✰frankie✰

He had you bent in half, pretzeled beneath him, every thrust brutal and deep enough to steal your breath. And then he saw it: the anklet. The little string of shells you’d bought on your first trip together, rattling against your ankle with every snap of his hips.

His control faltered. His eyes darkened. “Fuck… you’re still wearing it,” he rasped, voice guttural. “Our first trip and now you’re begging me to finish inside you with it shaking like that?” His hips drove harder, deeper, jaw tight like he was holding back, but the sounds spilling from him were wrecked, feral.

“Please, Frankie,” you begged, clutching around him, whimpering. “Inside, give me everything…. I want it….Need it.”

That tore him apart. His control snapped, every thrust ragged and desperate as he groaned against your mouth, words spilling unfiltered.

“Gonna fill you up—fuck, give you everything,” a plea and a promise all at once. “You’d look so good with my cum dripping out of you. You’ll look so beautiful carrying my baby, all round and glowing with me inside you.”

The thought tore another guttural sound from him, his pace erratic now, every thrust a surrender to the feral hunger that owned him. He buried himself to the hilt, grinding deep like he could make sure none of him ever left you, chest shuddering as the need to mark you burned hotter than anything he’d ever survived.

His moan was ragged against your lips, body trembling as he pressed in deep and came hard, each thick pulse spilling inside you until he shuddered with the ruin of it.

And then softness. His body relaxed, forehead still pressed to yours as his breath slowed. He carefully lowered your legs, his hand sliding down to catch your ankle, rough fingertips against your soft skin. 

His lips lingered on the shells, a prayer against your temple, so soft you almost misheard it over the pounding in your ears. “I can’t wait to make you a mama soon,” he murmured, almost to himself. “And I’ll never stop worshipping you for giving me that.”

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Frankie hated his birthday. It wasn’t always like that. Back before the army, before the trauma, before loss and heartbreak, he used to love it. The candles on the cake, the feeling of being cherished—it was one of the few bright, untarnished memories left from a life that hadn’t yet been painted gray.

Now he didn’t even bother to mark the day on the calendar, didn’t bother asking for time off. After everything—Brazil, the divorce, the funeral of one of his best friends—he didn’t see the point. Birthdays felt like a cruel joke, another reminder that he’d made it one more year when so many didn’t.

But Santi insisted on dragging him out tonight, so here he was.

Standing in front of the fogged-up bathroom mirror after a shower, staring at a reflection he barely recognized. Dark shadows carved under his eyes. The scar splitting his cheekbone, a souvenir from the helicopter crash he wasn’t supposed to walk away from. He scrubbed a hand through his unruly curls and sighed. He was two seconds away from bailing, but he knew better. If he didn’t show, Santi would barge through his front door with that infuriating grin and a “You deserve some fun, hermano.” And as much as Frankie knew his friend meant well, tonight he felt like punching that grin clean off his face.

With just a towel slung low on his hips, he wandered into the bedroom and opened his closet, searching for something that didn’t scream I gave up three years ago. His fingers landed on a light denim button-up he’d picked up at a secondhand shop. He pulled it on, huffing when the button around his middle strained uncomfortably. He needed to hit the gym again. He rolled up the sleeves—he was always running hot anyway—and, for once, reached for the cologne that collected dust on his dresser.

At the bar, the boys were already there. Will had a wedding date coming up, Benny was working through another girl who might be the one, and Santi—Christ, Santi always seemed to land on his feet, somehow. He watched from the sidelines, like a passenger on a flight he didn’t remember booking, nursing his beer while the others talked. Fiancées. Rings. Mortgages. Words that used to belong to him once, back when he thought he’d made it. Back when there was a wife waiting at home and a baby he loved more than his own life.

But all of that flew out the window when he came back from Brazil with new ghosts stuffed in his luggage and grief so heavy it suffocated everything in its path. Not just him, her too. He couldn’t even blame his ex-wife for leaving, for taking their kid with her. Hell, he didn’t want to be around himself either.

Now he only saw his kid on birthdays, on holidays—brief snapshots of a life that used to be his. He watched the woman he once promised forever to fall in love with someone else, watched her build the family they were supposed to have. Watched her give that man the baby that might’ve been his too.

The sting dulled with time, fading into a steady ache that never really went away. He told himself he was glad for her, because he was. She deserved love, stability, all the things he couldn’t give. Still, there was a bitterness tucked beneath the acceptance. A quiet knowing that his chance had passed, that he’d missed the window to build something lasting. He hadn’t lost it for lack of trying. He’d simply run out of time. He’d just turned forty-five, and what did he have to offer? Nothing but the weight he dragged behind him: unresolved trauma and sleepless nights haunted by ghosts he couldn’t outrun.

Somewhere along the way, he’d stopped believing in love, or anything close to it. The handful of dates he’d forced himself into after the divorce only reminded him why. The first ones were shallow, women looking for someone to cover the bill. The few who stuck around past a second date bolted the moment he let even a sliver of his past show through. One glimpse of the darkness he carried, and they were gone.

So he stopped trying. Deleted the apps. Buried himself in work, dulled the edges with liquor, and told himself he didn’t need more than that. Love was a younger man’s game, not for someone patched together with scars and second chances.

Funny then, how it had a way of finding you the second you swore it off.

—

By the time the third round hit the table, Frankie was already regretting letting Santi talk him into this. The bar was loud, warm, full of laughter that didn’t quite reach him. He nursed his beer while the others swapped stories and bragged about wedding plans, new houses, anniversaries. 

Benny clapped him on the shoulder hard enough to jolt him. “Jesus, Fish, you look like you’re at a funeral. Loosen up.”

Frankie grunted. “Easy for you to say. You’re not the single old man at the table.”

“Old?” Benny barked a laugh. “You’re not old, you’re… seasoned.” He smirked, clearly pleased with himself. “Besides, not like you’re invisible. That one at the bar’s been glancing this way all night.”

Frankie followed his line of sight—casual, or so he tried. Sure enough, there was someone perched at the bar stool, drink in hand, laughing at something the bartender said. Tipsy, maybe. Cute, definitely. The kind of person who looked like they belonged in the moment, not dragging a hundred pounds of baggage behind them.

“Not happening,” Frankie muttered, taking another sip.

Benny rolled his eyes. “C’mon. Go say hi.”

“No.”

“Fish,” Benny drawled, leaning in, “you’ve flown helicopters into war zones, but you’re scared of talking to someone at a bar?”

Frankie shot him a look. “That’s not the same thing.”

“Exactly. This is easier. Hell, I dare you.”

“Jesus Christ,” Frankie muttered, but Santi was grinning now too, which meant there was no way out. He sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. “You’re all a bunch of assholes.”

“Maybe,” Benny said, grinning wide, “but we’re assholes who are about to watch you get off your stool and walk over there.”

The beer buzz in his veins made him reckless enough to stand up. He muttered something about regretting this already, ignoring their whoops as he crossed the floor. The music was loud, the air smelled like spilled whiskey and too much perfume, and for a second he almost turned back.

But then he was close enough to bump shoulders, close enough that your drink sloshed, splashing onto his sleeve.

“Oh shit—sorry!” you said quickly, eyes wide, words tumbling over yourself. “I didn’t mean to—”

Frankie shook his head, lifting a hand. “Hey, it’s fine. My fault. Should’ve watched where I was going.”

And without having any control over it,  the evening shifted.

You were still fussing with a napkin, blotting at his sleeve, when Frankie finally cracked a smile. A real one. Boyish and a little crooked, but honest.

“Relax,” he said, voice low, rough around the edges. “This shirt’s from a thrift store. Probably deserved it anyway.”

That earned him a soft, unguarded laugh and God, it did something to him. Heat crawled up his neck, a warmth he hadn’t felt in what seemed like forever.

“Still,” you insisted. “Let me buy you another drink to make up for it?”

Frankie shook his head, leaning an elbow on the bar. “You don’t owe me a thing. But if you insist, maybe consider not wasting good whiskey on my sleeve next time.”

“Deal,” you grinned, lifting your glass in mock salute before taking a sip.

—

It could’ve ended there, but the bartender slid another round in front of you, and Frankie found himself lingering, the buzz making him braver than usual. His eyes flicked to the dartboard across the room. “You play?”

You followed his gaze, then snorted. “Badly.”

“Perfect.” He straightened, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “I play badly too. Makes us even.”

Which wasn’t true, not even close. Frankie’s aim was steady, still sharp from years of needing it to be. But he wasn’t about to tell you that. Not when you were smiling at him like this, like he was someone worth saying yes to.

“Fine,” you said after a beat, sliding off the stool with a little wobble. His hand was there instantly, warm at your elbow, steadying without crowding. Respectful, careful. “But don’t laugh when I lose.”

“No promises.”

Your laugh followed him all the way to the dartboard, lighter than the weight in his chest had felt in years, brighter than the fluorescents overhead could ever manage. He watched you line up your shot and miss spectacularly, biting down on his knuckle to smother the laugh threatening to break free.

“I said, no laughing!” you protested, spinning on your heel.

Frankie lifted both hands in mock surrender, smile tugging at his mouth. “Alright, alright. I’m sorry.”

You narrowed your eyes, pretending to pout, before your whole face broke into a grin—all teeth, unguarded joy. And it hit Frankie like a jolt of lightning. Sharp, unexpected. Disarming him in ways he hadn’t felt in years.

Frankie lined up his shot next, half-distracted by the curve of your grin, and let the dart fly. It hit dead center. Your jaw dropped. “You said you can’t play. That was clearly a lie!”

Frankie chuckled, taking a slow sip from his beer. His eyes locked with yours over the rim of the glass, intense but controlled, like he was holding back something deeper. “Beginner’s luck,” he muttered, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him.

The two of you went round after round, your misses met with his muffled laughter and mock scolding, until you were both doubled over in the kind of easy fun that drew attention. Frankie barely noticed the boys at their booth, watching with quiet amusement, until you glanced over.

“Who are they?” you asked, tilting your chin toward the group.

Frankie hesitated, then sighed. “Old friends. We… served together. Army.”

He braced himself for the usual—the shift in expression, the too-curious questions, the awkward silence—but you only nodded, eyes warm, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Relief washed through him, subtle but heavy, loosening something in his chest.

The night stretched endless. The bar thinned out until it was just the faint hum of the jukebox and the clink of glasses being stacked. Conversation between you flowed easy, like you’d known each other way longer than a few hours. When closing time rolled around, Frankie finally cleared his throat. “Can I bring you home?”

You shook your head, wobbling a little as you grabbed your coat. “I’ll take a cab.”

“At least let me pay for it,” he insisted.

—

Outside, the cool air kissed flushed cheeks, both of you softened by liquor and the lateness of the hour. Frankie shoved his hands in his jacket pockets, searching for something to fill the silence, and it slipped out before he could catch it.

“It’s my birthday today.”

Your head snapped toward him. “Whaaaat? Why didn’t you say something sooner?”

He shrugged, ears burning. “Didn’t think it mattered.”

“Didn’t think it—” You shook your head, incredulous, then leaned closer, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Well, birthday boys get a kiss.”

Frankie barely had time to react before you pressed your lips to his cheek. Lingering. Warm. By the time you pulled back, his cheeks heated up, his chest tight, and his heart pounding so hard he was sure you could hear it. He was done for, and he knew it. For all the ways he thought he’d grown numb to things like this, you proved him wrong in a single breath.

The cab rolled up just in time to save him from embarrassment. Frankie opened the door for you, still dazed by the kiss.

“Wait— can I ask you for your—?” he blurted, suddenly terrified this was about to vanish into nothing.

You grinned, already half in the cab. “Give me your phone.”

He fumbled the phone into your hand, watching your fingers move quick over the screen before you pressed it back into his palm. The moment he saw your name typed into his phone next to your number something clicked. When he looked up again, you slipped into the cab, and he shut the door gently after you. Through the darkened window, you waved, and he stood there, rooted, watching until the taillights disappeared.

—

By the time Frankie got home, his apartment was quiet. Too quiet. He kicked off his boots, shrugged out of the denim shirt that still smelled faintly of smoke and beer, and collapsed onto the mattress without bothering with the light, staring at the ceiling.

Sleep didn’t come. His mind replayed the night in flashes — your laugh ringing across the dartboard, the heat that crawled up his neck when your lips brushed his cheek. He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. Forty-five years old and he felt like a teenager again, undone by a smile and a number in his phone.

He stared at the screen until his thumb moved of its own accord.

Frankie: Thanks for making my birthday suck a little less

For a second he hovered, tempted to delete it. Too much, too soft. But he hit send anyway and set the phone down on his chest, waiting. It buzzed almost immediately.

You: That’s the grumpiest “thank you” I’ve ever read

A low laugh rumbled out of him in the dark, surprising even himself. He typed back.

Frankie: Guess I’m better at darts than gratitude 

Your reply was quick and playful.

You: Lucky for you, I’m willing to teach you gratitude, as long as you teach me how to not embarrass myself at the dartboard ;) 

Frankie lay there, phone glowing against his chest, smile tugging at his mouth in the dark. For the first time in years, the ache in his chest loosened just a little. And before his eyes finally drifted shut, one last thought settled heavy but sweet: maybe timing hadn’t given up on him after all.

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You blinked at him, half-laughing, half-disbelieving, when he tilted his head back against the couch and said it.

“Go on. Take a seat on my face.”

You’d thought he was joking. The crooked grin, the casual shrug. But then his dark eyes pinned you in place, the gravel in his voice leaving no room for teasing. 

And that’s how you ended up here—knees planted on either side of his head, thighs trembling as you lowered yourself until his stubble grazed your most sensitive skin. He peppered the inside of your thighs with soft kisses, before his nose pressed against your clit. His breath fanned hot and filthy against you as he groaned into you like you were the only air he’d ever need. You hesitated at first, afraid you might crush him with your weight, but he only shook his head, voice rough as he said, “I’m a grown man, I can handle that.” Somehow, the words made you feel lighter and you lowered yourself down until you were literally sitting on his handsome face.

His hands clamped to your hips, not to guide you—no, he let you move—but to keep you there. “You okay?” he asked, voice muffled between your thighs and you nodded. The coarse drag of his beard was maddening, wet tongue flattening and circling around your clit until you couldn’t tell if you wanted to grind down harder or run from the overstimulation.

Every time your hips rocked, you felt the hard ridge of his nose where you needed it most, saw his eyes roll back like he was the one being undone. And god, he was—his cock straining thick against his sweats, twitching as he moaned into your heat.

“Please—fuck—I need—” his voice broke, desperate, muted against you. “Let me—just let me touch myself, baby, please.”

You looked down at him, blinking, hands still fisting his curls. The way he begged, ragged and wrecked, nearly undid you right there. He was trembling, holding himself back like it was torture, like the only thing in the world that mattered was you riding his face until you broke, like your pleasure was a prize to be won.

When you finally gave him permission, the low, guttural sound he made vibrated straight through you too.  His hand flew down, pulling his sweats down, groaning when he finally freed himself. You didn’t even have to look, you could feel it in the way his hips bucked, the way his moan broke against your pussy when his fist wrapped around his cock. A sharp, broken whimper escaped him and it made your stomach twist tight with heat.

“Fuck, baby… you’re so good to me,” he gasped, his nose grinding against you as his tongue dove deeper, messy, desperate. “Taste so fucking sweet—ride my face, come on, give it to me. Wanna feel you soak me while I jerk off like a pathetic fuckin’ man under you.”

Your fingers tangled in his curls, tugging when he pressed harder, seemingly burying his face in you. “You’re everything, baby. God, I’m so hard for you… gonna come all over myself if you keep grinding down like that.”

The obscene sounds of his fist working his cock mixed with the wet, hungry slurps of his mouth between your thighs was dizzying. He didn’t stop, not even when your hips shook, not even when you whimpered his name like a prayer. He was relentless, driven. Every reaction of you just seemed to spur him on more.

“That’s it, fuck, that’s my girl. Make a mess on me.” His voice was wrecked, trembling. Then, low and urgent, “Come with me, please. Wanna feel you fall apart while I ruin myself for you.”

You were already teetering on the edge, thighs trembling around his head, his nose and beard rubbing you raw as you finally shattered, thighs squeezing his beautiful face tight. Seconds later he followed, whimpering into your cunt as hot streaks painted his soft belly and you were catching your breath. 

It was that moment you realized there was nothing sweeter than Francisco Morales begging to come while worshipping you like this.

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Frankie had been to war. He’d seen men blown apart, blood soaking the earth until the dirt turned black beneath his boots. He’d walked through it and somehow lived. He carried shadows, chased highs to quiet the ghosts of killing for money.

And yet this—watching her walk down the aisle in white—was worse.

His palms itched in the stiff rented suit, the tie choking him no matter how many times he adjusted it. Beside him, Tom shifted nervously, face breaking into a smug smile when she reached the altar. Frankie stared hard at the floor, because if he looked too long at her, it would be written all over his face. The feelings no drug had ever been able to drown out.

He’d loved her for years. Quietly. Hopelessly. In the spaces between deployments and cheap beers with the boys. He told himself it was enough, that she was happy, and that was all that mattered. That Tom, for all his faults, could give her something Frankie never could. Stability. A man less haunted, less heavy. They’d all carried the aftermath of serving differently. Tom built houses and sold dreams, steadying himself on blueprints and commissions. Frankie stumbled from one shitty job to the next, always a step behind the life he thought he might have had.

While she was a vision in white, radiant and beautiful, his thoughts drifted back to the night that changed everything.

It hit him in waves, crueler than the organ music echoing through the church. 

It was late when she knocked on his door, mascara streaking down her cheeks, whispering “he doesn’t love me, Frankie, not really.” 

He tried to comfort her, like any good friend would. Hushed her inside, pressed tea into her hands, rubbed her shoulders gently, told her she was overthinking, that she didn’t need to cry. But all that friendship went up in flames the second she leaned into him—clutching his shirt, burying her face in his neck, hot tears soaking through the cotton. He held her, stroking circles into her back, whispering soft words, until the air around them shifted.

Charged. Dangerous. Like the second before a match is struck.

The want was alive under his skin, crawling, clawing to be let out. His nose brushed through her hair as he inhaled her, savoring the closeness that burned him alive; salvation disguised as damnation. And when she finally lifted her head, blotched and tearstained, his heart kicked hard, because even like this she was strikingly beautiful.

He cupped her face. His thumb caught on a tear, her cheek leaned into his palm, and then she pressed the barest kiss to his wrist. His breath caught—gone.

Their foreheads met, a trembling half-step from a fall, sharing the same air. And then she closed the distance. Tentative lips against his, trembling, soft. He pulled back instinctively, trying to spare her soul where his was already damned but she chased him. Tangled her fingers in his curls and tugged him closer until he caved, until he kissed her back, helpless to the pull.

She kissed him like he was the only solid thing left in her world. Like oxygen to someone drowning. And he submitted, because how could he not?

She straddled his lap like he was a magnet. Urgency lived in the tremble of her hands as she tugged at fabric, but it wasn’t thoughtless. It was desperate. Needed. The kind of need born from loneliness and the ache of being unseen.

He let her undress him piece by piece, even as his chest heaved with the weight of everything unsaid. Every brush of her fingers scorched him, every inch of skin revealed felt like a confession he had no right to make. His own hands shook as he touched her—not from hesitation, but reverence. Memorizing. Like if this burned them both, at least he’d know he had held her once.

Her lips sought his again, frantic at first, then lingering, as though she was trying to memorize him too. His name broke against her mouth in a low groan, half warning, half surrender.

“This isn’t—” he started, but the words died the second her hips rolled against his. The second her tears mixed with his breath, salt and want blurring into something he didn’t have the strength to stop.

So he sought the connection instead, the intimacy he had no right to hold. But with her moving above him, he was a lost cause. Hell had never looked more like heaven than when she was his ticket. She held onto him tightly, pressed against him until there wasn’t an inch of air left between them. First she rode him, then he flipped her, laying her on her back as he moved inside her. Deliberate at first, one hand holding her thigh steady as his thrusts deepened, grew rougher.

In another life, this would have been his view every night. But in this one, he only had tonight, so he made it count. Whispered filthy, reverent truths against her skin while he made a home deep inside her. She arched beneath him, nails tracing red lines down his back, marks he’d carry with pride, proof this had been real if only for one night. He watched pleasure bloom on her face, her hair fanned out on the sofa cushion, lips parted, and thought: she is art. Simple as that.

Every inch of him strained under the war inside—instinct screaming he had no right to this, to her. But her sobs had turned to whimpers of pleasure, her cries to broken whispers of his name, and he was helpless. Helpless to anything but giving her everything he had. He didn’t last long—not with all the pent-up emotion, not with the way she clenched around him like she’d never let him go.

When they came, it was earth-shattering. His release tore through him in hot waves, spilling into her as his whole body seized, then collapsed. He buried his face in her neck, groaning her name again and again, muffled and desperate, as if it could anchor him in the wreckage. And she held him too, trembling, catching her breath as they slowly drifted back down to earth.

She fell asleep in his arms that night. By morning, she was gone. And the silence that followed told him she meant for it to stay that way.

And now, standing there in that suit that felt like a costume, Frankie had to watch her look at his friend—his brother in all but blood—the way he’d spent years wishing she would look at him. The softness in her smile, the quiet devotion in her eyes hollowed him out. He swallowed down the bile rising in his throat and forced himself through it. Through the vows. Through the photographs. Through the clinking of champagne glasses and the endless laughter that grated like knives against his skull.

He told himself he could make it. That if he just stayed back, kept to the shadows, he could fade into the background until it was over. Until he could breathe again.

But then came the dance.

Someone called it tradition—the bride sharing a dance with each of the groomsmen. Frankie’s pulse spiked, heart slamming against his ribs as the words landed like a sentence. And when she turned toward him, veil lifted, eyes glossy in a way that wasn’t only from the wine, he knew there would be no fading into the background. Not from her. Not from this.

When they stepped onto the dancefloor, he set his hands carefully at her waist, leaving space between them. Too much space and still not nearly enough.

For a minute, they just swayed. The music dulled around them, everything else blurring until it was just the two of them. Frankie couldn’t breathe. Every breath he took felt like fire in his lungs. He couldn’t stop staring at the curve of her mouth, the way she wouldn’t quite meet his eyes because somewhere, deep down, she must’ve felt it too. This thing between them that wasn’t named, but still very much alive.

After a few more undecided steps, she said, soft enough he almost thought he imagined it:

“I’m pregnant.”

The floor dropped out from under him. If there ever was a moment that Frankie wished the earth would swallow him whole, it was this.  He involuntarily tightened his grip on her waist without meaning to, looking around as if to check if someone was listening, until he searched her face. “What?”

Her gaze finally flicked up to his, guilty and frightened. “I don’t know if it’s Tom’s or yours...”

The song swelled. From the outside it seemed like nothing had changed, but here, in this little pocket of time, everything slowed down. People clapped around them but Frankie’s throat closed up. His mind was fire and static, flashing back to her body beneath his, the sound of her whispering his name in the dark.

For the first time in years, Frankie almost fell to his knees under the weight of her confession. 

The song ended, applause swelling around him like static in his ears. Frankie released her hands before he could splinter right there in front of everyone. His breath came rough, words tumbling out under it—maybe a “sorry,” maybe just “need air,” he couldn’t tell. And then he was moving, walking off the floor on legs that felt anything but steady.

He pushed through the crowd, people turning their heads, eyes boring into his back but all he could think about was to make it out the door before everyone could see him losing it. The faint echo of laughter and clinking glasses followed him until he finally pushed the exit open. The heavy wood groaned when he shoved it open, and the night hit him like a fist.

The cold air slapped his face, stinging enough to hurt, sharp enough to almost steady him. He dragged in a breath that scorched his lungs, but it wasn’t enough. Nothing would be enough.

His hands fumbled at his jacket, pulling out the crumpled pack of cigarettes. He managed to get one between his lips, but when he flicked the lighter, his fingers shook so badly the flame wouldn’t catch.

“Fuck,” he hissed, voice breaking. The word fogged in the night air. He tried again, thumb scraping raw against the wheel, but the tremor in his hands made it useless. He gave up, sliding down until he was sitting on the damp concrete, head buried in his palms, silent sobs shaking through his body.

The truth pressed down all at once, brutal in its clarity. How was he supposed to move on from this? The woman he’d loved for years now carrying another man’s name. Maybe carrying his child. What kind of sick cosmic joke was that? How could the universe be so cruel—giving him the smallest sliver of something he’d longed for, only to rip it away?

Tears burned down his cheeks, but they didn’t wash her out of him. Frankie had never felt the world collapse so quietly, his surroundings unchanged, laughter still drifting from inside while his entire inner world tilted off its axis.

Under a night sky vast and steady, so unlike the wreckage inside him, he wished for the numbness of war. For drugs. For the high that used to make the pain recede. The itch prickled beneath his skin, an old enemy returning, and he almost welcomed it. Because it was better than the black hole yawning wide in his chest.

Loving her. Losing her. Watching from the sidelines while she was raising a child that could’ve been his with a man that used to be his brother in arms. It was something he couldn’t fight his way out of. And knowing that this was his new reality, was what suffocated him most of all.

He sat outside a minute longer, head in his hands, letting the night air cut at him until the worst of the sobs dulled to a raw throb in his chest. He couldn’t stay there  without raising suspicion. Not without someone coming to find him. So he scrubbed at his face with rough hands, shoved the useless cigarette back into the pack, and forced himself upright.

Inside, the lights were too bright. The laughter too sharp. He headed straight for the bar, ordered whiskey neat, and downed it before the glass hit the counter. Then another, and another. If he could drown himself, maybe he wouldn’t feel the pieces of himself grinding together like broken glass.

He was halfway through the fourth when Tom appeared, flushed with drink and joy, clapping Frankie on the back hard enough to jolt the glass in his hand. “There you are, Fish! Thought you’d gone AWOL on me.”

Frankie managed a tight smile, eyes glued to the amber liquid in his glass. “Wouldn’t miss it, man.”

Tom leaned in, conspiratorial, grinning so wide it hurt to look at him. “We haven’t told everyone yet, but you’re family, so… she’s pregnant. Can you believe it?” He laughed, joy bubbling over. “I’m gonna be a dad.”

The words twisted in Frankie’s gut like a blade. He swallowed down the ugly jealousy that rose, muttered, “Congrats,” his voice flat, a ghost of sincerity in it. He had no right to feel that way.

But Tom didn’t notice, or simply didn’t care. He kept talking, twisting the knife without knowing it. “She’s glowing already, isn’t she? God, I’m so lucky. She’s gonna make the best mom. Our kid’s gonna have her smile. Hell, maybe even her wit.” He chuckled, pride dripping from every word. 

Frankie’s jaw locked until it throbbed. He kept his eyes fixed on the bar top, on the warped reflection staring back at him, while his chest caved in piece by piece. He didn’t dare open his mouth, afraid of what might spill out. Instead, he tipped the glass in his hand, watching the whiskey swirl, searching the amber depths like the bottom might hold an answer he could live with.

“Tom.” Her voice cut through the haze, sharp but quiet. She appeared at her husband’s side, slipping her hand into his, tugging gently. “Come on, they’re waiting for us.”

Tom grinned down at her, squeezing her hand, but Frankie only saw the way her gaze lingered on him. Just a second too long. Too heavy, and too much for a night that belonged to her and Tom, where Frankie didn’t have a single square inch of space.

And then she was gone, pulled back into the whirl of music and clinking glasses, into a love built on lies. Frankie was left with nothing but the hollow ache, drowning what was left of him in the burn of liquor and the weight of regret.

He didn’t know how long he sat there, time lost its meaning, drowning himself glass after glass until the room tilted and blurred. The burn in his throat was the only thing keeping him upright.

“Jesus Christ.” A strong hand gripped his shoulder. Santi’s voice, low and sharp. “You’re a fucking mess, Frankie.”

Frankie blinked up at him, eyes bloodshot, lids heavy. “M’fine.” He lied. His stomach churned as Santi hauled him to his feet. The motion alone made him gag, and before they even made it far, he was bent over in the bushes, vomiting until his throat was raw.

Santi kept a steady hand between his shoulder blades, grimacing but firm. “What the hell is going on with you?”

Frankie wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, breath ragged. He tried to answer, words slurred, broken. “She’s…she’s not mine.”

Santi frowned, leaning closer. “What?”

But Frankie was already sliding down the wall, his body giving out like a puppet with its strings cut, the world tilting too far for him to catch. Her words echoed in his skull, the last thing he heard before the dark swallowed him whole. 

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Frankie had been to war. He’d seen men blown apart, blood soaking the earth until the dirt turned black beneath his boots. He’d walked through it and somehow lived. He carried shadows, chased highs to quiet the ghosts of killing for money.

And yet this—watching her walk down the aisle in white—was worse.

His palms itched in the stiff rented suit, the tie choking him no matter how many times he adjusted it. Beside him, Tom shifted nervously, face breaking into a smug smile when she reached the altar. Frankie stared hard at the floor, because if he looked too long at her, it would be written all over his face. The feelings no drug had ever been able to drown out.

He’d loved her for years. Quietly. Hopelessly. In the spaces between deployments and cheap beers with the boys. He told himself it was enough, that she was happy, and that was all that mattered. That Tom, for all his faults, could give her something Frankie never could. Stability. A man less haunted, less heavy. They’d all carried the aftermath of serving differently. Tom built houses and sold dreams, steadying himself on blueprints and commissions. Frankie stumbled from one shitty job to the next, always a step behind the life he thought he might have had.

While she was a vision in white, radiant and beautiful, his thoughts drifted back to the night that changed everything.

It hit him in waves, crueler than the organ music echoing through the church. 

It was late when she knocked on his door, mascara streaking down her cheeks, whispering “he doesn’t love me, Frankie, not really.” 

He tried to comfort her, like any good friend would. Hushed her inside, pressed tea into her hands, rubbed her shoulders gently, told her she was overthinking, that she didn’t need to cry. But all that friendship went up in flames the second she leaned into him—clutching his shirt, burying her face in his neck, hot tears soaking through the cotton. He held her, stroking circles into her back, whispering soft words, until the air around them shifted.

Charged. Dangerous. Like the second before a match is struck.

The want was alive under his skin, crawling, clawing to be let out. His nose brushed through her hair as he inhaled her, savoring the closeness that burned him alive; salvation disguised as damnation. And when she finally lifted her head, blotched and tearstained, his heart kicked hard, because even like this she was strikingly beautiful.

He cupped her face. His thumb caught on a tear, her cheek leaned into his palm, and then she pressed the barest kiss to his wrist. His breath caught—gone.

Their foreheads met, a trembling half-step from a fall, sharing the same air. And then she closed the distance. Tentative lips against his, trembling, soft. He pulled back instinctively, trying to spare her soul where his was already damned but she chased him. Tangled her fingers in his curls and tugged him closer until he caved, until he kissed her back, helpless to the pull.

She kissed him like he was the only solid thing left in her world. Like oxygen to someone drowning. And he submitted, because how could he not?

She straddled his lap like he was a magnet. Urgency lived in the tremble of her hands as she tugged at fabric, but it wasn’t thoughtless. It was desperate. Needed. The kind of need born from loneliness and the ache of being unseen.

He let her undress him piece by piece, even as his chest heaved with the weight of everything unsaid. Every brush of her fingers scorched him, every inch of skin revealed felt like a confession he had no right to make. His own hands shook as he touched her—not from hesitation, but reverence. Memorizing. Like if this burned them both, at least he’d know he had held her once.

Her lips sought his again, frantic at first, then lingering, as though she was trying to memorize him too. His name broke against her mouth in a low groan, half warning, half surrender.

“This isn’t—” he started, but the words died the second her hips rolled against his. The second her tears mixed with his breath, salt and want blurring into something he didn’t have the strength to stop.

So he sought the connection instead, the intimacy he had no right to hold. But with her moving above him, he was a lost cause. Hell had never looked more like heaven than when she was his ticket. She held onto him tightly, pressed against him until there wasn’t an inch of air left between them. First she rode him, then he flipped her, laying her on her back as he moved inside her. Deliberate at first, one hand holding her thigh steady as his thrusts deepened, grew rougher.

In another life, this would have been his view every night. But in this one, he only had tonight, so he made it count. Whispered filthy, reverent truths against her skin while he made a home deep inside her. She arched beneath him, nails tracing red lines down his back, marks he’d carry with pride, proof this had been real if only for one night. He watched pleasure bloom on her face, her hair fanned out on the sofa cushion, lips parted, and thought: she is art. Simple as that.

Every inch of him strained under the war inside—instinct screaming he had no right to this, to her. But her sobs had turned to whimpers of pleasure, her cries to broken whispers of his name, and he was helpless. Helpless to anything but giving her everything he had. He didn’t last long—not with all the pent-up emotion, not with the way she clenched around him like she’d never let him go.

When they came, it was earth-shattering. His release tore through him in hot waves, spilling into her as his whole body seized, then collapsed. He buried his face in her neck, groaning her name again and again, muffled and desperate, as if it could anchor him in the wreckage. And she held him too, trembling, catching her breath as they slowly drifted back down to earth.

She fell asleep in his arms that night. By morning, she was gone. And the silence that followed told him she meant for it to stay that way.

And now, standing there in that suit that felt like a costume, Frankie had to watch her look at his friend—his brother in all but blood—the way he’d spent years wishing she would look at him. The softness in her smile, the quiet devotion in her eyes hollowed him out. He swallowed down the bile rising in his throat and forced himself through it. Through the vows. Through the photographs. Through the clinking of champagne glasses and the endless laughter that grated like knives against his skull.

He told himself he could make it. That if he just stayed back, kept to the shadows, he could fade into the background until it was over. Until he could breathe again.

But then came the dance.

Someone called it tradition—the bride sharing a dance with each of the groomsmen. Frankie’s pulse spiked, heart slamming against his ribs as the words landed like a sentence. And when she turned toward him, veil lifted, eyes glossy in a way that wasn’t only from the wine, he knew there would be no fading into the background. Not from her. Not from this.

When they stepped onto the dancefloor, he set his hands carefully at her waist, leaving space between them. Too much space and still not nearly enough.

For a minute, they just swayed. The music dulled around them, everything else blurring until it was just the two of them. Frankie couldn’t breathe. Every breath he took felt like fire in his lungs. He couldn’t stop staring at the curve of her mouth, the way she wouldn’t quite meet his eyes because somewhere, deep down, she must’ve felt it too. This thing between them that wasn’t named, but still very much alive.

After a few more undecided steps, she said, soft enough he almost thought he imagined it:

“I’m pregnant.”

The floor dropped out from under him. If there ever was a moment that Frankie wished the earth would swallow him whole, it was this.  He involuntarily tightened his grip on her waist without meaning to, looking around as if to check if someone was listening, until he searched her face. “What?”

Her gaze finally flicked up to his, guilty and frightened. “I don’t know if it’s Tom’s or yours...”

The song swelled. From the outside it seemed like nothing had changed, but here, in this little pocket of time, everything slowed down. People clapped around them but Frankie’s throat closed up. His mind was fire and static, flashing back to her body beneath his, the sound of her whispering his name in the dark.

For the first time in years, Frankie almost fell to his knees under the weight of her confession. 

The song ended, applause swelling around him like static in his ears. Frankie released her hands before he could splinter right there in front of everyone. His breath came rough, words tumbling out under it—maybe a “sorry,” maybe just “need air,” he couldn’t tell. And then he was moving, walking off the floor on legs that felt anything but steady.

He pushed through the crowd, people turning their heads, eyes boring into his back but all he could think about was to make it out the door before everyone could see him losing it. The faint echo of laughter and clinking glasses followed him until he finally pushed the exit open. The heavy wood groaned when he shoved it open, and the night hit him like a fist.

The cold air slapped his face, stinging enough to hurt, sharp enough to almost steady him. He dragged in a breath that scorched his lungs, but it wasn’t enough. Nothing would be enough.

His hands fumbled at his jacket, pulling out the crumpled pack of cigarettes. He managed to get one between his lips, but when he flicked the lighter, his fingers shook so badly the flame wouldn’t catch.

“Fuck,” he hissed, voice breaking. The word fogged in the night air. He tried again, thumb scraping raw against the wheel, but the tremor in his hands made it useless. He gave up, sliding down until he was sitting on the damp concrete, head buried in his palms, silent sobs shaking through his body.

The truth pressed down all at once, brutal in its clarity. How was he supposed to move on from this? The woman he’d loved for years now carrying another man’s name. Maybe carrying his child. What kind of sick cosmic joke was that? How could the universe be so cruel—giving him the smallest sliver of something he’d longed for, only to rip it away?

Tears burned down his cheeks, but they didn’t wash her out of him. Frankie had never felt the world collapse so quietly, his surroundings unchanged, laughter still drifting from inside while his entire inner world tilted off its axis.

Under a night sky vast and steady, so unlike the wreckage inside him, he wished for the numbness of war. For drugs. For the high that used to make the pain recede. The itch prickled beneath his skin, an old enemy returning, and he almost welcomed it. Because it was better than the black hole yawning wide in his chest.

Loving her. Losing her. Watching from the sidelines while she was raising a child that could’ve been his with a man that used to be his brother in arms. It was something he couldn’t fight his way out of. And knowing that this was his new reality,  was what suffocated him most of all.

He sat outside a minute longer, head in his hands, letting the night air cut at him until the worst of the sobs dulled to a raw throb in his chest. He couldn’t stay there  without raising suspicion. Not without someone coming to find him. So he scrubbed at his face with rough hands, shoved the useless cigarette back into the pack, and forced himself upright.

Inside, the lights were too bright. The laughter too sharp. He headed straight for the bar, ordered whiskey neat, and downed it before the glass hit the counter. Then another, and another. If he could drown himself, maybe he wouldn’t feel the pieces of himself grinding together like broken glass.

He was halfway through the fourth when Tom appeared, flushed with drink and joy, clapping Frankie on the back hard enough to jolt the glass in his hand. “There you are, Fish! Thought you’d gone AWOL on me.”

Frankie managed a tight smile, eyes glued to the amber liquid in his glass. “Wouldn’t miss it, man.”

Tom leaned in, conspiratorial, grinning so wide it hurt to look at him. “We haven’t told everyone yet, but you’re family, so… she’s pregnant. Can you believe it?” He laughed, joy bubbling over. “I’m gonna be a dad.”

The words twisted in Frankie’s gut like a blade. He swallowed down the ugly jealousy that rose, muttered, “Congrats,” his voice flat, a ghost of sincerity in it. He had no right to feel that way.

But Tom didn’t notice, or simply didn’t care. He kept talking, twisting the knife without knowing it. “She’s glowing already, isn’t she? God, I’m so lucky. She’s gonna make the best mom. Our kid’s gonna have her smile. Hell, maybe even her wit.” He chuckled, pride dripping from every word. 

Frankie’s jaw locked until it throbbed. He kept his eyes fixed on the bar top, on the warped reflection staring back at him, while his chest caved in piece by piece. He didn’t dare open his mouth, afraid of what might spill out. Instead, he tipped the glass in his hand, watching the whiskey swirl, searching the amber depths like the bottom might hold an answer he could live with.

“Tom.” Her voice cut through the haze, sharp but quiet. She appeared at her husband’s side, slipping her hand into his, tugging gently. “Come on, they’re waiting for us.”

Tom grinned down at her, squeezing her hand, but Frankie only saw the way her gaze lingered on him. Just a second too long. Too heavy, and too much for a night that belonged to her and Tom, where Frankie didn’t have a single square inch of space.

And then she was gone, pulled back into the whirl of music and clinking glasses, into a love built on lies. Frankie was left with nothing but the hollow ache, drowning what was left of him in the burn of liquor and the weight of regret.

He didn’t know how long he sat there, time lost its meaning, drowning himself glass after glass until the room tilted and blurred. The burn in his throat was the only thing keeping him upright.

“Jesus Christ.” A strong hand gripped his shoulder. Santi’s voice, low and sharp. “You’re a fucking mess, Frankie.”

Frankie blinked up at him, eyes bloodshot, lids heavy. “M’fine.” He lied. His stomach churned as Santi hauled him to his feet. The motion alone made him gag, and before they even made it far, he was bent over in the bushes, vomiting until his throat was raw.

Santi kept a steady hand between his shoulder blades, grimacing but firm. “What the hell is going on with you?”

Frankie wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, breath ragged. He tried to answer, words slurred, broken. “She’s…she’s not mine.”

Santi frowned, leaning closer. “What?”

But Frankie was already sliding down the wall, his body giving out like a puppet with its strings cut, the world tilting too far for him to catch. Her words echoed in his skull, the last thing he heard before the dark swallowed him whole. 

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 the day is one that’s filled with sun, sun and light and a soft breeze that flows through the trees lining the car park. carmen drags him by the hand, clutching his hand tight as she rushes into the museum, entirely too excited for a three year old to see some rocks. she’s got her little hand in his, pulling him towards the exhibits.

he tilts his head back, and spots you walking a couple of steps behind, beside santi and yovanna, you’d organised this meet-up, all for him. they’d been in the city, a two day layover, and your house was close by. 

that night, when santiago had texted you instead of your husband, asking to catch up over brunch you’d quickly agreed. except carmen was all too interested in space and stars  to not go to the museum, and so the day trip was planned. 

he’d tilted his head at you as you’d tapped his nose, and told him to socialise more, because “you can’t have your wife as your only friend.”

he’d been quick to point out that carmen was his friend too, and that just had made you laugh some more over the ice cream you were eating, strawberry cheesecake flavoured, straight from the tub. something so mundane and sweet and yet it lit up his world.

you’re talking to the two of them about something or the other, in that yellow summer dress that had a tie detail in the front, the one you did a little bow on this morning. it’s floral, fits right into the theme of the natural history museum all of you are going to, he knows you’d love the exhibit on butterflies, even if you say you’re icked out by bugs.

but that’s just a bonus, you were all here because carmen wanted to see the exhibit on the moon, they even had one of the capsules from the apollo missions on display, and a moon rock. the moon rock was quite integral to the whole museum trip.

“she’s got stars in her eyes, just like her papa.” that’s what you say, every time she starts talking about space to you, and you know frankie doesn’t fly all the way to space, but he goes up pretty high, and isn’t that enough?

he’s dragged away by carmen into the museum, and before he knows it, he’s in the space section. a tiny hand squeezing his, and he crouches down to better hear your daughter.

“is the moon, ‘ook!” and she points at the LED moon they’ve mocked up, perfect down to every little detail, all the familiar divots and shades. “isn’t she sooo the pretty?” 

that makes him smile out of habit, carmen always insists that the moon is a girl, and that the moon is “the pretty”.

he tilts his head, and then smiles at carmen, his own wide brown eyes in her, now mirroring the display of the moon in front of her. “the moon is the second prettiest girl in the world.” he smiles, pressing a kiss into her curls, “the first one is you carmen.”

“and mama?” she grins that wicked grin, turning back to him and she’s got a smudge of chocolate spread from today morning in the corner of her mouth, a special day had a special breakfast. he’d insisted, and so the three of you had pancakes and chocolate spread instead of cereal or eggs. 

“hmm.” his lips twitch, she’s caught him there, and she’s already turned back to trying to read about the moon with her three year old’s reading skills, clearly not getting past the first sentence. 

“mama is the second prettiest girl in the world then,” he presses another kiss to her hair, and runs a hand over her forehead, brushing the bangs that stick to her face from the run.

“but wait carmen,” he pretends to be shocked, a hand over his mouth, and she turns back to himz

“…ya?” she scrunches her face, disgruntled that her father’s pulled her away from her reading (attempted reading, mind you.)

“moon’s not in the world, right mija?” he smiles, standing up to his full height again to read a plaqucsrd that was more geared towards adults about the moon. something about the dangers of the apollo mission, he knew all about dangers in missions, he gave up that life for this instead. “it spins around the earth.”

and this is now his daughter running circles around him (literally), twirling once in a while, “jus’ ‘ike the moooon!” 

you show up into the room a few minutes lates with santi and yovanna in tow, face red, like you’d been worried and running. “frankie! we thought we lost you two, gosh, here i was running all over the museum trying to find you.

he laughs when you cough, but offer you his bottle of water. you take a small sip, before handing it back to him. he knows your stomach had been upset these past few days, nausea and you couldn’t keep anything down. what he doesn’t know is that you gave your daughter your pancakes too this morning, when she was so happy to see them, and you couldn’t stand anything.  

he stands behind you, the other two reading up on the apollo missions and whatnot, but his eyes are only on you and your daughter, running up to the moon rocks. she’s talking a mile a minute, and he is so ridiculously proud of her. the space exhibit is one of her favourites, and she’s the reason the five of you have shown up to the museum today. 

his cap is not on his head, instead he gave it to carmen when they were standing in front of the moon display, and it stays on her head, keeping her messy dark curls tucked underneath the large cap. 

you stand up, watching your daughter smile at the moon rocks, displayed. pretty, a souvenir from something out of this world that you would never get to see.

your head hurts. it’s been hurting all day, and you can’t keep anything down these past few days. your head hurts, like there’s cotton wool stuffed in it, and the world goes a little blurry for a few seconds, dizziness throwing your body off kilter. you should tell santi that you haven’t eaten anything all day more than a few bites of pancake from your daughter, and the few sips of water from his waterbottle. 

you turn to talk to him, to call out his name, but you can feel your heart in your skull for some reason. it’s  dizzying and overwhelming, and suddenly. suddenly, you feel yourself fall, eyes rolling back as your body feels faint.

you’re out before you can feel yourself hit the floor, the nausea taking over your entire body. 

he catches you with strong hands around your middle, and sinks to the floor with you. his voice shakes as the two of you fall downwards, and he panics, panics like he never has before. “carino?” he taps your soft cheek with his hand, the other caught in the soft cotton of your floral dress. behind him, your daughter stands with her big brown eyes, inquisitive once, now scared. 

she paws at his shoulder, but all he can think about is you, head pillowed in his lap, hair lose from your delicate braid, falling around you like a halo. 

“mama?” she says, and he doesn’t know what to do, his hands have a tremor that doesn’t leave as they ghost over your face. santi leads her away to the side, a smile on his face as he tries to keep her distracted. frankie’s throat goes dry as he hears him explain something to her, but his heart is rushing in his ears, thinking about you. the wedding band on your left hand sparkles in the light, mockingly. there’s a crowd forming, and he knows you’d hate that. hate being the center of attention, and yet you’d just dropped mid conversation, like a sack of potatoes. his chest feels small, like he could explode, but not now, not when you had fainted on his lap, not when your daughter was panicking over you. not when a crowd was forming around you.

he just needs you to be okay.

you have low blood pressure, he’s seen your dizzy spells, but you’ve never outright fainted like this before. 

yovanna does a pretty good job of keeping onlookers away, he thinks it’s the challenge in her eyes. and santi’s eyes don’t leave the two of you as he speaks to your daughter. words that dont have any relation to this, “look at the moon rocks, your mama will be okay.” 

a beat, and santi’s placed your daughter in front of a screen doing a little montage of photos from the apollo 11 mission. you’d probably laugh, and tell him that he was letting the screen raise the kid, that is if you were awake right now.

you’re not awake. you’re in frankie’s arms. and his hands are shaking as he holds onto you, hand on your pulse point immediately. it is there, but it’s a little too fast. 

the army, this is reminding him of the army, jungles and brothers being lost in his arms. the weight, the weight of bringing people back home, hearing them lose their spirits, their lives. whilst he could do nothing but fly. 

trapped in the cockpit whilst everyone else was there, could help. and all he could do was fly. 

the fear, the fear of loosing someone like this again. not this again, god this was what he needed cocaine for. the spirals that he couldn’t quite handle, the heartbeat that thudded in his chest.

it sickened him, but he missed it. sober for five years and yet he missed it, how efficient it would make him in moments like these. 

now he can do nothing but watch, he feels like he’s underwater, each movement of his weighed down and slow. everything he sees and hears is blurry. 

his, your, daughter is by his side again, and a tear is slipping down carmen’s face. she’s never scared, he loves that about her. never scared of anything, she’ll pick up earthworms with her bare hands, pat every dog at the park. but now she sounds so scared, his baby, wrapping her small arms around his neck. he can’t even turn around to face her, his eyes never leaving you, but he can feel tears running down her cheek and onto the back of his tshirt, dampening it. 

a bystander calls security, 9-1-1 is being called, but he can’t heart it over the rush in his ears and the feeling of your pulse getting faster.

santi is coaxing him to let go, take care of carmen, the medics can take care of you. but he can’t seem to let go of your hand, curled around his, all too cold for his liking. blood pressure, he reminds himself, anemia, whatever the hell you have going on in your body. it’s fine he has to tell himself, if not for his own sanity’s sake, then his daughters.

carmen’s face is a mess of tears and snot when he looks down at her again, and he picks her up. she looks a lot like him, but now that he’s seeing her, all he sees is you. your soft cheeks, tears caught in her long eyelashes, her - your - nose red with her rubbing at it. 

“mama, will okay?” she asks, whilst you’re being loaded onto a stretcher to be taken outside, into the ambulance. 

god you would have hated this if you were awake. everyone’s eyes on you, you hated attention. you were sure everyone would see all your tiny insecurities. if you were awake. now all frankie sees is his wife being loaded onto a stretcher, seeing the mother of his child being whisked away.

he looks down at carmen, stilling his nerves. “mama will be okay, papa promises.” 

“pink promise?” she asks, looking up at him expectantly, and he knows what she means. he holds out his pinkie finger for her, and she curls her own tiny pinkie around it, so small compared to his, fingernails painted a iridescent blue this week. she bites them, and it had been your idea to paint them to get her to stop. 

you, you. he needs you. 

when one of the emts offers him to ride in the ambulance with you, he doesn’t waste a second to think about it. carmen curled in his arms, soft and snug against him, he’ll go to hell and back for you.

the ambulance would be expensive, but that doesn’t matter, not for you, not this.

“amulance.” carmen claps as he sits down beside you, you’re hooked up to a few machines, the heart monitor beeping steadily. she’s finding something fun here, at least, and his heart melts, that is his brave little girl. 

“yes carmen, see? these are all the emts helping fix mama.” he rambles, giving a small nod at the two emts, one of which was nice enough to offer him the ride to the hospital. 

the other one asks for your pre-existing conditions, and he lists them off, your blood pressure runs on the lower side usually, and you’ve had a dizzy spell or two from dehydration, but nothing like this. never anything like this. 

he feels ill. he should have been a better husband to you, noticed that you were feeling woozy all day instead of it coming to this 

“neenaw!” carmen shouts, before hiding her face in her father’s shoulder, “is ok papa, amulance make mama all better.”

she’s reassuring him, three years old and so full of love it hurts. he wants to hug her and cry, so out of his depth here, and so he does. she pats him on the head with her little hands, rubbing her hands through his hair, fluffing it up. “it ok papa.” she repeats, before playing with his ears, tugging at them. 

the hospital is close by, they are in the city after all, st martins is huge. and you’re carted out, leaving frankie and your daughter in the ambulance. 

the hospital is sterile, so full of antiseptics and white lights that it reminds him of rehab. rehab and army hospitals, both of those messes. both when he was a mess. 

standing there it feels like he’s seeing past versions of himself, where he wasn’t strong enough to fight the urges of addiction. 

he swallows roughly as a nurse leads him to the waiting room, carmen sitting on his lap. she tilts her head, and looks at him curiously. she doesn’t know who her father was before he was her father, never will know.

and yet, “papa ‘ook like he seen a boo.” she squishes his face again, pulling him away from his thoughts. she reads him too well, pale and haunted by the place.

“no, not at all, papa is 100% a okay.”

“a okay?” 

“a okay.” he holds up his hands in the okay sign, and she eases down. the wait is an hour long, and it’s the worst hour of his life. he’s been through withdrawal, and this is decidedly worse.

“mr morales?” a nurse calls out, and he stands up, amidst the other worried family members waiting for their own loved ones names to be called out. carmen has finally fallen asleep in his arms, “you can go in and meet the doctor now.”

the doctor is a greying old man, and he meets him outside the room where you’re in. he can see glimpses of you through the door, hooked to some more machines, a blue hospital gown, material you’d hate to wear. where was your cotton dress? did they have to cut it?

a smile on his face is mildly reassuring, and his heart calms down a little, “um…how is she doctor?” he says, softly, not to wake carmen up.

the doctor places a hand on his shoulder, “your wife is fine mr morales, her blood pressure dipped and her iron levels dropped too, but that was the most of her worries. that combined with the clear lack of food in her stomach led to her collapse.”

a pause. it was nothing serious, nothing so serious that it made his heart stop. nothing so serious that it threw him back to the jungles where he’d fought. 

you were fine, but you’d been dizzy before.

“what made her collapse though?” he asks, a little too harshly, as if the doctor has all the answers, human bodies do weird things, like get addicted to coke. still he asks, “she’s had dizzy spells before…?”

“oh but combined with the stresses on her body with her current condition, i think it just exacerbated her dizzy spells.” he hums, looking down at the chart on the clipboard. 

“stresses?” he frowns, “i mean we both split our time between work, chores and carmen, it’s been like this since forever, is any of that adding to her stresses?”

he’s already thinking a mile a minute, he knew you wanted to work fiercely, financial independence and all that, and you had a corporate job. maybe he’d cut some of his hours at the flight school.

“what?” the doctor looks at him incredulously, “i mean…the stresses with the pregnancy.”

and his thoughts screech to a halt, what the fuck?

he must clearly look blank, because the doctor repeats himself, and he’s still got no dice.

“what?”

“oh,” the doctor laughs, “oh i thought you knew, congratulations mr morales, your wife is nearly three months pregnant.”

he chokes on his own breath for a second, not making anything more than a splutter. like sure you’d been trying, but you two had just not given too much thought to it. 

and with carmen and work and…everything really. how much time did you have to yourself? would you have paid attention to a skipped period, yours were sort of irregular anyway. 

“oh my god…” a pause, and he swallowed, “is the…well is the baby okay too?” but it’s a silly question anyway, and he knows. the doctor would have said something if the baby was harmed. 

the doctor just looks at him, a little exasperated, “your baby is fine mr morales,, if your wife had fallen forwards, now that would have been an issue, or if her head had hit the ground.”

carmen mumbles something incoherently in his arms, and he nuzzles her a little closer to him, you would be fine. everything was okay, there was no reason for him to slip back into his old ways, he had people depending on him in a way that they had never before.

the doctor lowers his voice, and pats his arm, “you can visit your wife, know that this isn’t a huge deal, however, please tell your wife to keep her blood pressure in check, pregnancy can exacerbate conditions, and any worse it could lead to premature birth, not to mention the blood loss and the strain on the mother which could lead too…” 

his heart sinks to the bottom of his stomach again, seeping danger. you weren’t free of it, but he could do something, he couldn’t just watch in helplessness like he had done all these years. 

the doctor smiles as he opens the door to your room, and frankie carries carmen into the room where you lie. hooked up to some monitors, that blue gown on you. a pause, overwhelmed to see you like this, you who were so full of love and light and movement, now lying still on hospital bed.

his hair is mussed, sticking up in all directions, and he holds carmen tight against his chest, like she’ll disappear if he doesn’t hold her tight enough. the chair is uncomfortable, plastic and hard, his hand is on yours, rubbing circles, and he waits.

he doesn’t have to wait long, your eyes flutter open, and you feel his skin on yours. a swallow, “frankie?” you say, sleepily, blinking up at him with sticky eyes.

your voice is so dry, you cough, and there’s a paper cup of water in your hands immediately. 

“carmen?” you ask out, blindly, before your bleary eyes land on her curled up in your husbands arms, soft and cuddly. “i didn’t scare her, did i?”

“carino, you scared both of us.” scared is an understatement, he thinks, you made him loose his mind. 

another sip, and you blink up at him, “frankie, i’m not made of glass, i’m not some vase.” you sigh, before finishing the water and placing the cup beside you. 

“you scared me though,” he says, his voice is so small and so lost. like he’s a little boy, “you scared me so much, carino, i thought…”

“it’s okay,” you’re gentle, and you hold the hand that was holding yours. “i’m here babe.” 

“but it reminded me so much-“ he cut himself off, no reason to remember. remember the desperation in the army, the fear, the blood on his hands.

“you’re not there anymore.” your hand squeezes his, “i’m here carino. i’m here, with you.”

the two of you sit like that, slumped against each other, with your daughter between you, softness. 

“so, what happened?” you ask, your eyes never leaving carmen, “blood pressure too low? i’m sorry, i shouldn’t have eaten so little this morning, but carmen was hungry for pancakes.”

you shake your head, “i’ll make more pancakes in the morning, i promise i’ll have something to eat in the mornings, i’ve just been feeling so sick these days.”

a gentle squeeze to your hand, and you look away from your daughter to frankie’s brown eyes. so wide and brown and full of love. 

“ah, i think i know why.” he says, shyly, face going red as he looks at you like you hang the stars and the moon in his sky. 

“it’s probably just acid reflux-“ you say, rolling your eyes, but the sincerity in which he looks at you scares you. 

scares you and makes you love him even more.

“mi vida,” he swallows nervously, his fingers tapping a rhythm on your fingers, “you’re pregnant.” 

your jaw drops, heart stuttering in your chest, tears filling up in your eyes. you’d entertained the idea of another kid, a son that frankie insists would be a mini-you, but…

“frankie, baby…” you choke out your words, but your hands are shaking like you’ve been stuck in the cold for hours. “frankie…”

“two months along too,” he wipes away your tears with the hand not holding carmen, his thumb is rough from all the years of holding a pilot’s stick, but it’s the softest thing you’ve ever felt. 

“two months…?” your voice is faint, how did you not notice for two months? two months of this, all the dizziness and the nausea and the missed period all made sense now. you’d just chalked it up to stress, but a baby?

“two months my vida, carrying our little baby.” his hand hovers gently over your stomach, and the other arm wraps around carmen, a hand in her curls.

“do you think he’ll have curly hair?” he asks, and you smile, booping him on the nose. 

“how do you know it’s a he.”

“i just know,” he has a huge grin on his face, “carmen looks just like me and this little boy will look just like you. mierda, i’ll have to take some more hours at the flight school to save up for the nursery.”

camen takes that very line to start stirring, “ ‘as a bad word papa.” she scrunches up her little nose, before she starts biting down on his broad shoulder. her teeth are very sharp, like little razors, and he pulls her off him to turn to her mother. you can see her dark brown eyes are bright, even if she’s just slept, shining in the fluorescent lights of the hospital.

what a cute baby, the two of you have made, with her perfect wide eyes and her perfect tiny mouth and her perfect little nose. a moment, before tears slip down your eyes again.

“right, papa said a bad word.” he agrees, rocking her in his arms, but she just frowns from the jostling, and calmest to sit still. 

“why mama is the crying?” your daughter asks, and her hands go to swipe the tears from your cheeks, palms splayed over your face. “is ‘ou sad?”

“no no, mama’s not sad.” you take a shaky breath in, “mama is fine.” 

“but you crying.” she frowns again, pushing at your cheeks, trying to make your lips turn up into a smile. 

“these are happy tears, see?” you smile up for her, and frankie does the same, she learns by seeing. 

“how would you like to be a big sister?” frankie asks, so gently, and she thinks about it. or you guess she’s thinking about it, with the way her eyes squint thoughtfully.

“mm, i’d like that.” she says after a minute, her hands still on you like the clingy toddler she once was never left. 

and yeah, you would like that too, have your family grow a little larger.  

Benny was the easy choice.

Easy in the way Frankie never was—lighter, less burdened, less bruised by life. Less haunted.

Frankie had watched him coast through the aftermath of their service like it was a chapter he could close. Watched him succeed with women, with work, with moving on. Maybe it was because Benny was younger. Or maybe it was because he always had Will—someone tethered to him by blood and laughter and that kind of ride-or-die closeness Frankie never quite got to have.

Sure, Santi and the others were his brothers too. But it wasn’t the same.

Frankie had always been the quiet one. The one people liked, but never quite reached. Not like they reached for Benny. Benny was sunshine and easy grins and boyish charm. Frankie was a man stitched back together too many times to still believe he was whole.

It hadn’t mattered much—until you.

You came into their lives on an ordinary Friday. Just another night at their usual bar, darts and tequila and the comfort of routine. You walked in with a friend, and everything else faded for a second. You didn’t quite fit the place, and maybe that’s what caught his eye. Or maybe it was the way you sat with one foot hooked under your barstool, trying to look comfortable but glancing around like you weren’t sure you belonged.

Benny noticed you too, of course. Made some comment about “dibs on the one with the curls” and strutted across the bar like it was a stage he’d performed on a thousand times. Slung an arm across the counter near you. Said something Frankie couldn’t quite hear but it made you laugh.

And God help him, that laugh.

That laugh changed everything. It rooted itself in his chest like a seed that would never stop growing.

You joined their booth, polite and radiant. Your friend was already eyeing Will, and the table buzzed with overlapping conversation and tequila shots. You didn’t give Benny your number that night—not like the others before you. When you left, Benny pouted about it, muttering under his breath about “a missed shot,” but Frankie let himself hope.

He told himself maybe, maybe you saw through the charm. Maybe you didn’t fall for it.

But he was wrong. You found Benny on social media a few days later. And that’s how your story started.

Frankie told himself it was fine. Benny never lasted long with women anyway—they burned bright and fast and then fizzled out. But you didn’t fizzle. You stayed.

You kept up with the boys. You matched Benny’s energy. You had a smart mouth and kind eyes and you became a part of them. A fixture.

And somehow, in the spaces Benny didn’t fill, Frankie did. He became your confidant. Your ride home whenever Benny was too drunk. Your safe place.

He gave you advice about Benny. Listened when you vented. Memorized your favorite drink and the shape of your laugh. You were the only person who ever made him feel human again. Like he was more than the wreckage he carried. You made him laugh when he didn’t think he remembered how.

He watched it all unfold from the sidelines. The flirting, the late nights, the texts. The way you started showing up at game nights and BBQs. How easily you melted into the group. How you brought snacks that became everyone’s favorite and remembered how he liked his coffee. Even if you were Benny’s girl, you still looked at Frankie when you said his name.

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t your fault either.

You were kind to him. Always, too kind.

You treated him like someone worth knowing, not someone broken by war and addiction. You asked about his work. About his music. You brought him books you thought he might like and rolled your eyes when he said he didn’t read much—then grinned when you caught him thumbing through the pages anyway. You laughed at his dry, self-deprecating humor like it was something charming instead of sad.

You hugged him every time you saw him.

And every time, he felt like you were giving him something he wasn’t allowed to have.

——

The nights Benny wasn’t around, you’d still show up. Still sit on the porch beside him and sip your beer slow, talking about everything and nothing. Once, you dozed off on his shoulder and Frankie didn’t dare to breathe for minutes. Just sat there, frozen, letting himself pretend.

You never treated him like a backup plan. Never made him feel like an afterthought.

That’s what made it worse. Because if you’d been cruel, if you’d been careless—he could’ve let go. Could’ve buried it deep. But you weren’t. You were light in a place he thought had long gone dark. And he couldn’t stop. Couldn’t not care. Wasn’t able to stop dreaming about what it would be like if you had picked him instead. Laying awake night after night, being chased by you in his dreams like a ghost. 

Frankie wanted you so badly it ached. Not just in the obvious ways—but in all the quiet, aching places that mattered most. The silence that felt unbearable everywhere else always settled into something softer when you were near. Like peace. He bit his tongue every time you laughed at someone else’s joke. Smiled through the sting when Benny kissed you in front of him. Let you lean on him without ever leaning back—because he knew. 

If he reached for you, even once, there’d be no going back. And some part of him feared what would happen if you reached back.

Your voice haunted him in the most unexpected moments like a punch to the ribs.Your warmth? It lingered in his clothes long after every too-long hug, like a scent he couldn’t wash out. He was a man starving for something he knew he couldn’t—shouldn’t—want.

But the mind is a cruel thing. It replayed every interaction, every smile, every brush of your hand, like a punishment.

It was a special kind of torture, loving someone who trusted  you with everything but their heart.

Who called you at midnight to say, “You’re the only one who gets it,” but still fell asleep in someone else’s arms.

—

And then there was that one night—the one he never talks about. Not even to himself.

You were tipsy. Warm. Laughing soft. Benny was off arguing with someone at the bar. You were beside Frankie, curled close. You said his name—quiet, careful. Like it meant something. And when a curl slipped across your cheek, he reached out. Tucked it behind your ear. His knuckles grazed your skin, and your breath hitched ever so slightly. 

That second? It burned.

Lit something that never went out, simmering just under his skin and just now exploded like a firework.

But you blinked—startled, just for a second—before you straightened, offered him a small, almost apologetic smile.

And that’s when he knew.

This feeling wouldn’t go away, not even if he begged it to.

— 

Frankie noticed it the second you walked in.

You were late—later than usual. Not that anyone else seemed to mind, but he did. He always did. It was hard not to notice you, even harder not to watch you.

Tonight, something was off.

You smiled, sure, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes. You sat at the edge of the group instead of folding into Benny’s side like you usually did. Your laugh was quieter, shorter. You nursed your drink like it was a task instead of a treat. Benny didn’t seem to notice—he was busy reliving some old mission story with Santi and Will, animated and laughing, completely unaware of how your body had curled in on itself.

But Frankie?

He saw everything.

The way your shoulders stayed tense. The way your eyes flicked toward the door every few minutes like you might bolt. The way you barely touched the nachos, even though you always stole the ones with the most cheese.

He tried not to stare or to read too much into it.

But it wasn’t just that you were distant from the group.

It was that you were distant from Benny.

And that was new. Because if Frankie had learned one thing about you early on, it was this—touch was your language. Your anchor. Even when you were anxious, it grounded you. You reached for connection like it steadied your heart.

Usually, that meant Benny. You’d lean into him, and he’d sling an arm around your shoulders without a second thought.

But tonight, you didn’t. Tonight, you sat stiff beside him, eyes glued to the bottom of your beer bottle like it might hold answers. You swirled the liquid absently, searching for something it couldn’t give you.

And so, Frankie did what he did best.

He watched and waited. Held space for you in case you needed it.

Hoping you’d eventually let him in.

—

Later—when the others were too caught up in their pool game, when the bar had dimmed into that late-night lull, Frankie slid into the booth beside you.

Not too close, but close enough that your perfume filled his nostrils immediately and the grip on his bottle tightened. 

You didn’t look at him at first. Just picked at the condensation on your glass.

“You okay?” he asked softly, voice low like it didn’t want to press too hard.

You nodded once, too quickly. “Yeah, just tired.”

Frankie tilted his head. “Tired like you’ve had a long week or tired like you’re pretending you’ve had a long week.”

Finally, you looked at him. Eyes blinking, like waking from a bad dream. You wiped beneath one, as if brushing away a tear that had slipped out without permission.

That’s when he recognized it.

Not the tiredness, or even the sadness.

It was that look. The one he sometimes saw in the mirror. A quiet kind of ache. The one that comes when you’re holding too much in your chest and pretending it’s fine.

You tried to smile, but it was weak. Unlike your usual beautiful smile, the kind that lit up your whole face and made your eyes crinkle at the corners. “Frankie…”

But he just shook his head. “You don’t have to tell me. Just don’t lie to me.”

And God, the way your eyes softened. Like you were grateful someone finally noticed. Like you’d been carrying something too heavy for too long and were only now realizing it.

“I’m not lying,” you whispered. “I’m just… trying not to ruin tonight.”

Frankie swallowed. His fingers twitched on the table, itching to reach for yours, but he didn’t.

“You won’t ruin anything,” he said. “You being quiet is the loudest thing in the room for me anyway.”

Your breath caught audibly and you looked away for a moment. Like the fact someone really cared for you like this, was too much for you to handle.

You didn’t say much after that—just slipped out of the booth, pressing a fleeting kiss to Benny’s cheek. He barely noticed, too wrapped up in his pool game to even glance your way. You gave Frankie one small nod, eyes tired and unapproachable. 

Frankie’s eyes followed you until you disappeared into the crowd. It felt like there was a shadow clinging to you, something dimming the light he’d come to rely on. Where had you gone? The woman who could make him laugh on his worst days, who had this uncanny ability to make the air feel less heavy?

—

The rest of the night blurred past without you returning. By the time last call came, Benny was too drunk to drive, so Frankie grabbed his keys and steered him toward the truck. He was heavy and clumsy and Frankie slightly annoyed by the time they made it into the car.

The ride was quiet at first, save for Benny humming some tuneless melody under his breath. Frankie kept one hand on the wheel, the other drumming against his thigh—a tell he always had when he didn’t know what to do with his hands. He debated whether to ask what was gnawing at him. Realistically, he had no right to. But it was starting to blur the edges of his restraint, eroding whatever was left of his rationality.

“What’s going on with her?” His voice came out sharper than he intended.

Benny frowned like he didn’t understand. “What?”

“You barely looked at her tonight. She left early. Something happen?”

Benny leaned back in the seat, eyelids heavy. “I don’t know, man… I just think I don’t love her anymore.”

Frankie’s grip tightened around the steering wheel. “The hell are you talking about?”

“And—” Benny’s laugh was careless, almost smug. “—maybe she saw me flirting with the bartender. I mean, it wasn’t a big deal, just—”

“Not a big deal?” Frankie cut in, voice low but burning. “She’s your girl, Ben. You think it’s nothing, but that shit sticks. It hurts. You don’t get to treat her like she’s—”

“Oh, give me a break,” Benny slurred, rolling his head toward him. “You’re acting like I cheated on her.”

“You might as well if you keep going like this.” Frankie’s tone was all bite now, the kind he reserved for when someone crossed a line. His teeth were clenched.

Benny snorted, shaking his head. “Jesus, Fish… you know what? If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re in love with my girl.”

The words hit like a gut punch. Frankie’s jaw flexed, a dozen retorts clawing to get out, but he forced his eyes back on the road. “Watch what you’re saying, Ben,” he muttered, voice tight, dangerous. This was too close.

Benny just chuckled under his breath, sinking deeper into the seat—like this was nothing more than idle chatter, not something that twisted in Frankie’s gut at the sheer carelessness behind it.

“I’m just saying…”

Frankie didn’t answer. He gripped the wheel and drove the rest of the way in silence, pulse pounding, Benny’s drunken accusation hanging thick in the air between them.

When they pulled up outside Benny’s place, Frankie finally spoke. “Wait…”

Benny paused mid-step, leaning back into the cabin, one hand braced on the passenger door.

“If you really don’t have feelings for her anymore,” Frankie said, his voice steady but edged with something sharper, “tell her. She deserves to know.”

Benny’s smirk faded for a beat. “I know, man. I’m not a monster.”

And with that, he shut the door hard enough to rattle the frame and walked away, leaving Frankie alone with the echo of it.

He sat there with the engine idling, headlights casting pale gold over the quiet street, hands stayed on the wheel long after Benny disappeared inside.

Not a monster. The words echoed, but they didn’t stick.

Because to Frankie, love wasn’t something you tossed aside when it got inconvenient. It wasn’t something you let wither because you got distracted by a pretty smile behind a bar. And it sure as hell wasn’t something you treated like it didn’t matter when it belonged to someone like you. He watched the story between you and Benny unfold—the way your edges seemed to soften around him, the way your smile gentled, the way your eyes found him like he was the only person in the room. Frankie would’ve given anything to be on the receiving end of that look, even just once. There was no mistaking it—this was love. Or at least it had been, from your side. And the fact that his friend could throw it away so carelessly, while Frankie ached for it every waking second, felt like the cruelest joke the universe had ever played.

He shut his eyes, jaw tight. He could still picture you from earlier—shoulders hunched, eyes too far away, the ghost of your smile stretched thin. And the worst part? You’d looked like that before Benny had even opened his mouth to him tonight. 

Frankie’s knuckles whitened on the steering wheel as he made his way back to his place. He told himself it wasn’t his business—that you weren’t his to protect—but the thought of you sitting at home, wondering if you’d done something wrong burned. It got under his skin, seeped into the cracks he’d tried so hard to seal. It pressed against every part of his soul he kept hidden, the parts that had no right to interfere with you, or with one of his closest friends since his army days.

—

By the time Frankie got home, the night had stretched thin. The kind of quiet that should have been a relief only made him restless. He tried the TV, aimlessly flipping through channels, but every voice sounded hollow against the static hum in his head.

He kept replaying the way you’d looked at the bar. The hollowed-out version of yourself. The way you’d slipped out without fanfare, like you were hoping no one would notice. Like you wanted to disappear before anyone could ask why.

And then Benny’s words: I think I don’t love her anymore. He’d said it like it was nothing. Like it wasn’t a sentence that could gut a person if it landed in their chest.  Frankie shut the TV off and sat in the dark, elbows on his knees, trying to will himself to let it go. You weren’t his, and it sure as hell wasn’t his place to do anything. 

A sudden knock at the door made him flinch. It was late—well past one in the morning—and no one came by unannounced at this hour unless they had a damn good reason. The sound was hesitant, almost unsure, and for a moment he wondered if his tired brain had imagined it. But then came two softer knocks, quick and quiet, and that was enough to get him moving.

He opened the door to find you standing there—hair mussed from the wind, eyes swollen and glassy, jacket pulled tight around you like armor. You looked smaller somehow, stripped of the light he’d come to know in every version of you since you became Benny’s girl. 

“Hey,” you breathed, voice soft and frayed around the edges.

Frankie’s stomach dropped. He didn’t even ask before stepping aside, autopilot. “Come in.”

You hesitated only long enough to toe off your shoes before stepping into his apartment. The air between you was thick with too many things unsaid, pressing in from all sides.

When he turned to face you, you were already unraveling. That first broken sob hit him like shrapnel—sharp, sudden, and straight to the heart. Before he could think better of it, he closed the distance. His arms came around you, instinct more than choice, and you folded into him like you’d been holding yourself together just long enough to make it here.

You shook in his hold, your hands fisting in his shirt, and Frankie held on tighter. Tight enough to feel your heartbeat through your jacket, tight enough to imagine that he maybe could keep all your broken pieces from spilling onto the floor. “’S okay,” he murmured, voice low, barely above the rasp of his own breath against your hair. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

The words were for you, but the promise lodged somewhere deep in him, dangerous and immovable. Because this close, he could feel everything—the faint tremble in your breath, the soft scent of your shampoo, the way your body fit against his like it had always belonged there. And it was killing him.

Every part of him screamed to press his mouth to the crown of your head, to tell you how long he’d wanted to be the one you came to. But this wasn’t his moment to take. It was yours to fall apart in, and his to keep you safe while you did.

Your voice was a whisper against his chest. “Benny called me.”

He felt his jaw tense before he even processed the words. “Called you?”

You nodded against him. “Didn’t come by. Didn’t… look me in the eye. Just called to tell me he’s not in love with me anymore.” Your voice cracked, the last word barely holding together.

Frankie froze. For a second, it was like his mind split in two—the part of him that wanted to keep you wrapped in warmth and quiet, and the part that wanted to slam his fist through a wall, through Benny’s front door, through anything between him and the man who could treat you like that.

Not in love anymore. The words echoed like gunfire. He told him that you deserved the truth, but he didn’t expect him to do it so soon.

He forced his breathing to slow. You didn’t need his rage, you needed his steadiness.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, his voice low but steady, even though every syllable scraped like glass in his throat. “You didn’t deserve that. Any of it.”

And in his head, behind the calm, the thought roared: If he didn’t love you anymore, I would have.

You didn’t pull away after that. If anything, you pressed in closer, curling into him like you could disappear into the space between his ribs and find some shelter there. Frankie shifted just enough to guide you inside, closing the door behind you with his free hand, the other still keeping you anchored to him.

“Sit,” he murmured, nodding toward the couch. He crouched in front of you for a second, searching your face, then straightened. “I’ll get you some tea.”

You shook your head immediately, eyes still glossy. “Don’t want tea.”

He hesitated, then gave a small nod. “Okay. No tea.” He sat beside you instead, letting you lean into his side, one arm coming around your shoulders automatically. You fit there like you’d been meant to, your cheek pressed to his chest, your hand curling against the seam of his hoodie. He could feel the damp heat of your breath through the fabric, and it short-circuited something deep in him—because all he’d ever wanted was this, to be the one you trusted enough to fall apart on. And now that it was happening, he had to keep every part of himself locked down so you didn’t feel how hard his heart was slamming against his ribs.

He rubbed slow circles between your shoulder blades, the way you sometimes did for him when his anxiety got bad, and felt your sobs slowly lose their sharp edges.

After a long silence, he exhaled through his nose. “You know,” he said, voice low and a little dry, “if you want, I can go over there right now and hit him.”

It earned him the smallest huff of air against his chest—almost a laugh, but not quite. “Don’t,” you murmured. “He’s not worth it.”

“Maybe not,” he said, tightening his arm around you just enough to make the point, “but you are.”

You went still at that, and for a heartbeat he thought he’d said too much. But then you sank into him again, and he let the quiet come back. Let you have all the time you needed, even if every second was killing him in the sweetest, cruelest way imaginable.

Frankie didn’t mean to offer the bed.

He’d told himself you’d take the couch—hell, you’d even nodded when he gestured toward it—but somewhere between finding you an old T-shirt and blanket, and watching you fold into yourself again, the words slipped out.

“You can take my bed. It’s warmer.”

You didn’t argue. Just gave him that small, wrecked nod, and disappeared into his room while he lingered in the living room, trying to convince himself this was fine. Normal.

When he finally went in, the moon was already spilling silver light through the half-closed curtains, painting long stripes across the floor. You were curled on top of the blankets, hair mussed, eyes barely open.

“I can take the couch—” he started.

“Don’t,” you interrupted, voice soft, not quite pleading. “Stay.”

Two syllables, and his pulse tripped over itself.

He hesitated in the doorway, every instinct screaming at him to be careful. But then you shifted, pulling the blanket back like it was the most natural thing in the world, and he gave in.

The mattress dipped under his weight, the air between you warm and tense. He lay on his side, leaving space, but the moment your fingers brushed his arm, it was like a fuse lit inside him. His breathing stuttered, loud in the quiet.

You inched closer, tucking yourself into the curve of him with a trust that was both a gift and a knife. “Is this okay?” you whispered, almost like you were afraid he’d say no.

God, yes.

He wanted to say yes and then show you just how okay it was, every way he’d been imagining for months. But instead he swallowed, made his voice steady. “Yeah, ’course it is.”

Silence stretched, broken only by the rustle of fabric when you shifted against him. The moonlight caught the curve of your cheek, the slope of your jaw, and he thought if I just leaned in—

But then you spoke.

Your voice came so quietly he almost thought he’d imagined it.

“Why is it that I feel safer with you than with him?”

Frankie’s chest went tight. He stared at the ceiling, willing himself not to react, not to let his hand tremble where it rested between you. Every part of him wanted to answer with the truth: Because I want you, because I’d never let you feel small, because I see you.

Instead, he forced a slow breath. “I don’t know,” he murmured. “But you do, that’s what matters.”

You curled in even closer, pressing your forehead to his chest. And while you exhaled like you were finally able to let go, Frankie lay there wide awake, pulse hammering, his body fighting against reason. 

—

The morning after you slept in his bed, nothing had changed on the surface. He made coffee. You made a joke about his terrible taste in cereal. He walked you to your car and watched until you turned the corner.

But something had shifted. Frankie could feel it in the marrow. You still weren’t Benny’s anymore — that part was clear — but you weren’t his, either. And so he stayed in that no-man’s-land, where the safest thing he could do was show up for you without ever reaching too far.

Weeks slipped by like that. You came over often, sometimes with takeout, sometimes empty-handed, sometimes with that little crease between your brows that told him you’d had a bad day, haunted by heartbreak and whatever ghosts were chasing you and just needed somewhere to be. And he gave you all of it. The couch, the quiet. The beer you liked coldest. His ears, without judgment.

He’d even fixed the leaky tap in your kitchen, after you’d teased him about being handier than you’d given him credit for and he’d just shrugged, like it was nothing. Change your oil without being asked. Let you commandeer his remote, even when you made him sit through that cooking competition show he secretly hated.

And every time you laughed, head thrown back, hand on his knee, he felt the edges of himself fray a little more.

And then there were the moments that gutted him most. Like the night you fell asleep against his shoulder during a movie, breath soft and steady, your hand resting loosely on his chest like it belonged there. For him, it did. Or the way you’d hum to yourself in his kitchen, hair in a loose bun, swimming in one of his sweatshirts and how good you looked there. The afternoon you leaned over his shoulder while he worked on the old car in his garage, your chin nearly brushing his temple, carrying the faint scent of your shampoo mixed with engine grease, your body heat seeping into every crack in his restraint.

Every single one of those moments rewrote him a little more.

He never touched more than he should. Never let his hand linger when he passed you something, never leaned in too close. But the want was its own kind of burn now — steady, consuming, impossible to ignore. Like an itch beneath his skin he couldn’t scratch without shattering everything.

It was late again, a random Thursday, one of those nights that seemed to have no natural end. You’d been on his couch for hours, legs tucked under you. The TV was still on, but neither of you were really watching.

You’d been talking about nothing — work, the weather, the ridiculousness of Santi’s group texts — when you leaned your head back against the cushions, looking at him with that small, soft smile he always admired when you gave it to Benny.

“Why are you always so good to me?”

Frankie froze. The words were light, but they landed like a weight on his chest. You were so close, knees brushing his thigh, the smell of your perfume lingering in the air like smoke. He looked at you for a long time without speaking, blinking, breathing and you tilted your head like you were trying to read him.

“You really have no idea, do you?” he said finally, his voice rough.

Your brows knit. “Idea about what?”

“That I’ve… felt this way for you for longer than I should’ve.” He exhaled hard, rubbed the back of his neck like maybe that would buy him time. “That every time I’m good to you, it’s because I can’t not be. Because I’ve been—” He broke off, shaking his head. “—been in love with you for so long it’s just part of who I am now.”

The room went unbearably still. His own heartbeat loud in his ears.

“I know I’m not supposed to say this,” he murmured, voice dropping low, eyes fixed on his hands. “And I’d never expect you to feel the same. But I can’t keep sitting here, night after night, pretending I’m not already yours in every way that counts.”

For a moment, you just stared at him. Like the words had taken a second to sink in, like you were replaying them in your head to make sure you’d heard them right. You didn’t look scared. If anything, you looked stunned.

“I—” you started, then shook your head, a wry, almost disbelieving smile tugging at your lips. “You know what’s funny?”

Frankie’s brows drew together, wary but waiting.

“I was interested in you. Back then. Not Benny. But I thought you weren’t into me, so…” You let the unfinished sentence hang between you, a shrug filling in the rest.

For a second, he just blinked at you. Then a laugh—boyish, almost incredulous—broke from his chest. “Are you kidding me?”

That made you laugh too, both of you shaking your heads at how the timing had been so catastrophically wrong. The sound softened into something quieter, the air between you shifting. 

Frankie felt your gaze before he saw it—like a hand on the back of his neck, warm and pulling.

When he finally looked up, you were watching him already. It knocked the air out of him. There was no wall in your eyes tonight, no easy smile to hide behind. Just you.

Your lips parted slightly, and Frankie swore his pulse skipped. His gaze dropped to your mouth before his brain catched up, hunger and hesitation warring inside. He didn’t even notice he’d stopped breathing until you moved.

You crossed the space between you like it was the most natural thing in the world—swinging a leg over, settling into his lap. Knees bracketing his hips, thighs pressing in close. Frankie’s  chest tightened with the sharp, involuntary inhale it pulled from him.

He froze for half a second. Not because he didn’t want it—Jesus, he wanted this more than anything else—but because he had to be sure. Had to know you weren’t going to regret this the second it happened.

His hands found the softness of your hips, tentative at first, then firmer, holding you like you might vanish. The heat of you sank through his palms, straight into his bones.

He looked up at you from beneath the brim of his cap, voice rough when he managed, “You sure?”

Your nod was all it took. You reached up, plucking his cap from his head like it had no right to be between you, fingers sliding into his hair. The slow rake of your nails through his curls sent a shiver down his spine.

Whatever thin, frayed thread had been holding him together gave way in that moment. Every ounce of restraint he’d clung to unraveled, spilling into the space between you until there was nothing left but the need he could no longer keep buried.

The kiss deepened like neither of you had a choice in the matter. Your fingers tugged at his hair, just enough to pull a low sound from his chest.

Frankie’s hands traced up from your hips, over your ribs, thumbs brushing just under the swell of your chest before he caught himself, palms flattening against your back instead. He pulled you closer anyway, like it still wasn’t enough, like all the pining had left a hollow in him that only you could fill.

You shifted in his lap, and his breath stuttered against your mouth, his restraint hanging by a thread.

“Fuck…” he murmured into the kiss, like it was a prayer, like it was the only word he could manage. You pressed your forehead to his, both of you breathing hard, the room spinning slow with the gravity between you.

“I should’ve told you,” you whispered.

His thumb brushed your jaw, eyes on your mouth like he wasn’t ready to let you go. “We’re here now, that’s all what matters.”

You kissed him again at that, slower this time, like you were both memorizing the feel of it—and all the missed chances fell away. The quiet between kisses was filled only with the sound of your uneven breathing and the distant hum of the city beyond the walls.

The rest could wait. But for now, you stayed tangled in his lap, his arms around you like you both finally found the place you were meant to be all along.

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