FAKE PLASTIC TREE

Dancing In The Dark — Javi Peña x fem!reader [hiatus, probably]

Part 01 | Part 02 | Part 03

Given To The Wild — Javi Peña x fem!reader [finished]

Part 01 - Ayla | Part 02 - Go | Part 03 - Free To Follow | Part 04 - Unknown

Seasons

When It Rains

Tonight

Blank Spaces (smut)

Simmer (chef!javi AU — smut)

Things Left Unsaid (angst)

Little Things (comfort fic)

All The Kings — Joel Miller x fem!reader

Part 01

Burn

Sunshine ( Summer Lovin' Challenge 2024)

The Spaces Between

Resolution

Salt

Home

Stories We Haven't Written Yet

Beneath the Beskar — Din Djarin x fem!reader

Still, he adjusted slightly, as if that might reset the temperature of the seat, or his understanding of it. It did neither. If anything, it made him wonder how much extra he was paying in rent for the function he hadn't, until now, been aware his toilet seats had.

Dieter had no real reason to be on the toilet other than that he felt like it, and he had been, until approximately six seconds ago, three moves away from clearing a particularly stubborn level in Candy Crush Saga. He had been stuck on it for the last four days, and yesterday he had spent $6.99 on something called Sugar Rescue Pack and then immediately closed the app and gone for a walk around the apartment complex to contemplate his life choices.

He read the message again.

can you get pads pls

His left eye twitched.

Dieter Bravo was forty-seven years old.

He had three franchises under his belt—well, two and a half if you ignored the one where his character died in the first ten minutes and only came back for flashbacks to haunt the rest of the cast. He had a star on a side-walk in a city he no longer lived in. And a fan forum somewhere in Eastern Europe, written in an alphabet he couldn’t read, where people either loved him or wanted him dead. Had done his own stunts exactly once, which ended in a lawsuit, a settlement, and a very serious conversation with his agents about the difference between “method acting” and “liability”.

He had been to therapy. Rehab, twice. Had spent a week in Sedona where a woman named Neomi held his hands and declared his sacral chakra was “murky as a swamp” and sold him a jade egg he still wasn’t entirely sure what to do with.

Dieter Bravo was forty-seven years old, and he had never once been asked to purchase pads before.

His thumb hovered for a second before typing:

what kind?

The reply came before he could lock the screen.

just the normal ones

His left eye twitched again.

Normal.

The word did nothing to him other than cause something to twist in his stomach.

Because normal was a setting on a dryer. Normal was what people told you to act when there were photographers outside and you were three espresso martinis deep. Normal was what his publicist called damage control after that incident with the inflatable swan and the hotel pool.

Dieter took a deep breath. Exhaled through his nose.

Somewhere out there, he was certain, existed men who knew these things. Better men. Men with toolboxes and men who had their shit together. Men who hadn’t once gotten locked in their own trailer for six hours because they’d somehow engaged a childproof lock from the inside. Men who knew what ‘normal ones’ meant. Men who walked into a pharmacy with confidence and didn't feel dread when their partner asked them to buy pads.

Dieter was not one of those men.

But he was, apparently, the kind of man who would figure out how to be one. For you.

—

Dieter had pulled into the parking lot of the Whole Foods and then sat there for a moment with the engine running, staring at the latest text you had sent him. A single heart emoji. He had stared at that tiny red shape until the screen dimmed, and felt something shift in his chest that he didn’t have a name for. And then sat some more, pretending that he wasn’t being anxious for another ten minutes.

Now, he was inside, blocking the entrance like a man who had never seen fluorescent lighting before, looking at the store. At the sheer scale of it. At the people who seemed to belong there. People who were grabbing things, checking lists, living their lives as if they knew exactly what they were doing.

Dieter did not know what he was doing. Dieter had a text message that had words “...pads pls” and approximately forty-seven years of life experience that hadn’t prepared him for this moment.

He forced himself forward. 

Past the produce section and past the bakery and aisles of things no one should need but everyone seemed to buy anyway. Past the display of matcha in tiny jars, kombucha on tap and organic honey that cost more than his first headshots. He hurried past the wine section, avoiding looking at it because he’d been trying and doing very well lately—thank you—nearly four months.

And then he entered aisle five. Stopped. Looked at it.

Aisle five looked back.

There were, by Dieter’s rough count, no fewer than thirty-seven distinct varieties of pads. Pads with wings. Pads without wings. Pads described as ultra thin and pads described as nighttime. There were pads in blue packaging and pads in pink packaging and pads in packaging that was purple and claimed, in large letters, to offer TOTAL PROTECTION, which sounded less like a period product and more like a home security system.

Dieter looked at the wall of options before him and thought, very calmly, that he might die here. That they would find him in aisle five, surrounded by wings and ultra thins and overnights with Flexi-Wings. 

What even were Flexi-Wings? Why did they flex? Where were they going?

Maybe he should text you but that would mean defeat, or maybe he should've asked before it came to this, but Dieter wasn't sure if a 'tell me your pad preferences, baby' conversation would've been a sign of vulnerable intimacy or made him sound like a complete psychopath.

He reached for a package. Put it back. Reached for another and stared at it for a few seconds, as if the words ‘dermatologically tested’ meant something to him.

It didn’t.

So, he simply started grabbing. First the blue packaging. Then a yellow because it looked cute. Added a pink one because it said GENTLE written in cursive. Then a green one that mentioned something about organic cotton, which felt like something he should care about, even if he wasn’t entirely sure why. And since he already was in hell, he grabbed a box in purple that promised NIGHTTIME MAXIMUM PROTECTION and featured a woman sleeping so peacefully she might have been dead.

In retrospect, he should have known that was supposed to be it. He should've paid and left pad purgatory, but he'd barely turned around before something else kicked in. Something one of his therapists called ‘the spiral’. Because if he was getting pads, he should probably get other things too. Supportive things. Things that said, I am a man who cares.

So he marched towards the end of the aisle and the pharmacy display. Grabbed Tylenol. Then Advil. Then something called Midol, which he had never heard of but which had a woman looking relieved on the box, so it seemed like something women used.

A woman in a matching set stopped near him—a yoga mat slung over her shoulder, talking to someone on her phone about her period coming soon. She absentmindedly reached for a box of tampons without even looking, and Dieter found himself in awe of how easy she'd done it. Dieter stared, eyes caught on the blue applicator pictured on the box. Remebered finding one of those in his ex's bathroom once and thinking it was some kind of sex toy. 

He'd been too afraid to ask then. Probably should have. Might have saved him a lot of trouble now.

The woman caught him looking. Paused mid-sentence for a few awkward seconds and then walked away, resuming the conversation she was having. Something about cramps and how heating pads helped if she couldn’t take a bath.

Dieter stood there for a moment, processing and then he abandoned the aisle five and went hunting.

The wellness section was aisle seven and had heating pads; too many heating pads. Electric ones with cords and digital displays. Disposable ones that promised eight hours of warmth. Reusable gel packs in clinical white. A wrap thing that looked like it belonged on a knee. Something called a ‘menstrual cramp relief system’ that came with a remote control and frightened him.

And then he saw it.

A microwaveable heating pad shaped like a sloth.

It was brown and fuzzy, with little outstretched arms and a face that suggested it had never experienced stress. The package said it was filled with organic flax seeds and lavender. The sloth's embroidered eyes were half-closed like it was either very calm or mildly stoned and the smile was stitched in expression of dopey optimism. And most important of all, it kinda reminded him of himself.

Dieter picked it up. Held it up to eye level.

"Yeah," he said quietly. "Same."

He put the sloth in the basket because he knew you would love it. You'd definitely make the same joke about it looking like him. You'd probably heat it up and hold it against your stomach and tell him it was perfect, and he'd feel like he'd done something right for once.

Dieter turned on his heel and made his way towards the self-checkout before stopping in his tracks when he noticed jars of peanut butter, arranged in a neat pyramid.

Of course. Peanut butter.

You loved peanut butter. On apples and on toast and sometimes directly from the spoon at two in the morning while standing in front of the open refrigerator claiming you were just ‘just checking on something’.

So he made a quick stop. Grabbed your usual brand—the crunchy one and then a jar of almond butter. Then he saw a chocolate peanut butter that seemed like it might be relevant to the situation, and a honey one that looked interesting, and—

His phone buzzed again.

you okay? xx

Dieter looked at the message. Looked at his basket. Looked at the ceiling of the Whole Foods. Thought about how he could still fix this. He could put everything back except one box of pads—

—but then he thought of tea.

Because you did drink tea, and he was fairly sure that your tea collection was extensive and included boxes with names like Calm Evening and Peaceful Digestive Harmony.

Two minutes later he'd added three boxes of herbal tea to the basket. Chamomile. Peppermint. Something called "Moon Cycle Support" that had a drawing of a woman doing yoga on the package and claimed to contain raspberry leaf, which sounded like a gimmick but Dieter knew nothing about tea so he went with it.

The basket was now quite heavy, so much so that Dieter had to place it on the floor and flex his fingers for a few seconds.

Somewhere, in the small corner of his brain he knew that he should stop, but then, for reasons he couldn’t give, he thought of cheese.

And before he could talk himself out of it, he'd made his way towards the dairy section. Grabbed a wedge of aged cheddar and a small wheel of brie, some gouda with truffle that looked fancy and because he was apparently fully committed to this now, a container of mini mozzarella balls you ate directly from the container. And then he saw the crackers next to the cheese and grabbed two boxes, one plain and one rosemary and olive oil because who ate their cheese without crackers.

At the self-checkout—because there was no universe in which he was going to make eye contact with an actual human while purchasing this collection of items—Dieter began scanning his haul.

The total came to $136.42.

For pads.

Well. For pads and the entire supporting infrastructure of menstrual comfort.

His phone buzzed just as he was loading the bags into the passenger seat.

thank you baby you're the best xx

Dieter sat in the driver's seat and looked at the bags. His therapist was going to have a field day with this one.

—

Your apartment was on the third floor of a building with an elevator that had been "under maintenance" for six weeks, which meant Dieter had to climb three flights of stairs carrying what felt like fifty pounds of period supplies, his breathing getting worse with each landing. By the second floor, he was reconsidering every life choice that had led him here. By the third, he was pretty sure he could see God.

At your door, he dropped one of the bags at his feet, flexed his fingers to uncramp them, and knocked.

A pause. Shuffling. The faint, unmistakable sound of something being kicked out of the way.

Then the door opened, and you stood there—tired, slightly disheveled, and, Dieter thought with a tenderness that still sometimes surprised him, absolutely perfect.

"Oh thank god," you said, already turning away and waving him in. "I'm dying."

"You're not dying." Then, immediately: "I mean—you might be dying. Are you dying? Should I call someone?"

His brain helpfully supplied images of ambulances, malpractice lawsuits, and your mother blaming him personally.

"I'm not literally dying." You collapsed onto the couch like gravity had suddenly doubled. "It just feels like my uterus is getting ready for a coup."

He hovered, unsure whether this was a metaphor that required medical intervention. Then you noticed the bags.

"Jesus, Dieter." You squinted. "I asked for pads, not—what is all that?"

"Well, pads," he said, manoeuvring through the doorway into the kitchen. "And… related items."

"Define related," you called after him, suspicious now.

He set the bags down with a heavy thunk. You followed more slowly, one hand pressed to your stomach, eyeing the haul. "Dieter. How many pads did you buy?"

"Yes," he blurted, and then began unpacking with the focus of someone presenting evidence. "Okay. So. I got pads. Several kinds, actually, because you said normal and I wasn't entirely clear on what normal meant in this context, so I got—" He lined the boxes up like he was displaying products on a shopping channel.

"Dieter—"

"And then I got more pads." The nighttime maximum protection package emerged. "Because I thought maybe you'd want backup options, I don't actually know the protocols here, and it felt inappropriate to ask via text. And also—" the painkillers appeared, "—Tylenol and Advil. And Midol, because look at this woman, doesn't she look relieved?"

"Dieter—"

"And this," he said, producing the microwaveable sloth with something approaching pride, "is a heating pad. Shaped like a sloth. Because heat helps with cramps. Definitely know that one. Definitely did not overhear another customer saying that."

The sloth joined the growing collection. Your mouth was doing something complicated he couldn't quite parse.

"It looks like you."

He considered the sloth. Its dopey expression. Its little arms. Its general air of fuzzy confusion.

"Yeah," he said quietly. "Noticed that too."

"And then I got peanut butter," he said, momentum carrying him forward even as a small voice in his head suggested he should perhaps stop talking. "Because you love peanut butter more than basically anything, so—" he started lining up jars, "—your usual, and then almond butter in case you wanted variety, and this chocolate peanut butter, and a honey one because... why not."

The jars formed a small battalion. He was running out of counter space.

"And tea." The boxes came out. "Herbal tea. Chamomile for relaxation, peppermint for digestion, and this one called Moon Cycle Support, which I'll admit sounds a bit like something Gwyneth Paltrow would sell for two hundred dollars, but the package said it helps with period symptoms, so… worth a try."

"Dieter—"

"And cheese," he said, now slightly breathless, pulling out the wrapped wedges. "Aged cheddar, brie, this gouda with truffle that looked fancy, and those mini mozzarella balls you like. And crackers—" two boxes emerged, "—because we are not animals. We live in a society."

He stopped. The counter was completely covered. The two canvas bags lay deflated on the floor like they'd given their lives in service of a greater cause.

He looked at you.

You looked at the counter.

Neither of you spoke for a long moment.

"I may have," Dieter said carefully, "overcompensated slightly."

You made a sound. Something between a laugh and a sob, and panic flooded his system because he couldn't tell which one it was and the distinction felt extremely important.

"Did I—is this… should I not have—"

And then you were crossing the kitchen, and your arms were around his neck, and you were kissing him with a fierceness that seemed disproportionate to the situation but which Dieter was absolutely not going to question.

When you pulled back, your eyes were wet, which spiked his panic again until he saw you were smiling.

"You absolute idiot." Your voice was thick with something that sounded a lot like affection. "You bought me a pharmacy."

"I wanted you to have options."

You laughed and kissed him again. "You're insane."

"I'm thoughtful," he said, with as much dignity as he could muster while being kissed. "There's a difference."

"You spent—" you turned back to the counter, doing visible mental arithmetic, "—Jesus, Dieter, you spent like a hundred bucks."

"One-hundred and thirty-six and change. But who's counting."

"On pads."

"On your comfort and wellbeing during a challenging time. I might have gotten carried away in aisle five."

"Aisle five?"

"It's a whole thing. There was a spectrum. I had a minor crisis about competence and masculinity and whether knowing about wings was essential boyfriend knowledge I'd somehow missed."

Your smile was doing something that made his chest feel warm and tight at the same time. "You're an idiot," you said again, softer this time.

"So you've mentioned."

"But you're my idiot."

"Very much your idiot, yes."

"Come on." You took his hand and the peanut butter jar. "Let's go watch something mindless, and you can microwave this sloth for me later and pretend you know what you're doing."

"I absolutely know what I'm doing with microwaveable sloths."

"Sure you do, baby. Sure you do."

—

Now he's at the stove, cracking the eggs against the counter's edge without much thought. Quick. Precise. One sharp tap, clean break.

His hands work from muscle memory, the same way they used to in makeshift camps with nothing but a camping stove and a flashlight clenched between his teeth. The same way they moved in borrowed kitchens on the other side of the world, barefoot on cold tiles at 0400, making breakfast for men who might not see another day.

"You want ’em the funny way?" he asks, butter already swirling golden in the dented pan he refuses to replace.

You nod before remembering he's facing away, then force the words out. "Yeah. Runny, but not gooey." Your fingers worry the edge of the towel. "Just barely holding together. Like—"

"—Like me trying not to cry at the end of Up." He turns, spatula in hand, that crooked smile deepening. "I remember, baby."

A slow warmth unfurls in your chest. The kind that makes you want to close your eyes and just sit with it for a while. Cherish it. Because being remembered for something so small shouldn't make your stomach perform acrobatics. But here you are, and you have no clue what to do with that feeling. 

Because Frankie Morales shouldn’t be this gentle. He's all sharp angles and careful movements and the kind of quiet that comes from carrying too much, for too long. But when he’s with you, Frankie Morales slows down. He softens. Speaks like everything inside him has finally stopped barking orders and shouting coordinates. His hands, calloused and cracked, marked by years of doing god-knows-what in god-knows-where, are careful with you.

"Coffee?" he asks softly, sliding the eggs onto a chipped plate the colour of moss.

You shake your head, offering him a grateful smile. "No, thank you."

He hums, then sets the plate in front of you. The eggs are exactly how you like them: still trembling, just shy of solid. The toast’s cut into neat triangles, warm to the touch. Edges crisp but not sharp.

You glance up. Watch him as he pours coffee into the chipped mug he secretly prefers before dropping into the chair beside you where he bumps his knee against the table leg like he always does. Exhales.

He’s already eaten—you know that. His body runs on some internal clock you’ve never quite synced with. And you know that he was up before sunrise, probably halfway through his breakfast before you’d even stirred.

"You gonna eat, or just admire my plating?" he teases, nudging your knee with his. There’s a soft smile tugging at his mouth.

You roll your eyes but pick up your fork anyway. The first bite is good—warm, salted right, exactly how you wanted them, quickly making you realise just how hungry you were until now. Without realising a quiet sound of appreciation catches in your throat, and before you can stop it, a smile blooms. Small. Real.

It causes Frankie to lean across the table. Bump his pinkie against yours and smile back. "There you are," he murmurs.

And it’s not the words that undo you, but the way he says them. Like he’s been waiting all morning for you to arrive even though you’ve been right here the whole time.

Because a few months ago, this would’ve been impossible. The thought of eating in front of anyone, let alone him, used to make your stomach twist into sailors' knots. But here you are. Still anxious. Still wired too tight, but doing it anyway.

The kitchen is small and a little crooked, like all rentals are. His rental. Temporary in every sense. Mismatched chairs, a scratched linoleum floor, and nothing on the walls except a photo of him and Santi in someone’s backyard, and a thumbtacked map of Colombia above the toaster.

You shift in your seat, fork still in hand, and take another bite. The borrowed sweatshirt you’re wearing is too warm, clinging and scratchy in all the wrong places, but you can’t bring yourself to take it off.

Frankie notices. You know he does. But he doesn’t ask why you’re bundled up in the middle of the summer, or why you flinched earlier when your reflection caught you off guard in the microwave door. He just sips his coffee, then reaches under the table until he finds your foot and gently draws it into his lap. His thumb begins to trace slow, steady circles against your ankle.

"You didn’t sleep great," he says quietly. "Caught you kicking. Lotta twitching."

A wave of panic washes over you. "Was I loud? Did I wake you?"

"Nah." He shakes his head. "Just restless. Like you were trying to run somewhere." A pause. "Dreamin’ again?"

You shrug, fork pausing halfway to your mouth. "Don't remember."

He nods once. Accepts the blank. Takes a sip of his coffee. "All right."

When you finish, he takes your plate and his empty mug to the sink. Before he walks away, he gently lifts the damp tea towel from your lap and folds it neatly in half. Then, on his way back, he pauses. Presses a kiss to your temple, warm and brief, and you let your eyes close. Let yourself smile, just a little.

Because Frankie Morales always does that. These small touches. As if he needs the constant reminder that you're real.

And you don't mind.

Sometimes, you need the reminder too.

Later, he drives.

You've never liked being in the passenger seat. Something about not being in control makes your skin itch. But Frankie’s truck smells like him. Warm flannel, faint gasoline, and that soap he always forgets the name of. And somehow, it keeps the anxiety at bay. His hand, resting weightlessly on your denim-clad thigh, helps too.

He doesn’t ask what you want to listen to—just cues up music you like. Instrumental. No lyrics to decode, nothing demanding. Just guitar and synth. Loops and layers. Beats you can count if you need to.

Your temple finds the window. The glass is sun-warm and solid. Outside, the landscape blurs. Gas stations with faded signs, lawns brown from water restrictions, houses with optimistic FOR SALE signs, a kid on a skateboard, gliding effortlessly.

At the next red light, Frankie's eyes find yours. "You good?"

You nod, automatic.

"You sure?"

You nod again. Slower, this time.

His pinkie extends, barely brushing yours where they rest on your leg. "Wanna say it out loud for me?"

You pause. Then press your pinkie to his. "I’m okay."

The light turns green. He moves through the gears smoothly and smiles like he won something small but very important.

He probably has.

The library is quiet—your kind of quiet. Not empty, just calm. Pages turning. Chairs creaking. People speaking in lowercase. Frankie follows you in without a word, hands in his pockets, boots scuffing softly against the old tiles.

He doesn't ask where you're going. Just follows as you wander through the stacks, letting you take your time. You will stop when something catches your eye.

Instead, he finds a chair near the back—too small for his frame but he folds himself into it anyway, all knees and patient waiting. He watches you browse the isles way people watch weather through windows: calm but alert, ready to move if the storm turns.

Ten minutes later, you return and sit beside him. Slip a book into his lap.

His eyebrows rise as he reads the cover. "Birds?"

You shrug, suddenly self-conscious. "You said you liked hawks."

"Did I?" he asks but his voice has that teasing note, the one that says he remembers perfectly well.

You nod once. "When we watched that nature documentary. You were half-asleep." Your finger traces the book's spine. "Kept correcting the narrator under your breath."

He flips the book open, smiling without quite meaning to. "Yeah, that sounds like me."

You nod, suddenly a little shy without knowing why.

He turns a few pages, stops at a photo. "Peregrine falcon," he says, tapping the picture. "Fastest thing alive when it dives. Used to see them overseas sometimes."

You hum, interested, and lean your head against his shoulder. He shifts to make room, adjusts the book so you can both see.

You weren’t always like this. Comfortable enough to be close to him. Not because you didn’t want to. And not because he made you feel unsafe. But because your brain doesn’t always work the way people expect it to.

Sometimes you freeze mid-sentence. Sometimes you latch onto things no one else notices or cares about—the texture of a napkin, the squeak of a marker, a single phrase looping in your head like a stuck record. Your therapist has terms for it all, clinical words that feel too clean for the messy reality of living in your skin.

Most of the time, you simply feel like a marionette with its strings tied wrong.

In school, they called you names.

In college, they didn’t call you at all.

Later, in adulthood, people started using words like quirky and different. As if that were a compliment. As if you should be grateful just to be tolerated.

Frankie never made you feel like work. Never sighed when you went quiet mid-sentence. Never rushed you when the words got stuck. He just... stayed. Asked questions and actually wanted the answers, even when they came slow or sideways or not at all.

You remember the first time he kissed you.

He asked first. And it wasn’t the kind of asking people to just tick a box, but a real ask. Eyes searching yours. Voice low. Breath close.

"Is this okay?" he said.

You nodded. Too fast, probably. Maybe even a little panicked.

And then he kissed you so gently it made you cry afterwards.

You didn’t tell him why.

Not then.

You have, since.

That night, he runs a bath.

You didn’t ask. You never do. Because the words always get tangled somewhere inside your chest, caught in that familiar spiral of not wanting to be too much, too needy; too anything. 

But Frankie hears the way your voice thins around the edges. He notices how your hoodie sleeves now swallow your hands. How you've started that careful dance around mirrors again, eyes hiding from any surface that might show you back to yourself.

So he say nothing. Just runs the water and allows the steam to fog up the mirror you won’t look at anyway. Fetches the scented candle you keep shifting around the living room because it’s always in the way. Lights it carefully, even though the wick is almost gone. Through all of this, you sit on the closed toilet lid, knees drawn up, chin resting on them. Still wearing his hoodie despite the growing warmth. 

Frankie crouches next to the tub, knees protesting as he tests the temperature with the back of his hand. Checks it again, just to be sure. 

"It's ready when you are," he says, voice soft enough not to startle.

You undress slowly, mechanically. Each piece of clothing feels heavier than it should. The hoodie clings, reluctant to let go. Your jeans require negotiation. But once you slide into the water it cradles you as if it was waiting to hold you the whole day. The heat seeps into muscles you didn't realise were clenched, and something in your chest loosens.

Frankie settles on the bathroom floor beside you, back against the wall, legs stretched out. His fingers work through his hair, tugging at the curls in that absent way that means he's thinking. You watch him through the steam—this man who barely fits in this small bathroom, sitting on the floor like there's nowhere else he'd rather be.

Minutes pass like that. Quiet. The candle flickers. Steam curls.

You rest your chin on your knees, watching the water move with your breathing. The words build up slowly, working their way past the knot in your throat.

"Can you..." Your voice comes out thin. You clear your throat, try again. "Can you hold me?"

It sounds so small in the bathroom quiet.

Frankie doesn't answer. He simply stands up. Begins to undress. First the flannel. Then the tee beneath. When his hands move to his belt, you look away, sudden shyness flooding through you and you focus on the water. The edge of the tub. A tiny bubble clinging to your wrist like it doesn’t want to pop.

"Can you scoot forward a little?" His voice is gentle. Careful. 

You shift, water sloshing softly, and then he's climbing in behind you with a soft grunt. 'Gonna be the death of my knees,' he mutters, but there's no real complaint in it.  The water shifts with his weight when he settles. It rises around the shape of him. His legs bracket yours, and then his arms come around you, warm and solid, and you fold into him like a sigh. 

Beneath the water, his hands find yours, fingers interlacing with practiced ease. "Do you wanna talk about it?" 

"Maybe later."

Frankie nods. Presses a kiss to your wet shoulder. Then breathes with you. One slow inhale at a time.

The heat seeps in. The panic, for once, doesn’t win.

You stay like that until the water cools.

Later, in bed, Frankie slides in behind you. Folds himself around your back knowing exactly where to press close and where to leave space. One hand settles at your waist, thumb finding that spot where your hip begins its curve. The other brushes damp hair from your neck, fingertips trailing goosebumps in their wake.

"You feel like talking now?" he whispers.

You hesitate, throat tight. Then nod against the pillow. "Kinda."

He doesn’t say anything but tightens his hold, waiting.

"I get tired of pretending I’m okay all the time," you begin. Voice low. Uncertain. "And it’s exhausting. And my brain just... won’t shut up. About everything. The way I walk, how my voice sounds, what people see when they look at me. If I'm taking up too much space or not enough. If I'm too quiet or too loud or too—" You break off, frustrated with your own frustration.

Frankie hums—barely audible. His thumb traces a slow line along your side. Still listening. 

"I hate how I look." The admission falls between you like a stone into still water.

"Baby..." His voice is barely a breath when he speaks. His lips find your neck, pressing a kiss there so gentle it makes you want to cry. "You're beautiful."

Your whole body tenses, rejecting the words before they can land.

"You have to say that."

"No," he murmurs, fingers finding yours beneath the covers, folding them gently into his palm. "I don't have to. I get to. There's a difference."

You can barely exhale because you weren’t expecting that answer. It sits between you for a moment before you shift, tucking your face against his chest. His t-shirt is worn soft from too many washes, familiar against your cheek.

"You know the first time you talked to me?" Your voice comes muffled against his chest. "I got this weird feeling in my chest. Thought something was wrong with me. Like, medically. WebMD, emergency room kind of wrong."

His chest vibrates with quiet laughter, arms tightening around you.

"You thought I gave you a heart condition?"

"I didn't have the language for it," you defend, still speaking into his shirt. "Didn't know what butterflies felt like. Turns out they're really aggressive when they want to be."

This time he laughs, chest vibrating under your cheek. 

"Well, if we're confessing medical emergencies," he says, breathless with amusement, "you gave me full-body paralysis. Temporary, but still concerning."

You snort an inelegant sound that makes him grin wider.

"I'm serious," he insists, trying to sound grave but failing. “First time I saw you... it was like—boom. Tunnel vision. Game over.” His hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading through still-damp hair. “I rerouted my entire grocery routine just to maybe bump into you again.”

"You hate grocery stores."

"I know," he says. "But you were in one. So that's where I needed to be."

You don’t say anything for a while. Neither does he. But the words are there. Heavy on your chest, inching up. The scratch on the way. Bruise a little, too.

"Frankie…," you whisper, reaching up to touch one of the curls that’s fallen over his forehead. It springs back slowly when you let it go.

His eyes are closed but his lips twitch, amused by something only he knows. "What's on your mind, baby?"

You open your mouth. Close it. Swallow. Try again.

"I love you."

His eyelids flicker, then open slowly—like he’s not quite convinced he isn’t dreaming. 

You try to smile, but it doesn’t quite land. Your heart’s beating too fast, knocking around like it doesn’t know what to do with itself. And suddenly, neither do you. Your hands feel strange, misplaced. Your mouth, clumsy. Your whole body, unsure where it’s meant to be.

But Frankie's already moving, shifting closer with careful intent. The mattress dips with his weight. His nose bumps yours. Gentle. Almost playful. You inhale sharply at the contact, a small catch in your throat, because he's warm. And he is real. Solid. Yours. 

"I love you too," he murmurs, so close that you feel it rather than hear it. "Have for a while now." Then a whisper, "I just didn't want to scare you."

The kiss that follows is everything Frankie is with you. Patient. Deliberate. Achingly gentle. His hand cups your jaw, steadying, thumb tracing the curve of your cheekbone. Lips soft and insistent, brush yours like he's learning you for the first time. Like he's afraid you might dissolve if he presses too hard. 

He breaks away slowly, forehead resting against yours. In the dim light, you can just make out his expression. Soft. Open. A little amazed.

"Was that okay?" The question ghosts across your lips. You can feel the curve of his smile, tentative and hopeful.

Your breath shivers out between you. "Yeah. Yes. More than."

His grin blooms full and bright, even in the darkness. Then he's gathering you close, tucking you against his chest where his heart drums a rhythm that matches yours. You sigh. Burrow into him until you can't tell where you end and he begins. Your fingers find the hem of his shirt, holding on, and there his pinkie hooks around yours.

Outside, the world keeps going. Lights blink. Pipes hum. A car passes.

Not in the fridge. Not under the sink. Not in the car—he checked already. Twice.

"Fuck," he says again, this time quieter, bracing his hands against the scarred countertop. 

You’ll be back home any minute. Twenty. Maybe less. 

Twelve hours in that goddamn hospital. Blood. Bile. Bureaucracy. And the cramps. You never complain, but he sees it anyway. It’s in the way you move and the careful way you lower yourself onto the couch, knees drawn up like armour. 

He clocked it days ago. Of course he did. Like he always does with you.

So he wanted to have it ready. Just a little thing. Warm. Waiting. A gesture.

But it's gone.

"Where the fuck is it?" he mutters, yanking open the hall closet again.

A stack of towels tumbles to the floor. He steps over them, already moving—cabinet under the sink, empty. Not in the bedroom either. He checks again, just in case. As if it might’ve appeared out of guilt.

The AC rattles in the window, wheezing against the summer heat. He scrubs a hand down the back of his neck. Sighs. He should shower. Should quit smoking. Should stop cursing.

He lights another cigarette instead.

—

The keys hit the ceramic bowl by the door with a soft clatter. 

Javi hears it from the kitchen, half-folded into a cabinet, one hand braced against the counter while the other sifts blindly through a chaos of mismatched Tupperware lids and a bottle of ibuprofen that expired in ‘89.

"Hey," you call out, voice tired but light. "Smells like frustration and dust in here."

He grunts. "Very funny."

You pad into the kitchen but he doesn’t look up—doesn’t want to show how long he’s been at this, how close he is to admitting defeat. Instead, he shifts a plastic container with more force than necessary. It bangs off the cabinet door and clatters onto the floor.

"What are you doing down there? Looking for your dignity?"

Leaning into the doorframe, you cross your arms, toes flexing against the cold tile. He still doesn’t answer.

A lid goes skidding across the floor like it’s making a break for freedom.

"That thermal thing," he mutters finally, still not meeting your eyes.

There’s a pause. Then your voice softens. "You mean the heating pad?"

He nods. Grabs a baking dish that hasn’t seen the oven since Reagan was in office and sets it aside.

A second later a small noise escapes him. Agreement, maybe. Frustration. Defeat.

"Oh, Javi."

That sound—gentle, amused, warm. It pisses him off.

"Don’t ‘oh Javi’ me," he grumbles. "I know how you get… You come home all stiff, act like everything’s fine, then curl up like a shrimp on the couch and pretend breathing doesn’t hurt."

Two steps across the kitchen and you’re crouching beside him, knees brushing his.

He still won’t look at you.

"You’ve been looking for it this whole time?"

His jaw tightens but he nods. "Thought I saw it in the laundry room. Maybe the linen closet. Checked under the bed. Behind the goddamn dryer—"

"Javi," you interrupt gently, "I’m okay. You don’t have to—"

"Yeah, I do."

There’s something in his voice, but you know it’s not anger. It’s something heavier. Like he’s been holding the weight of your pain all evening and doesn’t know where to put it down.

The silence that follows is warm, humming. Familiar. You lean into him a little. Press your shoulder to his. He looks at you. Gives you that half-smile of his. Crooked. Tired. Dangerous. The kind that got you in trouble once, and keeps doing it.

"You were gonna warm it up for me," you say, voice going small, a little sheepish.

He shrugs, eyes back on the clutter. "Figured it’d help. Thought maybe I could do one fucking thing right."

Your fingers trace the line of his jaw, smoothing away the tension held there. "You do plenty."

A huff escapes him, half-laugh, half-sigh. "Yeah?"

"Mhm." Your fingers slip into his hair, nails grazing lightly against his scalp. "In fact, I can think of a few things you’re exceptionally good at."

That pulls a real laugh from him, deep and rough as he drops his head against your shoulder.

"Jesus, woman…"

"I’m just saying." Your smile curls at the edges. A little sly and a whole lot fond. "You have many talents. Both in and out of clothing."

He finally leans back on his heels, knees popping with the motion, and lets you tug him to his feet. 

"It’ll turn up," you murmur, wrapping your arms around his waist. 

"I tore the place apart."

"You’re dramatic."

"I’m thorough," he mutters. Then quieter, "Didn’t want you hurting."

Something in your face shifts. Softens. Your eyes go wide and warm in that way he’s still not used to—too kind, too understanding. It always leaves him wrong-footed. Unbalanced.

Your hands slide around to the small of his back, guiding him gently toward the living room.

"Come on," you say. "The show’s about to start and I really need to sit down. You can grumble through the commercials with me."

In the living room, the couch sinks a little as you settle against each other. You tuck your feet up and reach around to unclasp your bra before sliding it through your sleeve. A routine. A ritual. He pops the cap off a beer and drops it into the dish of loose change on the table. It lands with a soft clink, bouncing off a couple quarters and a lone guitar pick neither of you can remember owning.

The TV flickers to life. Some over-the-top theme song starts up—strings and drums and drama.

"Go ahead," you invite, holding out the remote, not even glancing at him. "Say what you’re gonna say. Get it out of your system."

He doesn’t miss a beat. "It is dumb. The guy’s in a coma and somehow he’s still knocking people up?"

You give an easy shrug. "Modern medicine is full of miracles."

"He's not even conscious!"

"Are you conscious of how invested you get in this every night?"

"That's—" He catches himself, shakes his head. "You’re insufferable."

You grin without looking at him. "You say that like it’s a dealbreaker."

"It should be."

"But it’s not."

He doesn’t answer right away. Just leans his head back against the couch cushion. Stares at the ceiling for a moment like maybe if he keeps his eyes up, he won’t fall for you all over again. 

The TV blares another dramatic moment—someone gets slapped, someone else gasps like it’s the end of the world. You laugh, soft and a little smug.

He doesn’t laugh, but his mouth quirks. Barely. His hand shifts—slow, casual—and comes to rest on your knee. 

"I’m sorry I couldn’t find it," he says after a moment, not looking at you.

You shift just enough to catch his profile. "Javi. It's okay, really."

"I just—" A heavy swallow. "You're always here for me, putting up with my shit. Figured I could manage one little thing. Get something right."

"Get what right?"

His fingers flex slightly against your leg. He doesn’t blink.

"This," he says at last. "You. Us." 

"You do," you say, resting your head against his shoulder. "More than you know."

A beat of quiet stretches between you. Comfortable, but not quite still. On-screen, the telenovela goes on. Someone gasps. Someone faints. 

You shift, the movement lazy and deliberate, voice low with amusement. "Gonna make it real weird if I climb into your lap?"

Javi doesn’t look up right away—just tips the neck of his beer bottle toward his lips, swallowing the last mouthful before setting it on the scarred side table. The lamp beside it leans like it’s drunk. Probably is.

His then glances at you, one brow arched in that familiar, unimpressed way. "Since when have you ever worried about being weird?"

You flash him a grin. "Fair point."

And then you’re clambering over, not exactly graceful, but not trying to be. Settle in like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Because it is. Kinda.

He adjusts without complaint, legs spreading slightly to make room, hands finding your waist, warm and steady beneath your shirt. His palms are rough, fingers calloused, and they slide up your sides like they know the way by heart.

Maybe they do..

You press your forehead to his neck, breathing him in. Warm skin. Clean shirt. A little beer. A little you.

"Still mad about the heating pad?" you murmur against his skin.

A low hum rumbles in his chest. "I’m not mad."

You smile, lips brushing his throat. "You were mad."

"I was annoyed," he corrects. "Different thing."

"Semantics."

You let your fingers trace the edge of his shirt, knuckles grazing his stomach. "So, all this tenderness…" you begin, slow and sweet, "...you buttering me up so I’ll sleep with you?"

Javi huffs a laugh, eyes half-lidded and fond. "Please. Like I’ve ever had to butter you up."

You roll your eyes. Kiss him anyway—slow and warm, no hurry to get anywhere. 

His hands slide up, over your back, your sides, his thumbs brushing the soft weight of your breasts. Your fingers tug at his shirt, pushing it off his shoulders with a kind of muscle memory. 

You’ve done this before. You’ll do it again.

"You’re ridiculous," you murmur against his mouth, hips rolling just enough to make your point.