could he have ever thought he knew you, his Pip? 

You're a stranger to him. 

He hears his name being called, but its several blocks before a heavy hand lands on his shoulder, spinning him around. 

"Frankie, what the fuck happened?" 

Santi is doubled over with his hands on his knees, breathing heavily and looking at Frankie with utter confusion. 

"Forget it," Frankie says his expression dark. "Forget all that dumb shit I said about Pip earlier. I don't know what I was thinking."

"What-"

"Just drop it, okay?" Frankie snaps, eyes black with hatred. "Don't mention it again. I'm serious. Not to her, not to Travis, nobody."  Frankie has to look away from him when he speaks again. "As far as I'm concerned she doesn't exist." 

Santi is quiet, eyes big and sad. 

"Okay, Frank."

Santi is still talking, you know this because you can see his mouth moving across from you. But you're not getting any of what he says. You feel as if you're being held underwater, the world spinning and growing dark at the edges, sound muffled and your body numb before going sluggish. 

"No," you whisper, closing your eyes. "No," You repeat to yourself, but it's coming out in a whisper. The room is spinning and you grip either side of the table to stop your stomach from flipping. 

"You’re lying," you croak, head shaking violently from side to side. "That's not what happened.”

"I don't know what to tell you," Santi shrugs, brows tight. "He was with me the whole time playing beer pong." 

"No, no, that's not ..." Your throat closes up and you're suddenly spluttering for air because you can't formulate a response to what Santi is telling you. 

But your cousin doesn't lie to you, he never has. He's been there for you during the hard times as much as any brother would be. 

Bile rises in the back of your throat, your stomach heaving. You force your lips shut, swallowing aggressively. You will not vomit in a fucking Denny's. 

"Pip." Santi's voice is low and warped. Like he's a tape being rewound. "Breathe slowly. In and out."

You're starting to shake, legs going cold. 

Breathe. Breathe you fucking idiot. 

You take a deep, sputtering lungful of air, eyes blowing wide. Santi looks beside himself, hand holding your wrist. You clutch at his arm with your free hand, nails digging into the warm flesh there. 

"I saw it with my own eyes. I saw them."

"Travis came down and talked about how he fucked the beauty queen," Santi says quietly, as if it pains him to tell you this. 

"That can't be what happened," you say, lips trembling. "That can't be." 

Because that would mean you kissed Travis in front of Frankie for no reason. That this decades-long feud has been going on because of a misunderstanding. 

Years spent without the one man you've ever really loved, for no good fucking reason. 

Santi leans forward, voice light. "Pip, he never would have done that to you. He told me that night that he liked you. He wanted my blessing I think." 

You feel dizzy because things are starting to come together. Travis and Christy's secret relationship. The taking of Frankie's hat. The way the two of them look so similar from behind. It was Travis who fucked Christy in that bedroom, who came down afterwards and tried to do the same to you. Your skin crawls in revulsion at the thought of you letting him kiss you. 

And an even more distressing, you think of the hurt way Frankie looked at you at that party. The layered cruelty of you words and actions. Punishing him for a slight he never committed. 

Because you know deep down in your bones that what Santi has told you is the truth. That there's no planet in which Frankie Morales would willingly break your heart. 

The nosy patrons, the tired looking servers, everyone fades into the background as you stand, looking at your cousin with your lips quaking. 

"I have to go." 

THEN

Frankie lies in bed that night, heart aching, chest tight. It feels like finding out his parents are dead all over again. That same hopeless feeling. But during that you had been there to bring him comfort and affection. To hold him in his sleep. 

Now who does he have? 

He was going to answer your question later this evening. Of when he first realized he liked you as more than just Santi's cousin. 

The truth is he was pitifully unaware of you as a woman for most of your acquaintance. You'd just always been there in the gang, a sexless figure he liked to laugh with, to protect. 

But the summer of his eighteenth year you asked him to hunt lightning bugs while Santi and Travis were off camping. You had a mason jar and lid ready, your denim shorts high on your thighs. 

"Thanks for coming," you said, tapping the rim of his hat playfully. "Hilary says it's lame to still catch them." 

Frankie didn't tell you he felt the same. But he'd been bored and there was nothing else to do. Plus the summer air wasn't too heavy, the night balmy so Frankie led you both behind the old baseball field. 

Fireflies moved lazily in the dark, blinking like tiny dying stars and Frankie, only half heartedly invested, found himself watching you instead. 

Your smile was wide as you darted after a one flickering flash. The same look you wore when you beat the boys in a race, or said something to make everyone laugh. The smile you'd worn since childhood. 

He followed close behind, pretending to help, but getting caught up in watching how you moved, the way your face lit up when you succeeded in capturing your first.

"Got him!" You crowed, holding up your jar in triumph. 

"Not exactly a skill, Pip. Kids do it every summer." 

"Where's yours then?"

"Didn't feel like it."

You nudged your shoulder against his, rolling your eyes as the two of you took a seat on the grass. 

You never asked him about the air force or how he felt about it. You tucked your knees to your chest, eyes stuck on the jar. 

"They're so gorgeous."

You held up the jar to eye level, light flickering against your cheeks. You turned to grin at him, your face beautiful in the warm glow.

Beautiful. 

That wasn't really a word he associated with you before. But he couldn't deny that in this moment you were the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. Like a painting come to life. 

He was curious as to what it would be like to cup your cheek, to feel the plump of your lips beneath his thumb. 

Something warm in his chest caught him strangely off guard, making his head spin.You were almost three years younger than him. Sixteen to his eighteen. He wasn't supposed to think about you like that. 

He felt the need to fill the silence. 

"How come the sudden need for fireflies?"

"Uh, guess I just needed to get out of the house," you said quietly to the jar. "Mom was just ... "

You trailed off, face dropping. Frankie could see it, illuminated by the swarm inside the mason jar. 

Instinctively he shuffled closer, throwing his arm casually around your shoulder like he'd done a hundred times before. Only now you snuggled against him, exhaling lightly. 

"Thanks, Frankie." 

Your head was at his cheek and he inhaled the scent of your hair before he swallowed thickly. You felt good against him, and he longed for you to tip your face up to him so he could capture your mouth in a sweet kiss. 

It wasn't until that warm thread began to weave its way around his lower belly that he realized something had shifted. 

Something he wasn't going to be able to ignore. 

You can't breathe. 

You know you're managing it, gulping deep lungfuls, but it doesn't feel like enough. The air is so hot and humid; it feels like it's coating your insides.

All a misunderstanding. Frankie never cheated. Frankie never cheated. I walked away from the most amazing man because of a misunderstanding.

You stop the truck midway home, your stomach heaving. You manage to stumble out of the cab before you're bent over, vomiting into the grass at the side of the street. Cars whizz by, some calling out to you, telling you to party less hard. You don't even hear them. All you can picture is the hurt in Frankie's eyes. 

You empty your stomach, eyes wet, body trembling. Your throat is scorched when you finally crawl back behind the wheel, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. 

You finish the drive to your house, truck parked haphazardly. You realize you're crying when your view turns into a watercolor blur. You make it through the door, slumping against the wall just inside with a ragged cough. 

A figure grips your hand, lacing their fingers with yours. You stare at the chipped black nails and many rings and look over at your sister. 

"Hey, are you okay?" 

You tell yourself that you don't want to tell Hilary everything that happened. You need time to process this, but your chin wobbles, eyes filling again. 

"Let's go on the porch," she says gently tugging you. "C'mon."

You allow your sister to guide you out onto the porch, both of you seated on the old creaky chairs before she grabs a smoke from her pocket. 

You watch her light it with an old bic lighter, orange flame springing to life. She looks at you through tired eyes, face drawn as she exhales a ribbon of smoke. 

"What the hell is going on?" 

You grip the sides of your head, fingers tangled in your hair. 

"Hilary I fucked up so bad. I fucked up everything." 

Your fingers rake through your hair again and pull as the devastation floods you. The pain serves to keep you anchored in the moment.

She sucks in a slow breath. "What? When?"

"Frankie," you say through a sudden sob. "I thought... Fuck, Hilary, I hated him for so long..." 

The pain feels so sharp, like needles along your aorta. It propels you out of your chair, legs weak. You fall to your knees on the rotted porch planks holding your head in your hands as sobs ravage you.  

You shake; feeling Hilary kneel beside you, hand on your shoulder, pulling you to face her. 

"Tell me what happened." 

She soothes you by rubbing your arms, almost like one would do if someone was cold. It calms you a fraction, allowing you to catch your breath. 

"It was during Travis' party..."

The story pours out of you, ugly and raw and accompanied by warm tears that slip down your cheeks. You can't make eye contact with her during the story, terrified to see the piteous look she'll shoot you. 

You live through that horrible memory, the sounds of Christie's moans, the sight of the standard oil logo looking back at you. 

She's silent the entire time. As you finish the story and raise your eyes you see that she's just squinting at you, perplexed. 

"You thought Frankie cheated on you?" 

"I did," you tell her, eyes blurry. "I really thought I saw it with my own eyes. But it was fucking Travis wearing his hat. This is all so fucking stupid."  

She's frowning, creases starting between her brows.  

"That's why you were kissing some guy at the party," she whispers as if things are starting to fall into place for her. 

You don't even question how she knows that bit of information. Santi probably told her, which causes your face to heat up and embarrassment. 

"It was Travis," you tell her with deeper shame. "I was kissing Travis."

"That fucking snake." She exhales shakily, furious adrenaline clearly coursing through her body. "Fucks Christy and then tries to get you into bed."  Hilary looks like she wants to punch something. Simultaneously infuriated and disgusted. "Have you and Frankie talked about it?"

"I don't think I can say anything," you insist, heart pounding. "I just found out the truth from Santi. I'm still processing." 

"Go have a shower and clear your head then," Hilary says urging you inside. "And brush your teeth because your breath is fucking disgusting."

THEN

Frankie sees Hilary from time to time in town. She's usually buying cigarettes or heading off with some new guy. Tonight she's at one of the bonfires the locals put on at the start of every summer.

Frankie had nothing better to do and with Santi overseas and Travis moved, he doesn't have much of a connection here. He thinks of going home after this to the house of his childhood. The empty one with no warmth. The one he had Pip in for several weeks. 

Barely any time at all. 

"Hey Catfish," Hilary says, handing him a beer as she approaches. Like you, she'd taken the nickname and run with it when his patchy beard grew back. 

"Hey Hil." 

The two drink quietly next to one another looking at the flames of the bonfire. Frankie tells himself he's not going to ask about you. Not going to torment himself.  But it comes out, a slow murmur. 

"You talked to your sister lately?" 

"Not much," Hilary says. She takes another deep pull of her beer bottle. "She doesn't really love talking on the phone." 

"Mhm. She like school?" 

She gives him a look. "Why don't you just call and catch up with her yourself?"

"Not much to say." 

"I know you like her, Frankie," Hilary says shrewdly. "And I bet she'd love to hear from you." 

Frankie's face goes red, splotchy pink leading up his neck. He tries to shrug it off, but fails. 

Hilary saw him that night with the flowers, with the open look of desire he had for you. There's no point in lying to her. 

"I know she cares about you," Hilary says, eyes scanning his face. "And I know because she's never cared about a guy like that. Ever." 

"You don't know that whole story," Frankie says. 

"So tell me." 

He shakes his head. That's Pip's story to tell.

"Look, it's obvious the two of you like each other. Or liked. So I don't get why you both don't just admit that to each other." 

"We did, right before the party," Frankie snaps, before catching himself. "Hours before I saw her making out with-"

He slams his mouth shut, furious at having lost his temper and given away something so private. 

Hilary looks stunned. She seems to grope for words. 

"Wait, my sister was kissing some guy at a party?"

Frankie thinks about telling her that the guy was Travis, but he doesn't want to think about it too much. Saying the details makes it hurt worse. So he stays silent, eyes on the sand. 

"She must've been drinking," Hilary continues. "There's no way she'd do that sober." 

Frankie is quiet, not having considered this. Hilary blinks at him slowly, like an animal considering something. 

"I just, I know my sister, Frankie. She's not a cruel person. There must have been something deeper going on." 

Frankie is embarrassed to feel tears starting along his lash line. He blinks them back furiously, looking away as he shakes his head. 

“You should call her, Frankie,” Hilary adds before walking away from him. “She’s still at the dorms until tomorrow.”

He watches her move over to the group she arrived with, a cigarette hanging from her lips, a beer in her hand within moments. He watches as she whispers something to the muscular man at her right, laughing gaily when he nods, stripping down to his boxers and running into the surf.

She’s always been able to charm people, to convince them to be brave. And when Frankie strides back to his truck an hour later, he realizes that she convinced him too. However, she was gone with some guy from the bonfire before he could chase her down for your number. 

That’s led him here to the hospital where your mom works.  

Would you really want to hear from him? And mostly, why does he want to talk to you? You broke his fucking heart. You acted like you were into him, agreed to a relationship and that same night you were making out in front of everyone with fucking Travis. 

He's sick when he thinks about it. A memory he's tried time and time again to exorcise through booze and women. Because there have been other women in the four years since all of that happened. At first to prove he was over you and then to help him forget you. 

Neither worked. 

Frankie notices some nurses heading out of the hospital on their break. They talk quietly to one another between puffs of their cigarette. 

He taps his fingers on the steering wheel before removing the baseball cap nestled over his curls. He smooths his dark curls back, long fingers carding through the strands before popping the hat back on.

He raises his eyes to the rear view mirror, grimacing at his reflection, because this grey hat with the fishing logo doesn't sit right because it's not the one you gave him. That one sits at home in his bedroom, a shrine to your betrayal. Standard Heating Oil. 

He should have burned it. Should have given it away. Should've buried it where he didn't have to see it every day. And yet he couldn't bring himself to do it. Couldn't bear to erase that part of his life, of you, for good. 

Even after everything, he can't stop this deep want for you. A burning ache that won't be extinguished. 

He'd forgive you if you'd just explain what happened. How you could go from crying his name between his sheets to letting Travis stick his tongue down your throat. 

He needs answers. 

He needs to hear your voice. 

He pushes himself from the cab of the truck, fingers tapping at his thigh as he moves through to the nurses’ station. The hospital is very quiet at this time of night, voices hushed, wards closed. 

It doesn't take long to locate your mom. She works in the same unit she always has and tonight, despite the quiet atmosphere, looks frazzled. She's writing down something in her charts before she notices Frankie approaching. Her face drops and she comes around the desk, meeting him mid-stride in the hallway. 

"Francisco, what happened?" Her hands grip his elbows. "Is everything okay?"

Her breath seems overly minty when she says his name and he knows that its to cover the vodka she keeps in a nearby water bottle. 

"Everything is fine, ma'am," Frankie says, giving her a polite smile. "I promise."

"Santi? Hilary?"

"As far as I know."

"Thank Christ," she says, a hand at her sternum. 

When she gives a relieved smile it reminds him of yours. He never noticed until now that you both have the same smile. 

"It feels like ages since I saw you," she observes, arms crossing as she looks him over. "You've grown up into such a handsome young man." 

Frankie feels himself grow a bit embarrassed at the attention, looking down at the scuffed floor. "Thank you." 

"And I hear you're still flying helicopters? That's so exciting." 

Frankie can't help but smile shyly, pride suffusing him. 

"Yeah, it's pretty great." 

She nods, starting to walk down the hall to check on the charts. He follows beside her, hands in his pockets. 

She scribbles away, talking to him over her shoulder. 

"So, why are you here, honey? Anything I can help you with?"  

Frankie's neck and the tips of his ears go pink, his face warm. Saying this to your mom suddenly feels daunting. 

"It's, uh, well, I wanted to know if you had Pip's number at school." 

She falters only a moment, scanning him. "You don't have it?"

"No ma'am." 

"Of course I have it. Come back with me to the desk and I'll write it down for you." 

He follows her to the desk, sidestepping a young orderly. Your mom digs in her purse for her address book, a few items shifted. 

He sees a postcard inside as she rummages. It's from Seattle, obviously from Pip. She sends postcards home instead of visiting, he muses. Santi tells him as much.  

She notices him looking, her smile toothy as she produces the postcard. He catches your writing on the back, his heart clenching. 

"Just got this one from her today," she says holding it up. "Strange to imagine my baby all the way across the country, but these help." 

"I bet." 

Your mom digs in the desk for a pen and post it note, grumbling about the other nurses being disorganized. 

"Ah, there's one," she announces, brandishing a pen with the hospital logo on one side. "Why did you need her number? You sure Everything's okay?"

"Yes, ma'am. Just..." Frankie swallows, cheeks flaming as he stands there. "Uh... I wanted to speak to her." 

He meets her eyes and despite the glazed look she wears, he sees something else. A knowing, an understanding. A softness that moves to her mouth, hitching at one side. 

"I see." 

He watches her scribble down the number, tearing the yellow sheet from the others and holding it out to him. 

"Here you are, honey." 

Frankie reaches out to take the paper, eyes already memorizing the digits before he folds the page and stuffs it in his jeans pocket. 

"Thank you very much." 

Your mother nods, looking at him curiously. 

"I bet she'll be really excited to hear from you." 

Not so sure about that, he thinks.

"I hope so." 

A beat. The two of them don't move, neither sure how to end the conversation. 

"Your parents would be so proud of you, Francisco. I just know it." Your mother adjusts her scrub top, looking at Frankie with tenderness. "I mean, hell, I'm not even your mom and I'm so proud of all you've done with your life." 

The words are gentle and said with genuine affection so sweet that it makes Frankie's eyes grow damp. 

He'll never hear those words from his parents. No observance of his hard work. No celebration for his accomplishments. Hearing them from your mom takes his breath away. 

He tries to thank her but the words are getting stuck in his throat. 

As a mother she seems to sense this, walking over to him and wrapping her arms around his middle. He's a head taller than her, but it doesn't stop making him feel like a child again when she squeezes.

"If you ever need anything, you come see me," your mom tells him. "To talk, to eat, to sleep. Anytime. You promise?"

"Yes ma'am," Frankie says, a tear escaping down his cheek. "I promise." 

He moves from her with a small smile, the drive back home quick. But once inside the quiet house his bravado fades and he takes his time puttering around the kitchen.

The Post-It note sits on his kitchen table, but it could be in the trash for all he cares. He had the number memorized before your mom even finished handing it to him. The phone sits in is cradle on the table, intimidating in its stillness.

He can imagine your soft surprised voice. He loves how you say his name. The slope you put to the end of it. He feels his mouth lift at the corners in anticipation. 

"Just do it," he rasps to himself. "Just fucking do it." 

He picks up the phone, fingers trembling. He internally practices how to start the conversation. 

Hi Pip. Congrats on graduating. No, that's fucking stupid. Hey Pip, it's been a while. How've you been? Hey Pip, you broke my heart and I want to know why. Hey Pip-

"Hello?"

A man's voice. 

Frankie frowns at the phone, confused. This is your dorm room. Hilary mentioned that you live with girls a few times over the years. So why is a guy answering your phone at this time of night? 

"Hello? Is anyone there?" 

I dialed the wrong number, Frankie decides. Stupid of me.

But he still grips the receiver tightly, holding his breath. 

"Nothing." 

He goes to hang up when a voice drifts in the background. A voice he knows all too well. 

"Just hang up and let's go to bed." 

You. 

You telling another man it's time to go to bed. A leaden rock drops inside Frankie's stomach, causing an anguished noise to escape him the second the phone receiver is placed back on the cradle. 

He stares at it in numb shock for a few moments, mind going to the worst places possible. Your and some faceless guy in bed together. Him able to draw sounds from you that Frankie was incapable of. 

What was Frankie thinking? That you'd magically stay single all this time? That you'd be pining away for him like he has for you? 

Humiliation scalds his cheeks, sorrow heavy on his shoulders as he moves to the bedroom. He throws himself onto the bed he once shared with you, holding a pillow to his chest and falling into a dreamless sleep. 

The shower is restorative, the mint toothpaste still clinging to your teeth. You feel better as you enter into the kitchen. 

Hilary is seated there, ashtray half filled. You join her, breathing unevenly. Your body is still vibrating with all of this new information. 

“You need to talk to Frankie about what happened.”

An anxious twist starts low in your belly. "I don't know what to do or what to say. I don't want to bring up all this hurt again. He doesn't deserve it."

"You need to tell him."

“Why?” You keep your voice quiet, not wanting to be overheard by your mother. "It’s been almost twenty years." 

"Because he deserves to know," Hilary defends, brows crossing. "And you know it." 

You think of the lipstick tube you found in his house that one day. The clear sign that Frankie has found someone else; a woman that feels comfortable enough to leave her things behind at his home. 

You push yourself up to your feet, starting to pace around the room.

"Frankie is over all of this, Hil. I'm just the loser that never moved on." 

She gives you a sneer.

"Bullshit. I know he cares about you. He's always cared about you. Even after the party."

"Not true," you scoff. "Until this visit, Frankie has loathed me."

"No," Hilary says shaking her head. "He hasn't." She pauses, grimacing. "I shouldn't be telling you this."

You stop your pacing, eyes over your shoulder. "What?"

"Frankie has been visiting Mom since she got sick." 

You draw back, dropping into the same seat. “What?”

"I was working doubles to pay for stuff for a while and he knew I wasn't at home as much because of it. Santi probably told him. So he started showing up to bring her treats, clean the house, visit over tea. When she could walk he'd take her for walks." 

"No. That's not possible. Mom never..." You pause your sentence. 

Mops. Brooms. Bringing by your mom's favorite brownies. The way she looked at him. The way he knew exactly how to be gentle with her. 

"He only stopped when he heard you were coming back," Hilary says and looks hesitant, like she's betraying his trust by telling you. "He made me promise not to tell you anything." 

"Why would he do all that?”

Hilary sighs, lighting up a new cigarette and giving you a leveling look. 

"Why the fuck do you think?" 

THEN

"A beach birthday is such a fun idea," Inaya says walking alongside Frankie, a cooler full of drinks carried between them. "I'm so bored during the summer." 

Frankie grunts and nods, pulling his baseball cap down a little lower over his eyes. A red one this time. One from the flight school he teaches at.

It's where he met the very beautiful Inaya when she came to take lessons. She works at a daycare during the school year, she's patient and she thinks Frankie is charming.

They both keep it casual. What started as drinks after class has turned into the odd dinner out, sleeping together when they both feel like it. Sometimes it's just nice to go to the movies with someone who isn't Benny or Will. 

Frankie likes Inaya because she fills a lot of the silence between them with chatter about traveling, about her job and her family. 

He's jealous of her stories of close multi-generational family life. That she's excited about visiting her grandparents back in India. It seems surreal that anyone could enjoy being around their family.

She also carries a pain, and it's the only thing she doesn't like to talk about. The death of her fiance, Michael, when they were both still in their twenties. He was in the air force too, shot down over Paraguay. 

He thinks that's why she likes to keep things surface level. It's easier for both of them that way. 

"Do you think Santi will like the gift card?"

"He'll like anything," Frankie assures her.

She laughs, head tilted back. Frankie brought her today because the other guys have been bugging him about bringing her out. They keep telling him that he needs to have a proper adult relationship instead of flings. 

In Frankie's opinion they're the last people he'd turn to for romantic advice. Santi is a serial heart breaker whether he's in Florida or working in Columbia. Will has been seeing the same girl off and on for the last few years and Benny is so focused on his boxing career he might as well be celibate.

"I know you guys served together in Argentina, right?" 

"Yep." 

"Loquacious as always, Morales," she says shouldering him playfully. 

Frankie scans the perimeter, taking in what the BBQ's are, where the bonfire has been started. He takes note of how many umbrellas and towels are lying out, how many bodies rest in various states of repose, sunglasses on, drinks in hand. 

It's a habit that won't leave him, one that he cultivated overseas; making sure no danger lurks anywhere if he can control it. Yet there's only one danger that he can't see. One that terrifies him more than any other. 

You. 

As far as he knows you won't be showing up. You're in Seattle, living a life away from your home life in Florida. Still, his stomach clenches anxiously as his eyes drift over the smiling faces. He searches each one as Inaya makes some crack about millennials and driftwood. 

His shoulders lower when he doesn't see your face, the knot in his stomach loosening. 

He can survive this. 

Inaya is a hit with the guys, not to Frankie's surprise. Will seems particularly enamored with her, hiding it poorly from Janette who hangs off his arm possessively. Frankie cracks a beer, smirking over at Santi who has observed the same. He drifts over to his friend, waving at those who wish him a happy birthday.

"Oye perdejo," Santi greets him, tapping his beer can against Frankie's. "Stop having so much fun." 

Frankie rolls his eyes. If it was just the guys he'd be able to relax. But with this crowd of revelers he just feels awkward. He's never really enjoyed big crowds of drunken people.

"Enjoying your party?"

"Depends, what'd you get me?"

Frankie digs into the back pocket of his shorts holding a small envelope his way. "Gift card." 

"So sentimental," Santi quips, snatching it and shoving it into his pocket as he motions to Inaya laughing with Benny. "So, your girlfriend's pretty great."

"Not my girlfriend," Frankie murmurs huskily against his beer can, eyes hidden behind his aviators. 

"Right." Santi nods, his own eyes fixed so long on Frankie's profile that he feels his cheeks burn.

"What?"

"Nothing." Santi taps his beer can with his pointer finger absently, a small wistful look on his face. "Just wondering when you're gonna be honest with yourself."

"About what?"

"About the reason that you never want commitment with anyone."

Frankie's heart is in his throat. “There’s no reason. Just not the settling down type.”

His friend presses his lips together, exhaling through his nose. "Frank, c'mon-"

"I'm gonna go check on Inaya."

It's clear he wants to say more and Frankie wants nothing less. Santi gives a rueful shake of his head as Frankie crosses the sand, stopping to grab a beer bottle from the cooler before coming to stand next to a bemused Inaya . She's standing politely listening to Benny peacock.

"I'm still new but they're already calling me the 'blue-chip prospect' of the division."

"That's so cool," Inaya says with such sincerity Frankie would think it was real if he didn't know her so well. She glances over at Frankie taking a deep pull of his beer. 

"Forgot mine?"

"You didn't ask for one." 

Inaya gives an exaggerated look of exasperation over at Benny. 

"Since Frank here decided chivalry is dead, I guess I'll have to go get a beer myself," she says, elbowing a smirking Frankie in the ribs. "Be right back." 

"Dig to the bottom," he calls after her. "Stuff on top is still warm."

Benny is smiling broadly when he looks back. Will slowly approaches as well, Janette having just left in a fit. 

"So," the younger Miller says in a teasing drawl. "She's pretty great, Fish."

Before Frankie can explain that he and she are casual, something stops him; something in the air. A strange sense that has gooseflesh starting on his arms and the back of his neck. 

 Santi's voice rings out over the crowd. 

"Hi, Pip! There you are!"

Everything narrows down to a pinprick. The world is muted, save for his shallow breathing. He might as well be back in Argentina with the guys, focus fixed on his surroundings. His heart pumps slowly, body tight all over. His arms have tensed up, knuckles white around his beer bottle. 

It's you. 

He doesn't even need to turn around to know exactly how you'll walk, the way the sun will highlight parts of your hair, the curve of your mouth. 

But he does. 

He moves slowly, sunglasses plucked and moved to hang from the collar of his t-shirt. His pulse plays a cruel staccato in his neck as he finally views you and your sister approaching the group in. 

It's been almost ten years since he last saw you and time has done nothing but add to your beauty. You've developed into your curves; you walk more confidently, your hair loose instead of its customary low ponytail. 

Deep, aching want spreads through his body as he takes in the way your eyes shyly look around, just as they did when you were teens. You may be more at ease in crowds, but you've never really shaken off that initial insecurity. 

"Is that the cousin?" 

"Thought she was in Seattle," Benny murmurs to Will. 

"As far as I know she still is," his brother agrees.

He looks over to Frankie who shrugs even though he knows very well you are. Did you fly out just for this? Why the hell didn't Santi tell him? 

"Here take this first," you say to Santi, your voice makes Frankie's mouth dry. 

He remembers that quiet murmur in his ear wishing him a good morning. He remembers the way you looked when you told him you loved him. He remembers the perfect comfort of being with you whether it was riding bikes through the neighborhood or between sheets. 

You shared more than sex. You shared childhood. A history. Each other's ups and downs. The awkward stages. The milestones no child should have to endure. There is joy at seeing you here and now, pure and honest. 

"She's hot," Benny observes, eyes trailing over you slowly in a way that tells Frankie everything he needs to know about his friend’s intentions. 

"Down boy," Will chuckles. "Pope will kill you if you mess with Pip." 

It all comes rushing back in that moment. And then all of a sudden that same pathetic joy turns to a feeble flame that is easily extinguished. All that's left is ash and ruin at the reminder of your callousness. Your sickening betrayal. 

Fury plumes up Frankie’s throat, a scowl etched across his full mouth when your gaze finally shifts over to him and your eyes connect. He doesn't expect your stare to betray the same simmering agitation, nor an accusation in every blink you don't make. But he long gave up any ability to understand your anger. 

Finally, like a physical severing, the two of you tear your eyes away and turn back to your respective conversations. 

"Lemme get you a burger," Frankie hears Santi offer you. 

Frankie clears his throat, not wanting to hear your reply. He doesn't give a shit about you. He never should have. 

Will's eyes drift over to Frankie who has turned back away from you, fingers tightening around his beer bottle. He feels like he's going to punch something. 

"You okay, Fish?" Will asks, puzzled. He scratches at his eyebrow as he stares at him. 

"M'fine," Frankie mutters. 

He moves from around the BBQ, trying to distance himself. He glances around for Inaya, horrified when he notices her laughter from across the fire. She's standing with you, beer extended as the two of you talk. 

Why the fuck is she talking with you? 

He ducks his head, grabbing some veggies and popping them onto a plate. He sees some blonde guy from one of Santi's poker nights. 

The guy - Barry? Terry? - greets him, starting a lively conversation with him about how they need to have a rematch so he can win back his money. Frankie is only half listening, he keeps sneaking looks out the corner of his eyes at you and Inaya. 

The two of you are still talking, making his stomach a quiver uneasily. 

He distracts himself with conversation, trying to look un-phased that you're here. Before long an hour has passed and Frankie can't stop the itch under his skin. The one that compels him to casually scan the party. 

Inaya is nowhere to be found, but even if she was Frankie wouldn't notice. His dark eyes are dragging over the sand for you and you alone. 

He spots you over by the BBQ, looking tense as you go about fixing a burger. You've got that serious look you wear when you're frustrated. Brows pinched, jaw clenched. 

You could be six, sixteen, and twenty six all at once. You'll always have that same expression and Frankie will always melt at the sight of it. 

He misses you. Misses the way you could comfort him like no one else. Misses the way you said his name. Misses the scent of your skin. He misses lightning bugs and ghost stories around campfires. 

And he knows in that horrible moment, that he's still so in love with you. Despite the party. Despite the man in your dorm room. Despite Seattle. Despite the silence. He misses you so much it feels like a physical pull of his sternum. One that forces his feet over the cooling sand, just to be near you. 

He halts a few steps away, watching the way your body tightens at his nearness. Can you hear his shallow breathing? Can you just sense him? He holds his breath and comes to stand next to you, reaching for a plate that he doesn't even need. He can't eat right now, his stomach is in knots. 

He tilts, eyes finally catching yours and he thinks he might faint or throw up. He's not sure which. You're not glaring at him anymore; instead it seems you're cataloging his features, taking in what a decade has done to him. 

What do you see? The lines between his brows? The patchy quality to his beard that he never grew out of? The length of his messy hair? Or are you looking at the hat he wears today? The old green one from his closet? 

Say something, Frankie tells himself when he realizes he's just been staring at you. Say something. Anything.

"Didn't know you'd be here. Didn't think you'd fly back for it," he adds before clearing his throat, hating how stilted he sounds.  

Your focus moves back to your plate. He watches you work, ears growing warm. 

"Sure." 

Silence extends as you both busy yourself with condiments and sides to your burgers. He keeps sneaking looks at your profile, questions running through his mind. Why did you never call him to explain? Don't you understand he would have forgiven you? Who was that guy in your dorm? Do you miss Frankie? 

"Your girlfriend seems nice," you say. 

Fuck. Inaya. 

He could tell you she's just a friend from work. Could tell you that he just met her recently. But he's never lied to you before, so why start now? 

"She's not really my girlfriend. We just... Hang out together sometimes." 

He doesn't want to talk about Inaya. He wants to talk about that night. He wants to know what happened. He wants to know if you still care about him. 

"Guess some things never change,” you say with a curl to your upper lip. Gone is the sweet voice he remembers, now replaced with something cold and flinty. 

"Huh?"  

“You’ve just always been good at making girls think they mean more to you than they actually do," you clarify.  

Old hurt comes rolling back, like a furious locomotive up his spine. "What's that supposed to mean?"  

Your name is called by Santi and the other guys. Tom has arrived and is clearly eager to meet you. You give a false smile and wave their way before looking back up at Frankie. 

"It means whatever you want it to, Frankie," you say with a disgusted scoff. "Just keep me out of it."  

He watches you leave, hips swaying as you move over the sand to greet the guys. They'll love you, he's sure. 

"That's her, huh?'

Frankie nearly jumps when he hears Inaya's soft voice at his elbow. "Huh? Who?"

"Morales," she sighs in mock exasperation. "C'mon."

Her eyes move from Pip back to Frankie and his nostrils flare slightly, eyes squinting. 

"I don't know what the fuck you're talking about, In." 

She steps closer, voice quiet, only for him. 

"I think I just met the reason you don't want to commit to a relationship."

Frankie's eyes narrow on her, anger clear in his expression. "Since when do you want commitment?"

"Not now," she says with a roll of her eyes. "But someday with someone." 

"Not everyone has your penchant for romance, I guess," Frankie hisses, cheeks splotchy

She looks at him with a worried expression. His jaw tightens, long fingers twitching at his sides as he shuffles in the sand. Inaya knows him well enough to recognize the signs. 

"You wanna leave?"

Frankie glances over her shoulder to see you at the rest of the guys laughing loudly. Just like he suspected, they love you already. 

"Yeah." 

She nods, taking his hand in hers and heading back to the truck. He doesn't bother saying goodbye to anyone. He just wants to slink off into the encroaching dusk and forget this ever happened. 

“That Benny is like an oversized puppy who doesn't know whether to bite or chase its tail,” Inaya laughs, her feet propped up on the dashboard as he drives.

Frankie can smirk at that, nodding. "Spot on." 

"You know, today I think I saw how you would have been as a boy," Inaya says affectionately, "All nervous and serious, hiding under that hat.”

She reaches over and tugs at the stray curl under Frankie's ear. He flinches away from her, scowling. 

"Quit it, I'm driving." 

She giggles, hair dancing in the air from the open window. She glances at the passing houses when she speaks next. 

"Pip seemed cool." 

Frankie is silent. He goes to turn on the radio but Inaya stills his fingers. She pulls herself into a properly seated position, braid falling over one shoulder. 

"Frank, c'mon. I know something happened there. You were avoiding her like the plague for most of the party. And the second you saw her you were, like, in a trance." 

Frankie swallows thickly, trying not to look unsettled. He had no idea he appeared that way to others. Is that what inspired Santi's stupid comments earlier? He's quiet, knowing that his silence is its own damning admission.

Inaya reaches across the cab of the truck, fingers light on his forearm. 

"I just wanna know what happened. I'm your friend, let me help you." 

Friends. He and Pip were friends. Inaya is nothing like you. The comparison makes him furious. 

"We're not friends, Inaya," Frankie snaps, teeth clenched as he jerks to a stop at a red light. 

Inaya takes a slow breath in, fingers lacing in her lap. "We're not?"

"No," Frankie says with a brutal curl of his lip. "We watch movies and eat food and sometimes we fuck. That's it." 

For a moment he thinks she might slap him, but she remains self possessed, voice controlled. 

"I see." 

The light turns green and the truck jostles to life as he aggressively pushes down the accelerator. The rest of the ride is incredibly tense. Inaya flicks the radio on this time and Frankie is thankful for the normally annoying sound of Barry Manilow. 

He eventually drops her off in front of her apartment building, turning the engine off with a slow twist of his keys. Frankie feels dead, his body heavy and useless. 

The two sit in a heavy silence, the day and the harsh words from earlier still echoing around the cab of the truck. Both seem to know this is the last time they'll see each other. 

Inaya unbuckles her seatbelt, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth before she looks his way. 

"We get one shot at life, Frankie," she says as she opens her door and climbs out. "Don't waste yours." 

Frankie doesn't say anything. He just watches her move to the building as he settles himself behind his steering wheel. He waits until she's safely inside before he pulls away, eyes wet and heart aching. 

“I need to see him.”

You move on shaky legs, eyes wild and shaky hands gripping the strap of your purse. Everything you’ve learned in the last hour has shifted your universe in a monumental way. There’s no way you can just sit here any longer

Hilary stands, trying to grab at your wrist at you attempt to leave. “Hey, slow down.”

“I need to see Frankie,” you say sharply. “Right now.”

“You can always call him up and ask him to come over." 

“Face to face.”

"You shouldn't be driving," Hilary tells you, face soft with concern. "Take a minute to breathe.”

"I'll be fine," you insist, shaking off her hand. "I promise." 

Your hurried feet almost catch on the carpet as you rush for the door. Hilary is calling after you, but you don't hear her. All that pounds in your ears is the thrum of your heartbeat. 

Frankie. Frankie. Frankie. 

Images of your time together are assaulting you, the kite, the pool, your first kiss, the funeral and his arms around you. His eyes, those beautiful fucking eyes. 

Your vision is blurry, but you blink the building tears back as you practically tear the door of your truck open. 

You need to see Frankie right this second. You need to clear this up. No more misunderstandings. 

You peel out of the driveway, small little hiccupping sobs escaping you as your foot slams against the accelerator.

You think of the lost years. Of the twenties you two could have shared, could have spent building a life together. Instead you diverged like branches away from one another. Lives led with carried animosity. All because of a fucking misunderstanding. 

I fucked up.

All this time we could have been together.

I didn't trust him.

We could have had so much time. 

These thoughts make your breath catch in your chest, distracting you the vehicle that slams into the side of you truck. For a moment everything seems to go in slow motion. You take in the squeal and scent of burnt tires, the crunch of metal.

And then darkness.

DON'T HATE ME.

dividers by @saradika-graphics

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