I hate losing more than I like to win.

"yeah."

he taps your thigh as he pulls out of you and you turn over quickly. he presses his entire body against you from behind and slides into you again. right away, he sets a rapid pace and the headboard slams against the wall along with his thrusts.

"you hear that, baby? i'm doing that. that's me fucking you." and he doesn't stop until you're completely spent beneath him.

*

"you're gonna break through the wall one day," you tease as he rests his head on your stomach.

he chuckles. "i don't think that's possible."

"doesn't mean we can't try..."

"when? right now?" he asks as he kisses up your body to your lips and you nod. "right right now?" he smiles against your lips.

You love the way he looks, even though he has admitted several times that he’s insecure about it. Those big brown eyes are so deep and soulful. He can’t hide his emotions from you; they’re always on display in his eyes, like a billboard flashing exactly what he’s thinking. Horny. Hungry. Tired. Love you. He thinks his nose is ugly, too large, but it perfectly suits him. You love his scruff and his laugh lines and the dark curls he usually tucks beneath a ballcap.

He’s just so beautiful. You love watching him do anything. Driving, sleeping, eating, laughing. He’s currently laughing, and it’s a wonderful sight. His eyes widen and his brows raise in excitement. His smile is wide, putting lines in his cheeks and showing off that precious dimple. His nose scrunches lightly. He’s laughing at Benny, who’s fulfilling his role as the group’s comic relief.

You get from your chair, resisting the urge to put a hand on Frankie’s shoulder, to knock the cap off his head and run a hand through those curls you love so dearly. There’s a big reason you can’t: the other men don’t know. “I’m getting another round. Pitcher for the table?” You ask the men, and they all nod and cheer for you.

You walk to the bar and Frankie can’t help but stare at the way your ass looks in those jeans. The other men look briefly, but not quite as long. “Jesus, Fish. Curb your enthusiasm,” Santiago teases and smacks his arm.

He laughs and raises his hands defensively, but he feels sorry for them. They don’t know how wonderful you are, the way you pour all of your heart and soul into his and let them mingle and become one. They don’t know the way you always tell him just the right words he needs to hear, the way your hand feels as it slides across his chest and down to his abdomen before making its way back up and cupping his face as he earns a gentle kiss from you.

“Sorry, sorry,” he chuckles.

He watches you, where you stand at the bar, and you watch him. He holds conversation with his men, as always. He’s the quiet one, so he doesn’t have to talk as much anyway. He spends most of that time out of the spotlight looking at you. They seem to be roughhousing him, shoving his side or flicking the brim of his hat. You wonder why. Frankie’s already the punching bag of the group, you all know it, but it’s because he takes it. He’s cute, and he pouts at you after a particularly hard punch in the arm. He rubs it and looks at you with puppy eyes. You blow a kiss to him, and the facade drops. He’s beaming again.

You smile at the way he grins, the way he sneaks a glance at you in the middle of talking. Your phone buzzes in your back pocket.

Frankie: Quit smiling at me, I can’t stop messing up my sentences when you look at me like that.

You look up and grin, and Frankie bursts into a laugh all the way across the bar at the guys’ table. It fits perfectly with the conversation, but they don’t know it. They don’t know the true meaning, the way Frankie’s heart leaps out of his chest and runs through the crowded room just to love yours.

You: can’t help it. love you too much.

Frankie looks up after he reads the text and finishes the rest of his beer. His beautiful eyes meet yours and you bite your lip to hold back from grinning. His lips move softly. “I love you too.”

No, the other men don’t know how much you mean to each other, and they never will. No one can understand it like the two of you can, even in texts across a crowded and loud bar.

You walk back with a pitcher of beer and the men grin. Benny claps you on the back happily, making the beer slosh. You set it down and laugh along with them. You wrap your ankle around Frankie’s leg beneath the table. The others won’t be able to tell, and you just need to be touching him.

He smiles a little at that, his hand finding your knee and rubbing it softly. He traces little hearts into the skin of your thigh, and you can feel it even through the jeans you wear. It’s his favorite way to remind you that he loves you when he’s in public, his thumb making tiny heart after heart after heart. I love you I love you I love you.