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The following morning, you woke up with Harry spooning you from behind. You couldn’t remember the last time you slept that well or how comfortable it had been. His arm was draped over your midsection, his breaths shallow and hot against the shell of your ear. Luckily, you both were wearing some clothing—him in only his boxers and you with one of his shirts. 

You told yourself that it was because of the alcohol and the location for why you felt so comfortable and rested. 

And not because of the man holding you so close to him like he was afraid to let you go. 

Slowly, you climbed out of bed, careful not to wake him. He moved instead to lie on his abdomen, both arms now coming to rest under the pillow. He was snoring quietly now and it was the first time that you managed to get a good look at him like this. 

How peaceful he looked. 

How the weight of his responsibilities weren’t on his shoulders. 

How fucking handsome he was too. 

You shook your head before your thoughts trailed off and reached for your sleep shorts to slip on. You gave him one last glance before stepping out of the bedroom and shutting the door behind you quietly. 

Walking to the kitchen area, you noticed the card from the villa and dialed the number. You were taken aback at how quickly they answered, asking what you and Harry wanted for breakfast. You looked at the menu and bit your lower lip, ordering a side of scrambled eggs, bacon, an assortment of pastries, and coffee—black for him and a latte for you. 

They excitedly said that they’d be there shortly before you hung up. You looked at the card, eyes widening at what it said. You and Harry had your own butler for the entire stay, anything you wanted, they would be there to give it. 

You sighed. You knew how rich Harry and his family was, but never quite like this. 

You grabbed your camera from the counter and wrote on a notepad in case Harry woke up while you were gone. It was a simple message: Ordered breakfast. Out for a short walk. Be back soon. 

You contemplated on signing off with “Love,” and your name, but decided against it. You glanced down the hallway and noticed the bedroom door still shut before walking out of the villa. 

Harry awoke about ten minutes after you left. He looked around the empty room and furrowed a brow, sitting up and pulling on a t-shirt and breathable sweatpants. He opened the door and called out for you only to be welcomed with silence. It wasn’t until he walked to the kitchen that he saw your note. 

Harry was just about to leave the villa when he heard a knock on the door. He knew it was the breakfast you ordered, so he opened the door and smiled politely at the younger man who held a tray of food. 

“Good morning, Mr. Castillo,” he said with a smile, walking further into the villa to set the food and drinks down onto the kitchen counter. Harry followed eagerly, his stomach rumbling from the smell of food wafting through. He glanced at the counter for a moment, biting his lower lip as he remembered last night’s events. A small smile curled his lips at the thought before he excused himself to get some cash to give a tip. 

“Thank you,” Harry said, sliding a couple of hundred dollar bills into the younger man’s hand. “Smells delicious.” 

The younger man smiled his thanks and then turned on his heel to leave the villa. 

Once alone again, Harry reached for his black coffee and smiled to himself. You knew what he liked and he certainly knew what you liked too because at the sight of your latte, he knew that it’d likely be way too sweet for his liking. 

After a few minutes, Harry reached for his phone and decided to give you a call. He was hungry and he didn’t know how long he could wait. 

“Hey,” you said over the phone. “I’m heading back now.” 

“You ordered breakfast.” 

“And coffee,” you added. “Is it there now?” 

“Yeah, just got here.” 

“Good. Don’t eat without me!”

Harry chuckled. “You know I wouldn’t. It’s why I called. Just wanted to check in to see how long you’d be.” 

“Few minutes,” you answered. “Just went for a walk and took some pictures.” 

“Take any good ones?” 

“I did,” you said. “I’ll show you them when I get back. I’ll see you soon.” 

“See you in a bit,” he replied, hanging up the phone. Just as he was about to set the phone back on the counter, his matchmaker from Adore called. 

Harry glanced at the front door and bit his lower lip, stepping out onto the deck and sliding the glass doors shut as he answered. 

“Hello?” 

“Harry, hi,” she replied cheerily. “I know you’re on vacation, but figured I’d give you a call to let you know some good news.” 

“Right.” 

“You have more than one match,” she said. “And I think having plenty of options gives you more flexibility to choose who you might want to spend more of your time with.” 

“So, date around?” 

“Not around,” she corrected. “Just the list of women I have for you.”

Harry nodded. He glanced over his shoulder and saw you walk into the villa. Your camera was in your hand and you were still wearing his shirt, something that he was sure he’d never get tired of seeing. You spotted him and waved with a grin. 

He forced a smile, waved back, and then turned away from you. It felt like he was cheating on you with what he was doing and the conversation he was having, but Harry needed to think realistically. 

Because after this week, his relationship with you would go back to normal. 

“Okay,” he finally answered. “How many women?”

“Five. I think all could be a great fit, truthfully, but I just wanted to give you a call to let you know that you have options.” 

“Great.” 

“Do you want to stop at five?” 

Harry cleared his throat. “For now, yes.” 

“Wonderful,” she said. “I think it’s a great starting point and each woman has what you’re looking for.” 

Harry sighed. He thought back to Lucy and what she told him about loving being easy. He started wondering what that looked like and what that meant because with you, everything was easy. 

“Does—Does Lucy know about this?” He asked hesitantly. 

The matchmaker replied without hesitation. “Yes.” 

He sighed. “Right, makes sense considering she’s running that company now.” 

“Is that a problem, Mr. Castillo?” 

“No, no,” he answered. “Just making an observation.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Yes,” he said quickly. “Please don’t reach out for the remainder of this week, okay? I’ll give you a call once I’m back in New York.” Harry didn’t give her the chance to respond before he hung up the phone. He stepped back into the villa and noticed you reach for your latte, sipping from the mug carefully as you leaned against the counter of the kitchen. 

You were the first one to speak when he pocketed his phone—away from your eyes. 

“Work things?” You asked. 

“Something like that,” he mumbled. “You take any good shots?” 

“I think so,” you smiled, reaching for two plates from the cupboard and setting it on the counter. “We should go for a walk together after breakfast,” you suggested.

“A walk?” 

“Yeah, before all the festivities happen.” 

“First, you want me to swim. Now, you want me to walk,” he chuckled. 

You nodded, grabbing a croissant and some eggs to put on your plate. “You act like it’s the hardest thing in the world.” 

“Well, no,” he sighed. “I just—we don’t have to pretend like we’re together if no one is around.” 

Harry hated himself the minute it left his lips.

Because you looked at him like you had been hurt, like maybe swimming and taking a walk was crossing that boundary that neither of you agreed to. 

“You know what? Yeah, you’re right. I’m gonna eat breakfast outside. You do… whatever you want to do.” 

“Wait,” he said, gently reaching for your hand as you began walking away. “I didn’t mean it like that.” 

“No, it’s fine,” you said, forcing a smile. “But just so you know, we’re not only fuck buddies, Harry. Two friends can go swimming together… they can go for a walk together.” 

“I know,” he whispered. “I’m just… I’m in my head.” 

“Then, you take some time to figure your shit out,” you said, pulling your hand away and beginning to walk out onto the deck. 

Harry watched you for a moment and sighed, jaw clenching as he turned his back to you. He didn’t know why he was acting like this, why he couldn’t just enjoy the moment and the entire week. He had no concerns now about how the both of you would come across to his family—yesterday showed they were convinced… too convinced about your fake relationship with him. 

And yet, he still wanted everything to go perfectly. 

After about thirty minutes, you walked back inside and set the plate and your mug in the sink. You noticed that Harry’s plate was now empty too. He was sitting on the couch with his phone in hand and you could tell he didn’t want to break the silence first. You caught him looking over at you before turning his gaze away from you quickly. 

You sighed and shook your head. You wouldn’t admit it, but you had a soft spot for him. Always did. 

So, you walked over to the couch and sat next to him. He glanced at you briefly before turning his phone off and setting it on the coffee table. 

“I’m sorry,” he said. 

“You should be.” 

Harry looked at you now. Noticed the small smile on your lips and he felt himself relax. 

He hated the way it made him feel when you walked away, trying to make the hurt he caused. 

“Right,” he muttered. 

“What’s going on? I thought yesterday was a solid day. We convinced them.” 

“That can change,” he whispered. “They could catch on.” 

“We can come up with excuses if they do,” you reasoned. “Couples are allowed to have disagreements and arguments, Harry.” 

“I know that.” 

“I don’t think you do. No relationship is going to be perfect.” 

“But I can try…” Harry mumbled. 

“Good luck with that,” you sighed. “Listen, we have five days left. I’m sorry if I made you feel like I was pushing this into something it shouldn’t be.” 

“You weren’t.” 

“I think you’re lying.” 

He sighed. 

“I just want to have some fun,” you said. “And I wanted to have fun with you.” 

Harry’s brows lifted just slightly. He bit his lower lip and nodded. Hesitantly, he reached out to take your hand, thumb brushing over your knuckles lightly. 

“Okay,” he replied. “We can have fun.” 

“I know what this is,” you continued. “I know that after this trip, we go back to normal. I’m not expecting anything, okay? We established rules. We both know that we’re not going to work out even if we did give this a try.” 

He nodded.

“I’m just a really good friend who’s helping you out,” you finished. “And someone to have sex with too.” 

Harry chuckled, but he was still holding onto the last thing you said. It started lingering in his mind: 

We both know that we’re not going to work out even if we did give this a try. 

It shouldn’t have affected him the way it did, but he also couldn’t help but notice the way your eyes softened at those words and how it looked like you were contemplating on it too. 

“Okay,” he finally said. “I’ll… try.” 

You nodded and leaned in to kiss his cheek. “I’m going to get ready then. Are we okay?” 

Harry looked up at you as you stood from the couch. He nodded once more and reached for your hand, bringing it to his lips as he pressed a soft and light kiss on the back of it. “We’re okay,” he said. 

He played with your fingers for a moment before letting go. “Don’t take too long.” 

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t help the warmth you felt in the pit of your stomach. “I’ll take however long I want.” 

Harry chuckled, shaking his head. “Yeah, guess that’s fair. You’ll do whatever you want… no matter what I say.” 

You grinned. “You know me so well.” 

Then, you turned on your heel and walked down the hallway into the bedroom. You needed some distance because feelings that you hadn’t ever felt before started surfacing.

It took you about half an hour to finish getting ready. Harry had told you last night that today’s events would mainly be on the water since his parents rented a yacht for the remainder of the day. 

You were dressed in a sleeveless, tan crocheted maxi cover up dress over a black two piece bikini. The dress clung to your curves with a high slit on the right leg. As you walked out of the bathroom, you bumped into Harry whose hands immediately moved to rest on your hips. 

“Fuck,” he mumbled under his breath. Harry’s eyes took you in, licking his lower lip as he kept his hands on you firmly. “I buy this one?” 

“Yeah,” you smiled. “You like it?” 

He nodded. “Trying not to say anything inappropriate.” 

“We’re past that, don’t you think?” 

“Right.” He said quietly, pulling away from you briefly only to give your bodies space. Harry grabbed your hand and twirled you in front of him, biting his lip at the sight of you. “Beautiful.” 

Your cheeks flushed with warmth as you stared up at him, noticing the longing gaze in his eyes as he stared at every inch of you. You leaned in and kissed his cheek lightly, using your free hand to gently pat his chest. 

“I’m gonna be outside for a bit, okay?” You said quietly. 

Harry nodded, but still kept you close, still kept a tight hold on your hand. “Okay.” 

Your head tilted. “Need help getting ready?” You teased. 

Harry’s gaze darkened. “You wouldn’t be helping if I needed to get ready.” 

“No?” 

He shook his head. “I’d rather you help me out with something else.” 

You grinned. “You’re dirty… and already thinking like that this early in the morning?” 

“I wouldn’t consider it early…” 

You leaned in again. This time, you brushed your lips with his and lingered for a few more seconds. “You didn’t want to take a walk with me, so… I don’t think I can you help you out with what you need me to do.” 

His eyes narrowed and he turned you around, bringing you flush back against him. You felt his hardness at your lower half instantly, the sweatpants a very thin material that made you feel the outline of him very easily. 

“Tease,” he muttered. 

“Hey, you put yourself in this position,” you argued, though you pushed back against him. “Blame yourself.” 

His large hand came up to cover a breast, massaging it slowly into his palm as his lips brushed against the shell of your ear. “I’m thinking that you’re already wet for me,” he whispered. 

“N—No,” you stammered, eyes fluttering. “Not even close.” 

He chuckled and then pulled away, watching you turn back around to face him. “Liar,” he said. 

You rolled your eyes. “I don’t lie.” 

He laughed again. 

A smile formed on your lips. 

“Just get ready,” you said, gently pushing him away as you began walking out of the room. 

Harry took your hand again. You looked back over at him. 

“You really do look beautiful,” he said softly, leaning in to kiss your cheek. “I won’t take long.” 

You nodded and watched him enter the bathroom, the door quietly shutting behind him. You let out a shaky sigh. Playing pretend was starting to blur the lines of what was real and what wasn’t… and you couldn’t help the feeling in your chest at the way he looked at you, or the way he complimented you so easily. 

Harry stepped out of the room and spotted you sitting on the deck outside with a journal on your lap. He smiled to himself. You looked beautiful like this and he couldn’t remember a time where you seemed so carefree and happy like now. He wondered if it was because of the trip or if it was because of him. 

As his mind began drifting though, he shook his head and began walking towards you. Harry needed to stop the lingering thoughts because this was going to end in just five days. 

Even if maybe, he didn’t want it to. 

He was dressed in an olive green tank top underneath another white shirt, unbuttoned this time. Harry stepped out onto the deck with you, causing you to look up at him with a broad smile. 

“You look cute,” you said. 

“You think so?” He asked, playfully twirling in front of you.

You let out a quiet a laugh and nodded, shutting your journal and extending a hand up for him to help you up. Harry took your hand eagerly, gently helping you to your feet. 

“Is now a bad time to ask if you get seasick?” Harry asked. 

“I think so,” you answered. “But I think I’ll be okay.” 

“I’ll be right there,” he said. “In case you want to hold my hand or something.” 

You felt your cheeks warm instantly. “Will you hold me if I ask?” You teased. 

Harry nodded, pulling you closer to him until you collided against his chest. “I’ll do anything you ask,” he whispered. “Anything you want.” 

“Careful,” you whispered. “That might come back to bite you.” 

Harry’s eyes glimmered with excitement. “I’m counting on it.” 

You bit your lower lip to prevent the large smile from lining your lips. You weren’t used to him being so charming like this. Sure, you knew he had a way with words, but never had you been on the receiving end of it. 

“You’re ridiculous.” 

He chuckled. “More family today,” he said, leading you back inside the villa. 

“Okay,” you nodded. “Anything or anyone I should be wary of?” 

“No,” Harry answered. “I just wanted to give you the heads up, that’s all.” 

“So, I gotta pack on the affection, huh?” 

Harry smiled. “Maybe not too much where it doesn’t seem real.” 

“Oh, trust me, Harry,” you smiled. “I can make it seem real even if it’s too much.” 

He watched you for a moment, walking around the villa like you already knew where everything was. He cleared his throat, already beginning to imagine what it’d be like having you at his penthouse more regularly. Would you walk around his place like you owned it? Wearing nothing but his shirt? 

Then, he started imagining what it’d be like coming home to you. Waking up with you. Going to bed with you. Cooking dinner with you. 

“Are you listening?” You said, pulling him out of his thoughts. 

“Sorry, what?” He asked, shaking his head. “Sorry. I spaced out.” 

You laughed quietly. “Are you nervous again, Harry?” 

He shook his head once more. “No.”

“Then, where’s your head at?” 

He shrugged. Harry couldn’t admit what he was thinking about because that would mean crossing a line you both agreed to never cross. 

“Nowhere.” 

“You’re lying.” 

“Could never lie to you,” he forced a smile. “Now, let’s go.” 

You narrowed your eyes and shook your head, taking his hand in yours and lacing your fingers with his. “You just lied.” 

He laughed quietly and looked down at your hand, squeezing it gently in his own. “I just spaced out. That’s all. It’s not serious.” 

“Okay,” you said. “If you’re telling me the truth, come here and give me a kiss then.” 

Harry cleared his throat and leaned in to kiss your cheek. “There. Happy?” 

“That’s not a kiss.” 

His eyes glanced down at your lips for a moment. “If I kiss you, will you shut up?” He teased. 

You bit back a smile and nodded, blinking up at him innocently. “Yeah, baby.” 

Harry swallowed nervously. He didn’t think that you’d have this much of an effect on him. You calling him baby, you asking for a kiss and looking at him like the way you are now shouldn’t have an effect on him if there were no real feelings involved. 

Right? 

He rolled his eyes and leaned in to press his lips firmly against your own. Harry pulled his hand from yours to place both of his own on your hips. Your hands moved to link at the nape of his neck, eagerly moving your lips with his. 

“Mm,” he mumbled, feeling you smile against his lips before you pulled away. 

“We have to get into character,” you reasoned. 

“Character, huh?”

“Yeah,” you smiled, leaning up to peck his lips a few more times. 

“Okay then, baby,” Harry said, moving a hand around to rest on your ass. “Let’s get into character then.” 

You both were standing in the doorway, staring into each other’s eyes. The air felt charged again. Something unsaid lingering once more. 

“You calling me baby is… it’s nice.” You whispered. 

“Yeah? You like it?” Harry asked, bringing his other hand to your face, gently tucking a few strands of hair behind your ear. 

“Yeah,” you nodded. 

“Good,” he said, leaning down to kiss your forehead. “Because I like it when you call me that too.” 

You shouldn’t have been surprised at the size of the yacht that his parents rented for the day. You already noticed and heard plenty of chatter and laughter as Harry led you onto it. He kept his hand on your lower back as he smiled and nodded at familiar faces. 

“Do you think we can swim?” You asked, looking over at him. 

“Swim?” 

“Yeah.” 

“We don’t… we’re on a yacht, baby.” 

“Yeah… we’re on the water. Are we just going to drink and mingle all day?” 

“That’s the plan.” 

“I mean, that’s fun, but…” 

Harry smiled. “Okay, we can swim.” 

Your eyes lit up. “You’ll join me?” 

“Yeah,” he said. “Because if I don’t, no one will.” 

“Really?” 

Harry nodded. 

“Well, let’s show your family how to have some fun.” You smiled, leaning up to gently press a kiss to his cheek. “For now, let’s get some drinks.” 

Harry smiled, following you to the bar. He couldn’t help but notice his extended family’s gaze on you. It wasn’t like this with Lucy. He watched the men’s lingering gaze on your body and noticed the way the women nodded at him with an approving smile. 

“Two glasses of wine, please,” he heard you say, his attention turning to the bartender who eyed you with a smirk. 

“Coming right up.” 

Harry wrapped an arm around your waist, tugging you close to his side. His eyes narrowed at the bartender who paid no attention to him whatsoever. After he poured two glasses of wine like you asked, he set it on the counter. 

“Nice dress,” he said with a grin. 

“Oh, thank you,” you smiled, taking the two glasses. “Here you go, baby,” you added, turning to face Harry. You knew what the bartender was doing and knew that Harry had a reaction to it by the way he kept you close. So, you leaned in and pecked his lips. “You don’t have to worry,” you whispered. 

Harry nodded and looked down at you. “I know.” 

The bartender cleared his throat and turned away from the both of you. 

“Uh huh, sure,” you smiled. “Come on. Let’s go find your parents.” 

Harry followed you closely. He sipped from his glass and watched you walk with so much confidence like you always did. It wasn’t until that moment he realized you seemed to always catch his attention, even before this. 

It only took a few minutes before the both of you found his parents mingling with other members of the family. They were obviously at the top deck of the yacht, leaning against the railing. His mother had her own glass of wine in hand while his father had his normal glass of scotch.

“Harry, honey,” his mother smiled, excusing herself from the people she was talking to. Harry led you over to them and watched how his mother pulled you into a hug first, kissing your cheek before she did the same to him. 

“Hi, ma,” Harry kissed her cheek and turned to his father. “Hey, dad.” 

“Nice, isn’t it?” His dad smiled. “Your mother wanted the biggest yacht.” 

His mother rolled her eyes. “He’s lying. He wanted the biggest yacht.” 

You laughed quietly and leaned against Harry, feeling his arm tighten around you absently. 

“Well, it’s beautiful,” you smiled. 

“She was actually wondering if we could stop the yacht sometime later,” Harry said. 

“For what?” His father asked. 

“To swim.” 

“Swim?” His mother asked. 

You smiled and looked at Harry. “Yeah.” 

His parents looked at each other for a moment, then they glanced up at Harry. He shrugged as a response. “She wants to swim,” he chuckled. 

“Will you be swimming too?” His mother asked, grinning. 

“Or will you let her swim alone? Afraid to get your hair wet?” Peter teased, approaching the four of you with a quiet chuckle. 

Harry rolled his eyes. “I’m not afraid to get my hair wet.” 

“So, that’s a yes, then? You’re gonna swim too?” 

Harry looked down at you and nodded. “Yes, I’ll be swimming too.” 

You grinned and wrapped an arm around him, resting your cheek against his shoulder. “My hero,” you teased. 

His parents laughed quietly. Peter looked down at you with an amused smile. 

“You’re bringing my brother out of his comfort zone,” he pointed out. “I like it.” 

“You all act like I don’t have any fun,” Harry said. 

“You don’t,” his parents and Peter said simultaneously. 

You smiled and leaned up to kiss his cheek, gently rubbing his back. “It’s okay, baby. We’ll show you how to have some fun.” 

“I have fun,” Harry muttered. 

“Okay,” you said. 

“Sure you do,” Peter added. 

“Where’s Charlotte? Shouldn’t you be with your wife?” He said, rolling his eyes.

“She’s just in the bathroom,” Peter chuckled. 

“Right.” 

“Anyway, yes, we’ll stop the yacht for you to swim,” his mother smiled. 

“Will you join us too?” You asked. 

Harry’s eyes widened. “Oh, baby, I don’t think—”

“You know what? Yes,” his father said with a smile. 

“We’ll join you,” his mother added. 

About an hour and a half later, you and Harry were in one of the luxury bedrooms on the yacht. You wanted to lie down for a moment, feeling just a bit seasick with the added alcohol too. His parents had told the both of you to go to one of the rooms downstairs, away from the crowd and noise. 

“You okay?” Harry asked, sitting at the edge of the bed as you remained on your back. 

“Yeah,” you answered. “Just wanted to catch my breath.”  

“Too much?” 

You shook your head. “I’ve just never been on a boat before.” 

He chuckled and gently slipped your sandals off your feet. He took one of your feet in his grasp and began massaging it gently, watching your eyes flutter shut. 

“Maybe you shouldn’t have had like four glasses of wine that quickly,” he commented. 

“I figured alcohol would help—mmm, that feels good,” you mumbled, feeling his thumbs dig into the bottom of your foot. 

“Should I tell my parents no on the swimming?” 

“No!” You said, sitting up abruptly. “No, I still want to go swimming. Just need a little break, that’s all.” 

“What can I do?” 

“What you’re doing is great,” you mumbled, laying back on the bed as you felt him move his hands from your feet up your legs, bringing the ends of your dress with it.

“Yeah?” He asked, biting his lower lip as he watched you reach for the end of your dress to pull it over your body. You were now clad in a simple black two piece bikini. 

“Harry?” 

“Yeah, baby?” He asked, one hand moving up your leg to your thigh and back down. 

“You’re touching me.” 

“Want me to stop?” 

You shook your head, propping yourself on your forearms to look down at him. “You’re not touching me where I want you to touch me.” 

Harry’s gaze darkened with lust. “Where do you want me to touch you, baby?” 

“Come here.” 

He nodded and kicked off his own sandals, climbing onto the bed and crawling over you. You spread your legs to give him space to settle between them and he propped one hand on the mattress. 

“Where do you want me to touch you?” He asked again. 

You stared up at him and reached down to grab his wrist, guiding his hand between your legs. 

“Right here?” He asked. 

You nodded. “I think I’ve… been wet since we left our villa.” 

Harry felt his breath catch in his throat. “Yeah?” 

“Touch me, please.” 

“God, you’re pretty when you’re begging, baby.” Harry smiled, pulling the bottom of your bikini to the side to expose your glistening heat. He ran a finger along the length of you, keeping his eyes locked with yours. “Fuck.” 

“Told you.” 

Harry slid his middle finger inside of you, feeling your warmth and wetness immediately. He watched your eyes flutter closed, a quiet whimper escaping your lips. 

“Wish I brought a condom,” he said quietly, brushing his lips along your cheek. Harry began pumping his finger in and out of you, propping himself on his forearm as he brushed your hair away from your face with his free hand. 

“W—Why?” 

He lowered himself until he nipped at your ear, whispering quietly, “So I can fuck you.”

Then, Harry slid in another finger. You were so wet, welcoming his digits with ease. He moved his lips from your ear to the side of your neck. 

“Harry,” you moaned loudly, moving your hands to his tank top and gently bunching the fabric with your grip. 

“You’re so fucking wet, baby,” he whispered, pulling back to look down at you. “Fucking soaked.” He pulled his fingers out abruptly to look at his digits, glistening with your arousal as he brought it to his lips. He groaned at your taste before sliding his fingers back inside of you. He began pumping his fingers rapidly now. 

“Oh fuck, baby,” you moaned, toes curling as your back arched. 

Harry knew you were close now, could see it in the way your face scrunched up and how your body began trembling. He thrusted his fingers to the knuckle, curling both of them inside of you as his thumb rubbed circles into your clit. 

“Fuck… me!” You moaned and Harry used his free hand to cover your mouth, a quiet chuckle escaping his lips. 

“Damn, look at you…” he grinned, continuing to curl his fingers inside of you as you rode through your climax. You were breathing heavily now and finally opened your eyes to look at him, slightly dazed, as you watched him bring his fingers back to his lips. “Mmmm. Let’s hope no one heard you.” 

You grabbed his wrist and gently tugged his hand from your mouth, wrapping your lips around one of his fingers. You swirled your tongue around his digit before pulling it from your mouth. 

“Feel better?” He asked. 

You nodded. “A bit.” 

“A bit?” Harry chuckled. 

“Wish you fucked me,” you grinned. 

He cleared his throat. “Don’t tempt me.” 

“Mm, having sex with a condom is a rule of ours,” you said. 

“I know it is.” 

“But we can break rules from time to time, right?” You asked. 

Harry’s brows shot up. “What?” 

“What?” 

“You’ll let me fuck you without a condom?” 

“As long as you pull out.” 

He let out a shaky breath. “Baby… you can’t—you can’t say something like that.” 

“No?” 

He shook his head. “Because I just know that it’ll feel good without it. How would I be able to go back once I know what you feel like… raw?” 

You licked your lower lip and gently pushed him onto his back. You straddled his waist and reached down to undo the button of his shorts before sliding the zipper down. You wasted no time in pulling his hardened length out, slowly stroking the base of him. 

“Baby,” he whispered, letting out a strained groan. 

“Let me sit on it,” you said, leaning down to lightly peck his lips. “Will you let me?” 

“Fuck,” he moaned, feeling your thumb brush over his glistening tip. “Baby, are you sure?” 

“I trust you,” you whispered, lifting your hips. “Do you trust me?” 

“More than you’ll ever know,” Harry admitted. 

You smiled and slowly slid down onto him, gasping loudly at the feel of his girth stretching you. You could feel every inch of him now, every vein and the warmth of his manhood slide along your walls. 

Harry moved both hands to your hips, gripping them tightly. Your walls sucked him in, tight and wet and warm around his base as you continued to slide down along him. He kept his eyes focused on yours, pursing his lips to peck your own. 

“God, you feel fucking amazing,” he whispered, moving his hands from your waist to your ass, slowly beginning to guide you along his length. 

“I feel all of you,” you mumbled, eyes falling shut as you rested your forehead against his. “Every fucking inch.” 

Harry knew he wasn’t going to last long, especially not with the way he felt your walls slide along his length. It felt so much better without having to use a condom but now he wasn’t sure how he was going to spend the rest of the day on this yacht when all he wanted to do now was just spend it at the villa with you.

Between your legs. 

Familiarizing himself with your sex without a barrier. 

“Fuck, baby,” he groaned, holding you just a few inches above him as he pressed his feet on the mattress and began thrusting up into you. Harry’s eyes shut tightly now, fingertips digging into your ass. 

You buried your face against his neck, biting down on the fabric of his shirt to muffle your moans. 

Harry slowly rolled you onto your back, pounding into you. He began chasing his own release, and after a few more thrusts, Harry pulled out abruptly and came hard on your abdomen. His body shuddered as he opened his eyes to look down at you. Your midsection was glistening with his come now. 

“Yeah…” you said through pants. “I think it’s going to be hard going back to condoms now too.” 

Harry chuckled, shaking his head as he leaned down to peck your lips. “You’re crazy.” 

“About you, maybe,” you grinned. 

Harry smiled. He wasn’t sure what that meant—if it meant anything—but he couldn’t help the way it made him feel. 

“Let me clean you up,” he said, climbing off the bed and walking into the connected bathroom. He wiped himself first before tucking himself back inside his shorts. Harry walked back into the room and gently cleaned his come off your abdomen, biting his lower lip. 

“Thank you,” you said, moving a hand to his hair and running your fingers through his curls. 

He looked over at you. “Gonna want to do that again,” he admitted. 

“Me too,” you smiled. 

“Tonight?” Harry asked. 

“You know we will.” 

“Good.” Once you were clean, he watched you sit up to pull your dress back on. “Feeling ready to go back out there?” 

“I’m relaxed now,” you smiled, leaning over to kiss his cheek. “And ready to swim.” 

Harry laughed loudly. He watched you jump off the yacht and into the water yelling “cannon ball!” He shrugged off his tank top and his shirt before joining you immediately, swimming over to you. For once, he didn’t mind his parents’ parties because you managed to distract him, managed to make it fun. He wrapped his arms around your waist and leaned in to peck your lips, feeling your hands push his hair away from your face. 

“Did I look cool?” You asked. 

Harry laughed. “I don’t know if cool would be something I’d describe you as.” 

You gasped playfully. “Then, what would you describe me as?”  

He smiled. “Gorgeous.” 

You rolled your eyes. “Flirt.” 

Then, Peter and Charlotte jumped off the yacht too, both holding hands as they jumped into the water. 

“Woo!” Peter chuckled, swimming to the surface with Charlotte in tow. “Water feels amazing.” 

You smiled and looked up to see both Harry’s dad and mom standing at the edge of the yacht. 

“Ma! Be careful and—” Harry exclaimed before being cut off when she jumped into the water with his dad right behind her. 

He smiled to himself. Harry had gotten so used to working so much, so used to seeing his parents in business mode, that this side of them had given him a glimpse of his childhood. 

And it was all because of you. 

“Hey,” he said. 

“Hm?” 

“Thank you,” Harry whispered, kissing your cheek. “For this. For making this memorable.”

You smiled. “Well, we’ve got five more days left of this.” 

He nodded and pulled you closer. His mind started drifting again. 

What if this didn’t have to end? 

It’s nights like these that he sometimes wished he smoked. He’ll pour himself a drink once the client wakes up and leaves, but he doesn’t want her to catch it on his breath.

Bourbon. Bath. Bed. Maybe something short and calm on streaming. There’s a new cowboy film just dropped by that Spanish director looks good. 

Leaning on the kitchen counter and staring out across the silent living room, he contemplates the novel you left on the coffee table. Wonders if you’re missing it.

It occurs to him that he could call you. He can do that now. He doesn’t need a reason anymore, but even if the reason is a rough day…actually, maybe that’s even more reason to call you. In fact, he really should ask you–

His phone vibrates on the countertop and he frowns. It’s your pattern and his heart races a little, not only because it’s you, but thinking he’s been lost in thought too long, that he’s missed the three-hour mark. But a flip of the phone shows him he’s got 20 minutes to go. 

Odd. It’s not like you to interrupt a session.

“Hey, muñeca, everything okay?” he mumbles, stepping barefoot out onto the front porch in nothing but his sweatpants.

Your voice sounds far away, “Oh shit,” before a riffling sound and then a clearer, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to hit dial. I didn’t know I did. I was going to call and then I saw the time…I know you’re in the middle of a session, oh loverboy I’m so sorry–”

Just the sound of your voice is an instant balm. “It’s okay, it’s okay, she’s sleeping. I was actually just thinking about calling you.”

“Oh, really?” There’s something there behind your fluster, hiding among the smile in your voice, something that he might not have noticed if you hadn’t said you meant to call.

“Something you wanted to call me about?”

There’s a sound in the background. An announcement. You’re in public. “Um, no, not really. I just had a lonely moment, that’s all.”

“Well that’s an ego boost. You wanna come spend the night?”

There’s a pause. Shocked, judging by your voice. “Really? On an appointment night?”

He scratches his head and focuses on his feet as he aimlessly paces the porch. “Sure. I mean, if like a quarter after ten isn’t too late for you to drive just to go to bed.”

“With the weather shifting and how warm you run? It’s never too late to say yes to a heated bed.”

He smiles. “Glad I can be of service.” There's silence from you and he cringes. “Shit. Not you– not– Was that a bad choice of word?”

“No. It’s just–”

“Hey. I want you here tonight. I wanna talk to you.” Another silence. He supposes that sounds ominous. It shouldn’t. “You know, here. Not…on a phone.” He’s still not good at this. 

“That sounds nice…. You, uh, need anything? I’m at the grocery store.”

“No. Just you.” It feels good to say. Right. It’s what’s needed to break what feels like an odd tension into a few comfortable, mutually smiling moments. “So. The grocery store. And you’re feeling lonely. At a grocery store.”

Your laughter--hushed but musical--is kept close to the phone. “Well I am standing in produce and they just got in some preeeeeetty nice looking eggplants.”

“Wow.”

Another laugh, less hushed, throatier. “Okay, I’m sorry! I’ll let you get back to your work. I assume you’ve got a sleeping beauty to wake up.”

Pulling the phone away from his face for a timecheck, he winces. “Yeah. I’ll see you in 20?”

“I’d say I can’t wait, but you know that I will.”

Wow. “I know and I…”Something sweet twists inside. “I know.”

After you hang up he stands a minute more on the porch in the dark. The leaves are almost all off the trees now, the crickets are gone. His feet are freezing and the skin on his torso is goosebumping; doing its best–and failing–to lift his fine hairs to shield him from the autumn chill. But it’s far from unpleasant and he finds that he’s awake for the sensation in a way he hasn’t been in a while.

He’s alive again in a way he hasn’t been in a while.

The last couple of months have been…nothing short of amazing.

He should tell you that. He should say it.

But he’s got to get to that point where…he accepts it. 

Not the relationship…the fact that there’s always a possibility it’s too good to be true, that he could lose it. He could lose you.

You’re handling everything so well, but for how long? How long until you make him choose?

Oh fuck, please don’t make me choose, preciosa, please.

The phone buzzes in his hand. Timer; no need to look, just thumbs the button to silence. On another night, he’d allow himself more time, let the client sleep while he mused. But he’s got a job to do. 

And someone special arriving soon.

So he packs these thoughts away and goes quietly inside to prepare.

________

He’s just poured the detergent in the washing machine when he hears the door open. “Hey, I’m just cleaning up, gimme a second.”

Out in the entry, your shoes clatter on the floor and then your keys jingle on the kitchen counter and before he knows it you’re on him, topless and crowding him against the washing machine, kissing him like he’s just come back from war. It’s jarring but pleasant and full of hungry sighs…until there’s a ping in his calf muscle.

“Ooh, hey, Pres, hey hey, hang on.” Taking your face in his hands he calms, he whispers, he soothes you in order to soothe himself, but you catch on instantly, concern splashing over you.

“Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”

A kiss to the tip of your nose, to your smart little nose. “No, no, I’m a little sore; just had a difficult session–a difficult day, actually. And I haven’t showered yet. So don’t get yourself too worked up here. You don’t want me like this.”

He expects you to recoil from this, to find the sex with someone else still lingering on his skin. You don’t.

You simply run your hands over his sides, lean in to kiss his chin. “Of course I do. I want you like whatever you are.”

You’re backlit from the kitchen and there’s something like a soft halo around you, bringing a glow to the roll of your cheeks, the swipe of your lip. Tracing these with a finger and finding himself reflected in your eyes, he trusts you, accepts this, tries to see himself like you do. How are you so effortless?

There’s nothing but surrender when you rake your fingers through his beard and push yourself up onto tiptoe to press a warm kiss to his forehead. “But if you really feel that way, beautiful, let me run you a bath.” 

Everytime he opens his eyes and you’re there, it's like a small miracle.

“Come on,” you smile, taking his hand and guiding him to the stairs, “let me take care of you and you can tell me about your day.”

You’re perfect. He’s so grateful he picked up the phone tonight when he did.

________

“Mmmmm, that’s good.” The sigh comes up from his bottom wells, like a contented creature crawling out of hidden caverns within. The back of his head rests in your palm, warm water spilling over his scalp. Your hands whisper and calm and soothe. He spends so much time using his touch to bring relaxation to others that he’d all but forgotten that it could go the other way. And your touch–

“So there was some heavy lifting tonight, huh?” Your finger lightly wipes away an errant rivulet from the corner of his eye. “Ness, right?”

The ghost of irritation looms. “Mmm. She has a pretty severe tailbone injury. Didn’t tell me about it before she showed up. Lot of full-body lifting on the table just to get her in the right positions for stretch.”

“I see. You’ll feel it tomorrow. And sore tailbone means no actual sex tonight.”

“Oh no, we had some fun. She’s got weeks of recovery ahead of her and she needed some practice re-routing some natural orgasm responses to different muscle groups when she ejaculates.”

“Ejaculates? She…? Ohhh.” A loving hand begins to wander lightly over his chest. “I assumed. My bad.”

“Sorry. Should have been more clear. But yeah.”

“No need to apologize. I don’t know why I hadn’t just assumed that you…took all forms of payment.”

He peeks an eye open to catch your reaction as you reach over the side of the tub toward him and finds your warm, curious smile. “Not to disparage the vaginal anatomy, but sometimes it’s nice to have my dick handled by someone who has a lifetime experience with their own.”

“Noted. Fair.”

Closing his eyes and sinking into the warm bath of your care a lifetime goes by with your hands running over his skin.

“You’re very accommodating.”

A kiss lands on his temple. “Wait until you realize I’m terribly selfish and am in it for the rewards points.” When his smile fades, your hands slow. “That was a joke.”

“I know.” Sensing a shift in tone coming when he turns to you, you instinctively pull back, but he catches your hand in his, pulling it in to place a wet kiss to your knuckles. “Would you mind if I don’t want to have sex tonight?”

“Of course. That’s okay.” A half-smile. Are you covering disappointment?

“I’m more than happy to go down on you if you–”

But a shake of your head stops him. “No, it's fine. I can tell you’re tired. You said you had a hard day. Wanna tell me about it while we get you dried off and into bed?”

He feels like a child as he simply nods, allows you to help him up, succumbs to you as you care for him. It’s easy to do, to melt under your attention, to crack open and spill. He does his best not to control the spread as he generalizes a failed report at work, a difficult project he’s fallen behind on. By the time you’re sliding into the sheets and curling up next to him, he’s breaching the topic he’s been deciding and undeciding and deciding again to tell you about–that his mother called without warning.

“She wants to meet you.”

Your breathing stills in the darkness. “You told your mom about me.”

“Is that okay?”

“Yeah, I..” you stutter, “I guess I didn’t… I’m flattered that you talk about me?”

There’s a pang of guilt that he’s let you believe you’re not important enough for him to tell the world that you’re in his life. But he sighs as you squeeze your arm around his middle. “You might feel differently if you met her.”

“Are you kidding? I’d love to meet your…is it just your mom?”

“And my father. I have an older brother but he lives in Australia. Doesn’t go home much.”

“Home issssSantiago?”

“Just outside of it. Rancagua.”

Another squeeze. Perhaps that was a lie; your arm around him and the brush of your lips on his shoulder feels like his true home now. 

“So this call was stressful because she wants to meet me. And you’re nervous?”

“The call was stressful because…I don’t…want her to meet you.” Your squeeze lightens a bit and he slides his grip over your arm in case you decide he’s awful and want to pull away. He knows he should let you go if you want to but– “I wanted to ask you, Pres…I’m sorry I don’t know if I can ask this much from you but–”

It almost breaks his heart when your arm slides through his hand, when your warmth leaves his side, when you abandon him…

But it’s only for the time it takes to hear the click of the bedside lamp, register the bright sting and spill of light, and you’re back beside him, leaning over him, turning his face to yours with one patient hand on his cheek. “What’s going on. I’ve never seen you like this.”

Shit. Get it together.

“You’re going to think I’m a fucking jerk–”

“Don’t tell me what you think I’m going to think, sir. Tell me what you need from me. Just say it.”

This leaves him with depleted gambling chips, raises the stakes. But you’re right. He has to be honest.

“The relationship I have with my family is…strained. That’s why I live here and not there. I see them somewhat regularly, but the holidays are when the whole family gets together–all the cousins–and it’s just a lot. There’s a lot that’s expected, a lot of judgements…it’s overwhelming. I can barely make it through myself, but having you there? Watching you be scrutinized on top of it when we’re just figuring this out? I just…no.”

“You know I won’t tell them–”

“It’s not that, fuck, it’s not that.” He surges in for a kiss, taking you in deep, willing you to understand him by osmosis; if only… “Every time I’ve gone down for the holidays it’s stressful enough…it’s…it’s bad enough that I’m away from my clients, but–”

“But under stress the itch gets worse. And you don’t have your outlet. And you’re not in control.”

Oh god, you see him. You see him and he’s so…fucking pathetic.

The last thing he expects is for you to pepper kisses along his mouth and chin, to dot a lingering one on his cheek before pulling him into your chest, to cradle him, breathe into his hair.

But it’s exactly what you do.

“What do you need, beautiful boy? Anything you want.”

He breathes. Sighs. Curses himself for doubting you, for assuming you wouldn’t surprise him. Allows you to hold the weight of his heart on your own without a spotter.

“I need to…not do the ‘meet the family’ thing this year. I just want you to myself for a while.”

A hum of sympathy, of bittersweetness, one that stakes his heart into the ground at your feet. “Oh Patricio. Is that all?” Your breast moves under his cheek as you lean over to turn off the light, your soft curves and soft scent and soft hum whispering to him, calming him, soothing him into you. “I’ll admit that I’m a little sad that I don’t get to show you off to my family, but I definitely see the appeal of a quiet holiday season, just us hiding away from the world together. You want me to yourself? Did you really think I would find that anything but absolutely wonderful?”

All at once, the strains of the day overtake him, the need to say more is gone and took his energy to do so right along with it. A whole lifetime of relief in just an hour. That’s your secret power. Always has been. He cannot think of words more meaningful than, “Thank you.”

Your fingertips begin their pattern of affection along his jaw, tattooing a spell of sleep through him. “This really means a lot to you, huh.” He’s too gone to get his voice to work and it seems you assume he’s fallen asleep. “Well you mean the world to me. You don’t even know, mister.”

It’s not worth the effort to drag himself from the downward pull of dreams to ask you to say more about that. Not when he knows you’ll be right here in the morning and he can ask you then.

Or say the same thing right back to you.

Maybe this time he’ll find a way to do that.

______

MASTERLIST

@ababysupernova

@onlydrawnbad

@myswficlist

@accusitorial-fic-enjoyer

@littlemisspascal

@mariwinns16

@coffeebeforewater

@terecord

@leithatnight

@lokiofstoriesalwaysthemselves

@djarins-cyare

@shsoba05

@sjdraws-00

@moondirti

@teehee-47

@jbarness

@reileth

@essence-stealer

@itchyfly

@stagerightlauren

@jackieblogsstuff

@ellenmunn

@xoxo-lyss

@onlydrawnbadreads

@brighterthanlonelywords

@dotyoureyez

@cheekychaos28

@purrpledesblog

@aegocrazy

@dear-ickis

@tobethlehem

@newpathwrites

@cas-reads

@littleredpandanaps

@roughdaysandart

@breniii

@epple-benene

@feral-ferrule

@lindsaychops

@thedoctorknits

@greensabereyesforcevictim

@chickenshitt03

@dinnerisserveddjarin

@dindenimchicken

@everythingiwanttoread

@nightlore106

@xoxo-lyss

I know I originally and usually use x reader or x you but I have received DMs and asks telling me I shouldn't tag it so, since my characters usually have a name.

WARNINGS: Enemy to Lovers, Secrets, Misunderstanding, Jealousy, Fluff, Pining, Loneliness, Helicopter Parenting, OverProtective Dad, More to add as story moves on.

MASTER LIST

Disclaimer - I don't beta my work, and English is not my first language, so sorry if there are errors. Also, I know I said 14th June. I have zero self control. Sorry.

There was a weird taste in your mouth. Metal? Salted metal? Your head felt the heaviest it had ever felt.

Oh God that hurts. Why was your head throbbing?

You could feel the carpet on your face. You were face down, you think?

What happened? Why was it so quiet in here? Aside from the ringing in your ears, you couldn’t hear anything else.

You opened your eyes, your sight obscured by thick, sticky liquid. And you saw him. Lying face down, head turned towards you, his glassy, unfocused eyes half opened, blood pooling under his belly.

“Eric?” your voice came out weak, putting your arms before you and pulling yourself towards him. “Eric!” you were shaking him, as much as you could with your limited energy. “Honey, wake up!”

Nothing.

You finally placed your bloody fingers on his pulse point.

Nothing. Oh God. Oh God. No, no, no, no, no…

You looked around you, looking for your phone through the mess that was your living room. Your eyes swept through the turned over coffee table, the dining chairs, the holes in the wall, your former front door now half-off its hinges, the broken glass all over the floor, Where was it? Where did you last see it? You needed to call the cops. An ambulance. Someone.

And then you saw it. His gun. Just there… on the floor.

“Mama?”

Ellie.

Just like that, you shot up from your face down position, blood trickling from your temple.

“Ellie! Ellie sweetie? Where are you?” you were screaming, but all that came out were croaks.

By some miracle you managed to pull yourself up, your wrist and shoulder screaming in protest, eyes frantically searching for your daughter.

“Mama?” your sweet little girl’s voice came ringing out once more, followed by the sounds of the kitchen cabinet door opening. Your sweet little girl crawled you’re your phone in her hand. “Mama are you okay? You didn’t wake up! I shake you but you didn’t wake up!”

“Oh sweetie, I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!”

“Is Papa okay? He won’t wake up too… like you…”

You somehow managed to reach your daughter, taking her into your arms, hugging the life out of her, making sure your body was between her and Eric. She shouldn’t see him like that.

“I’m okay sweetie. I’m okay,” you assured her in what sounded like a harsh whisper, pulling back to take a look at her, and your heart dropped.

There was a cut in her eyebrow, blood trickling down her beautiful, tear-streaked, fearful little face.

You placed your shaky fingers next to the cut, not daring to touch it, as she did the same to your much bigger cut on your temple.

“I hide under the sink Mama. I’m sorry I hide.”

“No, sweetie, I told you to hide, remember? You were supposed to hide. You did what I asked you to do. You did the right thing. I’m not mad at you sweetie.”

Fuck, why was your voice coming out like that?

The sounds of sirens came barrelling down the street, louder and louder, closer and closer. Before long there were armed police at your door, guns drawn out, warning you and your five year old daughter that they were coming in.

Officer Anderson, your husband’s partner, came in after the first two police officers, checking Eric’s pulse. She radioed the paramedics to come in, “Officer down!” she practically screamed, turning his body around and starting CPR on him. Two paramedics came in, taking over from her as she stood and watched, panicked.

The other officers searched the whole apartment, room by room, and once they deemed the place secured, they lowered their weapons, and someone came to you and Ellie, asking if the two of you were okay.

But… how? You hadn’t called them. You were looking for your phone to call.

“Did you call the police sweetie?” you asked your daughter. She shook her head.

“Officer Williams called us himself, ma’am, reporting the home invasion. We are gonna take you to the hospital for your injuries, but we’re gonna need you to answer some questions, okay?”

Your husband’s partner came over, whispering something to one of the officers, her face both sad and angry at the same time. She couldn’t look at you and Ellie. You could see the tears in her eyes. The officers’ faces fell, their heads down.

Oh God. No.

You thought it. Especially given the fact that his eyes were open, that there was no pulse, that the amount of blood underneath him could have very well emptied him, but you found yourself not ready for it to be confirmed.

The officer came and took a knee in front of you and your daughter, a crestfallen look on his face.

“Mrs Williams, technically we have to wait for the doctors to announce this officially, but I’m very sorry to inform you that your husband, Officer Eric Williams…”

You couldn’t focus anymore. You held your baby as tightly as you could, trying to calm your little girl who couldn’t quite comprehend what the officer was saying, your tears falling thick and fast down your cheeks.

“Sarah?” Joel knocked softly on her very pink, slightly opened door, the massive butterfly wings she had insisted he hang on it for her flapping as he did. “Wake up Baby Girl, it’s your first day of school,” he cooed, pushing the door open, his face immediately bathed by the slowly revolving tiny little pink and purple butterfly shapes that was her nightlight.

“Baby Girl?” he whispered, placing his large hand on her tiny shoulder, shaking it a little.

“No…” she moaned, turning over, yawning, stretching, before settling back into a much desired sleep.

Joel huffed a small laugh, sitting at the edge of the bed, “Hey, come on, you were very excited last night! Couldn’t stop talking about it! Wakey-wakey! Are we going to wake up or do we need a tickle?” he threatened.

“No Daddy no tickle! No!!!” she squealed as his fingers began tickling her middle, her little legs kicking the blanket away from trying to get her beloved Daddy from tickling her. She got a bit too excited and her little heel accidentally caught him by his jaw, to which Joel howled in pain, holding his jaw and burying his face in his daughter’s pillow, pretending to cry.

Sarah stopped kicking, immediately sitting up.

“Daddy?” her little voice squeaked, “Daddy I’m sorry. Daddy?” she tried to take his hand from his jaw, eager to coax her crying Daddy. “I kiss it better, okay? Move your hand Daddy, I kiss it better for you,” she tried, using all her might to pull his hand off his jaw. She finally managed to. So she lay down next to him and tried to kiss his jaw better, only to be surprised by a jokey roar and a face full of scratchy kisses.

“No Daddy! It’s scratchy! You’re smelly Daddy!” she squealed, pushing her Daddy’s face away, mildly repulsed by her Daddy’s morning breath, forgetting she had one too.

“Then let’s get up and brush our teeth and get ready for school, okay?” he mumbled, hugging her little body in his arms, taking deep, deep breaths of the top of her head in the process.

Sarah insisted that a big girl like herself can brush her teeth herself, can shower herself too. Go Daddy, go brush your teeth and shower. You stinky Daddy.

Well, thank you very much, young lady.

Joel couldn’t help himself from leaving the bathroom door open a little as he let his ‘big girl’ shower by herself. He laid the clothes she had chosen the night before for her on her now neatly made bed, all in order she would need to put them on. She had stood over him the night before with her hands on her waist and nagged him about that little habit of his. “Leave the clothes Daddy. Don’t put them on my bed. I big girl now,” she had insisted, she didn’t need him to lay her clothes out for her like she’s five.

Okay, Little Lady.

But Joel couldn’t help himself. His daughter, the love of his life was going to Kindergarten today, and there was nothing he could do about it.

If it were up to him alone, Sarah would be locked in a safe with bubble wraps around her, in a highly secure house with the highest level of security he could afford.

And before you ask, yeah, she would need a chastity belt at some point. Deter them horny boys from harming his precious little girl.

He actually considered homeschooling her. But Tommy had kindly reminded him that it took him 12 years to finally read the analogue clock correctly. The heck was he going to teach Sarah if he couldn’t do it himself? So yeah, she had to go to school so she could grow up and be someone, go to college and have a great job. She was never going to get her back broken, her body aching from hard work, her clothes soiled and her hands dirty to make a living, unlike him. He would do anything to make sure of that.

But it meant that she will be out there with the other children, day in and day out. People will see her.

And the last thing he wanted was for her to be laughed at for feeling like wearing mismatched outfits on her first day of school.

He was worried for her. Not just for her safety but also how the other children would treat her. What if she got bullied? Children can be cruel, and Sarah was a girl without a mother. He was all she had. He had planned on sending Sarah to daycare as soon as she could walk, but his fear for her safety stopped him. So he had kept her as close as he could to him, only dropping her off at the Adler’s next door whenever he had some extra job he had to do. And the only reason he would take any extra job was Sarah.

He would do anything for Sarah. He will always do anything for Sarah.

He promised Daisy he would.

Joel remembered that day as if it was yesterday, easily the best and worst day of his life. He was holding his Baby Girl in his left arm, holding Daisy’s head in his right, both their eyes glistening, both deliriously happy, feeling so complete. They were at the top of the world. Nothing could ever bring them down now.

Three minutes and twelve seconds.

That’s all his darling wife got for a chance to lay her eyes on perfect baby Sarah after carrying her for nine months and three days. Joel was just about to hand Sarah back over to the nurse when Daisy grabbed his arm and looked him straight in the eyes.

She looked so pale, so tired, yet so happy, so content. She smiled that smile he loved so much, caressed Sarah’s cheek as well as his own, and whispered the words Joel would never forget for the rest of his life.

“Love her for the both of us, Joel. Love her for the both of us. Promise me.”

And then all the machines started beeping, the nurses took Sarah off his hands as he lost his head, screaming for someone to do something. But his beautiful wife’s eyes closed slowly as her hand caressed his face one last time, falling limply to her side, that smile still on her face as she flatlined.

The haemorrhaging was too severe. She lost too much blood too quickly.

Just like that, Joel lost the love of his life, leaving him a single father at the age of 25.

He had no idea what he was doing.

The months leading up to the birth, Daisy had left him book after pregnancy and parenting book to read on his nightstand, but the pile kept getting higher. He was a labourer back then, working every job he could find so he could make as much as he could to prepare for Sarah’s arrival. He was usually asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow, waking up earlier than usual to travel to his work sites.

Daisy was supposed to be the one staying home with Sarah. She was planning on taking a couple of years off work to stay at home with Sarah until she was old enough to go to daycare and make friends.

But that plan had gone to pot.

Unbeknownst to him, Daisy had a life insurance policy, one her late parents had set up for her. Half to go to Sarah’s college fund, the other half for him to start his own business as he had always wanted to do.

That was exactly what he did. He had wanted to have a construction company of his own, but that plan was now moot. He had Sarah. Who was going to keep an eye on her while he worked? So he made do with the next best thing. Something that would still be within his field of expertise but still gave him enough flexibility so he could take care of Sarah.

He opened a DIY store. Sarah had her own crib in his office. The pantry was filled with formula, bottles and baby food. Tommy came and helped a few days a week, his brother in law Eddie and his wife Tess taking Sarah every now and again to give him a break and to let her bond with her one and only cousin, Daniel.

But that was it. That was his village, them and Mrs Adler next door. He trusted no one else. Even Jesse and Dina, his staff who had been working with him since the beginning were only trusted to keep an eye on her for a few minutes at a time, maybe while he was loading stuff or dealing with customers.

So, no. Joel Miller did not like to have his eyes off his little girl. The only reason he felt a bit at ease about sending her to the kindergarten was because Tess was a teacher there, and Daniel would be in the same class as her.

As for his fear that he did not do a good job being both father and mother to the little girl, well… that was something he didn’t even want to think about right now. That can be saved for later.

But none of his own insecurities matter right now.

It’s his Baby Girl’s first day in school. First full day where he will drop her off to be cared for by complete strangers and hope he had done a good enough job to have prepared her for this day.

He fed his daughter her breakfast, scrambled eggs with tablespoon peanut butter today, her request. The little girl devoured her scrambled eggs, picked up her tablespoon peanut butter and merrily walked out the front door while he was still struggling with cutting the crusts off her sandwich. He doesn’t usually do that. But he wasn’t going to send his daughter off to school with crusts on her sandwich like some caveman.

But why was the bread flattening? Why did the pictures of the sandwiches he saw online look all perfect and pretty? Okay, he’ll Google how to make perfect sandwiches later for tomorrow, he thought, adding the now flattened sandwich to the paper bag full of lunch. He picked the bag up, calculating in his mind if it was enough for her morning break and lunch.

PB&J, check.

One French Toast, check.

Two Jell-O cups, check.

Strawberry yoghurt, check.

Apple and orange slices, check.

A scoop of Fruit Loops, check.

A Cracker Stackers Lunchables pack, check.

Cheese sticks, check.

A handful of cashews and raisins, check.

Mini M&Ms bag, check.

Sour sticks, check.

2 juice boxes, check.

She won’t go hungry, right? She’ll make it until 3.30?

Images of his daughter crawling out of the Kindergarten to get to him, all weak and emaciated from hunger kept flashing in his mind.

Okay, maybe just one more pack of Lunchables. You can never be too safe these days.

“Daddy! School!”

“I’m coming, Baby Girl,” he said, tossing an extra apple and a juice box in the bag, now bursting at its seams, her fancy new purple water bottle hanging from his middle finger.

“Oh my God, Joel, are you trying to feed the whole class?” Tess remarked, shocked at the size of the paper bag full of food Joel had thrust into her hand, bigger than Sarah’s actual school bag.

“Well, she might get hungry!”

“Joel, she’ll be fine!”

Joel rubbed his face, looking at his little girl. She was settled in the seat in front of her cousin, now distracted by something Daniel was showing her from his bag.

“Maybe I should stay, in case she needs me.”

Tess introduced him to Sarah’s teacher Miss Lydia.

Joel nodded and smiled but kept getting distracted. Tess finally pulled him away to the side.

“Joel, I know it’s difficult. It’s difficult for me too, remember?”

Joel sighed. Shit. Of course she does.

“I’m sorry,” he said, pulling his sister in law into a hug. “How are you doing?”

Tess shrugged, taking a deep, stuttered breath. “I’m trying to not think about how much Eddie would have wanted to be here, you know? He was talking about coaching little league one day,” she managed to get out, her voice shaky, her fingers swiping at the droplets forming in her eyes. “Daniel, he was asking if his Daddy would be with him in spirit today. He’s excited to be in school, but he’s already asking if we can go to his grave today after school. Didn’t want to go yesterday, wanted to come to school first. He wanted to tell him about his first day,” she wiped her tears off. “So, that’s where I’ll be after school, and there’s a chance I might ask someone else to sit with my class while I sob in the bathroom,” she joked, furiously wiping her eyes once more.

“This morning, he wanted his omelettes the way Eddie used to make, threw a tantrum when it didn’t taste the same. I tried, I really did, but he was just…” she shook her head, scratching her forehead, trying to have something to do with hands.

Joel listened, not really knowing what to say.

Tess scoffed, “Listen to me, complaining about my dead husband not being here. Are you okay? You must be missing Daze today, huh?”

Joel smiled, as much as he could muster anyway. He gave her the smile he gave everyone since the day Sarah was born. People had told him that his genuine smiles were reserved for Sarah now. The smile he used to have for everyone long gone since his wife passed. He was grumpy now, to everyone, save for Sarah. That little girl got the best version of him, as she should.

“It’s not the same Tess, you know that. Sarah didn’t ask me if her Mommy would be here for her, didn’t ask to go visit. We went yesterday, she told her Mommy all about her new bag, her new water bottle and shoes. Didn’t ask about her before bed. We’ll go again this Sunday, as we usually do. Unlike your son with Eddie, Sarah doesn’t remember her Mommy at all. I tell her about Daze, but it’s different, you know? I can’t even imagine, Tess,” he said, rubbing her arm.

Tess laughed, forced, but a laugh, nonetheless. She gave her brother in law a small push on the shoulder.

“Now, go say goodbye to your daughter. I’ll peek every now and again. She’ll be fine, Joel. I promise.”

Joel gave Tess a quick hug, thanking her. He went to Sarah, told her he was leaving now.

“You have fun in school today, okay? I will pick you up after school. If you need anything, you tell Miss Lydia and Auntie Tess, okay?”

Sarah nodded. She raised her hand for him to pick her up for a hug. “You be okay Daddy? You go to work? I see you later?”

Joel hugged her until she squeaked, nodding into her shoulder. Don’t cry, Joel, don’t cry. He gave her a long kiss on her cheek, telling her he loved her.

“I love you too, Daddy,” Sarah cooed back, patting her Daddy on the back.

Joel sat in his truck in the parking lot for a good 30 minutes before wiping his face and leaving, knowing exactly where he was going to go.

You opened your eyes, the room slightly darkened, the cheap curtains you got at the store you will start working at doing their job well. The living room that you were sleeping in was warm enough under the blanket. You relit the stove once when you got up to use the bathroom. Autumn had just started, but the night chill was no joke.

This was alright, you thought. You did feel a bit reluctant to take the cottage. Not because of its state or anything, but it was simply the thought of starting over that made you nervous.

Things have changed after Eric’s passing. You were supposed to go back to work once Ellie was in school, so that part wasn’t a surprise. But you didn’t expect to be alone when that happened. Throughout the journey here, the dollar signs didn’t leave your mind. Rent, bills, food, school… how were you going to do this?

Maria, the sweet friend that she was, had been hosting you and Ellie for the past few days. She helped you get a job at the store though her friend Frank who was a manager there. He in turn introduced you to his husband Bill, who hooked you up with this place.

It was as if the universe aligned and made a path for you and Ellie. It felt like you finally caught a break, you were lucky considering, but things were not going to be easy.

You start work at the store next week. Your pay there would be your main source of income. Your late husband’s pension wasn’t going to pay for a growing girl’s needs on its own. He hadn’t been with the police department very long, so it wasn’t much. But it should help. Eric’s life insurance helped make sure Ellie had a good start to her college fund. You vowed never to touch that money. Not after everything that went down in order for you to get it. But you needed to budget correctly. You needed to build up a saving again.

Maria had taken you and Ellie to the food bank, introduced you around, just so you could have a head start with groceries. You didn’t have much seed money, so that was helpful. The church had given you and Ellie some winter clothes to prepare ahead of time. You didn’t have a winter where you were from, so that was taken care of. Ellie was starting school in a few days, so Maria took her shopping for new clothes today. She pushed your hand away when you tried to give her cash for it, telling you that your money wasn’t good with her. She had actually insisted you and Ellie stay with her until you got back on your feet, but she was a busy, single lady. You didn’t want to encroach on her private space for too long. Plus, she lived in a single bedroom condo, not ideal for your active toddler.

“Here’s the place,” Bill opened the door to the smallest, quaintest looking cottage you had ever seen in real life, just a few days after you arrived in town. “It’s technically for the groundskeeper, who is me, but I already have a place to stay, so I talked to the priest and he said you could stay here for as long as you need, rent free, and the church will pay for the utilities as well. All you have to do in exchange is take care of the place and help out with the upkeep of the cemetery on your free days.”

The cottage was a lot smaller than the small house you and your daughter shared with your late husband, but it’s bigger than a motel room, and you wouldn’t be invading Maria’s privacy much longer, so that’s something. And Ellie would actually have a bedroom of her own. You could just sleep on the couch. Though that looked… dusty, dirty, unstable. The whole place looked it, to be honest. Your footsteps left footprints an inch deep on the floor. It really looked as if no one had stepped foot in there for years.

It’s okay. Beggars can’t be choosers. It’s a free roof over your daughter’s head. You should just be thankful Ellie wouldn’t be sleeping on the streets. She’ll be warm here. And not to mention the room she had to play around, the cottage stood on quite a bit of land.

“The place has been unoccupied for a while, I’ve been doing this job for at least 15 years, and it was supposed to be for me to live in. Usually the caretakers and groundskeepers are people who travelled here for the job, so this cottage comes with the job. But I am from here and I have an established home life, so it’s just been sitting here since I took over. Frank and I will come over this weekend, help you with the clean-up, Maria will come too, I’m sure,” Bill said, the grumpy looking man surprisingly soft and gentle with you. “We have a spare mattress we can give you for the little one, and I’m sure the church could get you a futon or a sofa bed to replace this couch, it doesn’t look the steadiest,” he said, pushing the cushion in with his hand, and the material just about disintegrated. “We’ll have it ready by the time you move in,” he assured you.

“It’s really okay, Bill, this is far too generous already… I can make do…”

“Annie,” Bill gently said, “Just because it’s free, doesn’t mean it has to be subpar. We’ll clean it up. Okay?”

You nodded, taking mental notes on what you would need to get to make the place more comfortable for you and Ellie.

Cleaning supplies. A lot of it. Curtains for privacy. Sheets, blankets, pillows. Pots and pans. Plates, bowls, cutleries. Groceries. Those will have to do for now. Ellie can do her homework on the dining table. You won’t buy furniture. The probability was, you won’t even stay here for long. It wasn’t your place to stay that long at. You weren’t even the actual groundskeeper. And you were raised to never expect too much from people, never take their generosity for granted.

You were going to work hard and find a place of your own as soon as you could. You might have to move on soon anyway. You never know. It’s why you were so eager to save up. Just in case. Doesn’t hurt to have a back up plan. Rainy days, all that.

So far, your new start was great.

When Saturday was over, with the help of Maria, Frank and Bill, the house had been scrubbed clean top to bottom, a new second hand pull out couch placed in the living room, a new-ish mattress put in on Ellie’s bed. The house was sparse, but enough for the two of you. Your daughter will be warm at night. She had a bed to sleep in. She would have hot water to shower with. Electricity to light up her nights. You could cook her a warm meal.

You helped your daughter put all her new stationeries into her bag, a black one you got from the thrift store. There was a pretty pink one, but she didn’t want that one. She was insistent on the black one. Black water bottle too. Black food container. Even the clothes she chose with Maria were black.

You worried about her. She was never a girly girl, there was never a Barbie doll in your house. But this new attraction to the colour black?

Don’t focus too much on that. Don’t.

It’s a coincidence that this new colour was the same colour as the bag her father was carried out of the house in, right?

Your daughter was not traumatized, right?

She was her usual chatty self, with you, with Maria. She didn’t have any problems getting along with Bill and Frank. But in other ways…

You couldn’t afford therapy yet. That, and… other reasons. So for now, you had to make do and pray your daughter was alright. Even if you did live next to the cemetery.

Saw her father carried out of the house in a body bag. Obsession with the colour black. Living next to the cemetery.

She won’t grow up with some morbid fascination with death, right? Right?

You’ll have to worry about that another day. This was all you could afford right now. This’ll do. This’ll have to do.

You slowly peeled yourself away from your daughter’s clutches, the girl leaving the comfort of her bed and joining you in the living room before you even fell asleep. She didn’t budge, tired out from helping Maria clear the garden the day before. They even planted some flower plants that Bill brought over, just a few varieties that would still bloom in early autumn, something to get the place started. She was excited to have a proper garden, she loved that the flowers were coming from the ground instead of a pot, already peeking outside at every opportunity to see if the flowers had grown some more. 

She was far too young to remember the garden at your parents’ place. Eric didn’t have any family, and by the time she was old enough to remember, the three of you were living in an apartment. Not exactly ideal to have a garden. Plus, she didn’t exactly spend that much time outdoors back then.

You made yourself a cup of tea, slowly sipping it by the kitchen window, watching the sun come up. You needed to start with your work at the cemetery today. Just raking the leaves, according to Bill. He would do the heavy lifting but having you help out with the raking on the weekends would help a lot, seeing as weekends are a popular time for visitors to visit their loved ones.

The thought brought shivers to your spine. Autumn time. Raking leaves. It’s a job that will never get done.

But hey, you wouldn’t have to work out, huh? And it’s not like you had anyone to look good for anyway. This job will keep you fit, you can certainly keep up with your daughter, that’s for sure.

“Mama?” you heard your daughter call out, her voice followed by the sounds of frantic scrambling and a small thud on the floor, her little feet running around.

“I’m here sweetie, in the kitchen,” you called out, immediately placing your mug on the small kitchen table and going to get her. You were hardly out of the kitchen before she ran face on into you, her face in your belly, her arms wrapped around your legs as much as they could manage.

“I thought you left…” she started to mumble, her shoulders starting to shake, her voice cracking.

“Hey,” you coaxed, picking her up. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Don’t leave me…” she sobbed, her face buried in your neck.

This was a normal occurrence now. She refused to leave your side. The amount of time you came out of the bathroom to find her right outside was crazy. She followed you around like a little puppy, going so far as to drop whatever she was doing to follow you out of the room to wherever you were going.

God, how were you going to leave her at school tomorrow?

Deep down, you knew this was all to do with Eric’s death. That, and the new place, the new people, it was all a bit much for her. All you could do right now was hope things get better and that she would settle soon. In the meantime, you would be there for her, keep an eye out and look for a therapist for her should she need one again.

After a quick breakfast, you led your daughter out to the cemetery, telling her not to wander off. You didn’t even have to worry about that though, her clinginess followed right out the front door. She was always less than two steps ahead or behind you, using the headstones to practice her reading. She was more than happy to help keep the leaves down once you’ve collected them in one place, sitting on them to prevent the pile from blowing off. She then helped transfer them onto the wheelbarrow, one small handful at a time.

The two of you retired to the cottage for lunch and rest. You helped Ellie repack her bag for school, the little girl surprisingly particular about how her stuff should be arranged in the bag. She made a list of what she wanted for lunch from what little you had in the kitchen, French toast with honey and an omelette, an apple and a yoghurt. You worried that she might be hungry, but she promised you she will eat a big breakfast, TWO whole pieces of toasts with jam and butter. I promise Mama.

Well, okay then, Little Lady.

No Little Lady Mama, Jelly Belly, like Auntie Maria said.

Okay, sweetie, whatever you want.

The two of you went back in the evening, you pulling a cart behind you. Bill had mentioned that people would usually discard dried or wilted flowers from the previous week on the ground after putting fresh ones in, so those would need to be thrown out. He usually does it on Mondays, but you thought you would do it – that’s considered light work, right?

Ellie, as she did that morning, followed you closely, using the time you were picking up flowers to read the names on the headstones, your stops at each one often delayed when she couldn’t read the names fast enough.

“Mama, why do people put flowers here?”

“Well, people want to bring gifts to their loved ones. They loved them when they were alive, and they miss them, so they bring flowers to leave at the grave.”

“But Papa didn’t have a grave. He was creamed.”

“Cremated, sweetie. Papa wanted to be cremated. So, Papa is not at a cemetery. We didn’t bury him.”

“So no flowers for Papa?”

“Well, if you wanted to, we can leave flowers for Papa somewhere. We can put a vase in the house for us to put flowers for him if you want?”

She shook her head before moving on to the next headstone.

Well, that was the longest she had ever talked about Eric since his passing. That’s progress.

You walked on, going to the next headstone in the row to pick up the discarded flowers, and the next and the next. You realized that Ellie had stopped in front of one that didn’t have any flowers.

“What’s wrong sweetie?”

“Daisy M-A-T-T-H-E-W-S.”

“Matthews. Daisy Matthews.”

“There are no flowers.”

“Maybe they didn’t visit today?” you guessed, looking at the headstone. Daisy Matthews. Died five years ago, around your age, based on the date of birth. Beloved Mother, Wife, Sister.

“Daisy is a flower,” your daughter mulled.

“That’s right sweetie, Daisy is a flower. Very good.”

“But there are no flowers here.”

“Maybe there’ll be some next week?”

She took off running.

“Ellie! Careful sweetie!” you shouted, going after her, shocked at her speed.

You found her in your garden, trying to pluck daisies from the freshly plated planter box. You got her the shears, and helped her cut five stems, and followed her when she went running back. When you found her, she had placed the flowers in the vase at the base of the headstone.

“Daisies for Daisy,” she said before standing back up, smiling at you, looking so proud of herself.

“That’s very nice of you sweetie. Come on, let’s go. We don’t want to stay out too late.”

She ran off to the next headstone, merrily spelling out the next name as you stood in front of the now decorated headstone. She was your age, a mother, a wife, a sister. You couldn’t help but wonder if her child, husband and brother were alright. She wasn’t even 25 when she died. Her grave was clean, the grass trimmed, the stone polished. Someone clearly visited often.

“Mama, how do you say this name?”

“Coming sweetie,” you absentmindedly answered, running your fingers on her name, saying goodbye without you even realizing it, before moving on to join your daughter.

“Ellie sweetie, I have to go. I have to go to work. I will come and get you at three, okay? Will you be a good girl and cooperate please?” you cooed at your daughter who was now clinging to you like a koala, refusing to let go.

“Come Ellie, sit next to me. We can be friends,” the little girl sat at the table next to hers chimed in.

You squatted next to the table, Ellie still wrapped around your torso.

“What’s your name sweetie?”

“Sarah,” the little girl shyly answered.

“Hi Sarah, this is Ellie, Ellie, will you say hi to Sarah?”

Ellie lifted her head slightly, giving Sarah a little wave. Sarah waved back, a sweet smile on her lips.

“I have cheese sticks. You like cheese sticks?”

Ellie nodded, “I have an apple and yoghurt. You like those?”

Sarah nodded enthusiastically. “I have apples too. My daddy gave me some. We can share and eat lunch together!”

Ellie smiled, and you could feel her clutch on you loosening.

“Ellie, let’s sit down, okay? We are about to start, you will see your Mama again after school. Until then, I will look after you, okay? Sarah will too, right Sarah?” Miss Lydia, her teacher said.

It took a while, but your little girl finally conceded, hugging you goodbye one more time.

She tried to let go of you, but but despite the bravado you displayed earlier, you found yourself unable to let go, hugging the little girl much too tightly to the point that you could hear her breathing got strangled.

“Mama,” she squeaked, pushing your shoulder slightly.

“Sorry,” you said, trying not to cry. You placed her down and kissed her one more time, hugging her once more. She let you, nodding as you whispered you will wait for her when school ended.

You shook Miss Lydia’s hand and gave Sarah a pat on her tiny shoulder, walking out before you burst into tears.

There was only one car left aside from yours in the parents parking lot when you got there. A truck parked right next to yours. A man was sitting in it, looking forlorn. He looked up as you approached, wiping your eyes as you did. Your eyes met as you unlocked your door. He gave you a sad, understanding smile, which you returned, knowing at that very moment that he was going through the exact same thing you were, just two parents not willing or prepared to say goodbye.

Part 2

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You stumble up the narrow walkway to your place, the world tilting just a little under your heels.

Your fingers fumble clumsily with the keys, the metal jangling loudly in the quiet hallway as you miss the lock for the third time.

A soft, tipsy laugh escapes you while the pleasant buzz of too many cocktails pulses warmly through your veins.

This was supposed to be your night. 

A celebration of the hard-earned promotion you’d fought for months to secure. Frankie had been the one who insisted on it.

You can still picture the way his face lit up on video call when you told him—eyes wide with that boyish pride that always made your heart flutter.

“We’re doing this right, baby,” he’d said, mentioning the name of that rooftop bar downtown you’d been dying to try. “Drinks, dancing, the whole damn thing. I’m taking my girl out.”

That was eight hours ago.

Now the only thing waiting for you is an empty apartment and the sour taste of disappointment lodged in your throat.

You finally manage to shove the key into the lock and push the door open. The familiar creak echoes through the dark space as you step inside.

Your phone feels heavy in your purse, its screen dark and damning. No missed calls. No texts. Nothing.

At first, you told yourself he was just running late.

Frankie’s a pilot—his schedule is chaos at the best of times. You’ve learned to live with the unpredictability of it.

But after getting ready, slipping into that little black dress you know he loves, and Ubering across town… his silence became way too loud.

You called. Again… and again… and again. Straight to voicemail each time.

That’s when the worry really sank its claws in. So you dialed Santiago.

The moment he picked up, you knew exactly what was going on.

Loud, rowdy laughter crashed through the speaker, making you pull your phone from your ear. Santi’s voice came through thick and sloppy, his words slurring together.

“Heeeey… look who it is!”

You demanded to speak to Frankie.

There was a rustle, muffled voices, and then—click! The line went dead.

The memory makes your blood simmer all over again, worse than it did at the bar where you drowned it in your favorite cocktail and forced smiles for the bartender who was clearly hitting on you.

The keys slip from your fingers and clatter onto the entryway table as you nudge the door shut behind you with your hip.

Had Frankie really ditched you? Blew off the night he planned just to go slam cheap beer with the boys?

Signs of uncertainty have been here for weeks now—maybe even months.

The arguments that flare up over nothing. The way your time together has slowly shrunk into quick hellos and tired goodnights.

The comfortable rhythm you once shared has curdled into monotony that’s stagnant and gray.

You’ve felt it. You know he has too, but saying it out loud felt like it might make it too real.

You drop your bag and run a hand through your hair, letting out a long, shaky breath.

Not tonight.

Whatever this mess with Frankie is… it can wait until morning. For now, you just want to wash the night off your skin and disappear into bed.

You flick on the living room lamp, bathing the space in a warm glow that does little to soothe the exhaustion weighing on your shoulders.

“Where the hell have you been?”

You gasp loudly, nearly jumping out of your skin.

Frankie is sitting on the couch, elbows on his knees, staring straight at you with furrowed brows. His hair is still damp from a shower, dark curls messily pushed back, and his eyes are glassy—ringed with the haze of whatever he’s been drinking.

“Jesus Christ, Frankie,” you breathe, pressing a hand to your chest. Your heart hammers against your ribs. “You scared the shit out of me. Why are you sitting in the dark like some kind of creep?”

He rises slowly, his chiseled jaw tight. “Why are you out until midnight without telling me where you are or who you’re with?”

A disbelieving laugh bursts from your throat. The audacity of it burns away the last of your cocktail haze.

“Excuse me?” You kick off your heels with angry little thuds against the floor. “Are you seriously trying to lecture me right now? You’re the one who ditched our plans—your plans, mind you—to go drink with your idiot friends!”

Frankie’s stupidly handsome face shifts rapidly: irritation flickering into confusion, then crashing hard into guilt as the realization seems to slam into him all at once. His mouth opens, but no words come out right away.

You scoff, already turning away. “Yeah. That’s exactly what I thought.”

Before he can respond, you stalk down the hallway and slam the bathroom door behind you with a decisive rattle, shutting him out.

He stands frozen in the living room, dragging a hand down his face.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath. He knows he’s a fucking idiot.

He lost track of time—Santi kept ordering rounds, the guys were loud and insistent (as they always are), and saying no has never been his strong suit.

But that’s no excuse. Not for this. Not for you.

He hears the faucet turn on, then the rush of the shower. Steam soon curls out from beneath the door.

After a long minute, he walks down the hallway and stops outside the bathroom, knuckles hovering.

“Baby…” He knocks once, gently. No answer. He sighs, leaning his forehead against the wood. “I’m sorry. I know I sound like the world’s douchiest boyfriend right now, but I mean it. You don’t deserve to be treated like this. I’m gonna make it up to you, I swear.”

Silence answers him and it’s louder than any escalating argument. He’s ready to accept defeat, turning to grab a blanket from the hall closet, when your voice finally cuts through the sound of running water.

“Come in.”

Frankie hesitates for half a second, then opens the door.

Warm, humid air rushes out to greet him, heavy with the sweet scent of your body wash.

You’re under the scalding spray, the glass door fogged up, your silhouette softened by steam. Water cascades down your skin, washing away the long night.

“You really hurt my feelings, Frankie.”

He chews the inside of his cheek, guilt twisting like a knife in his gut. “I know—”

“I got stood up by my own boyfriend,” you continue, voice a little more emotional from all the drinks. “On a night he suggested to celebrate one of the biggest moments in my career. Do you have any idea how pathetic that made me feel?”

“Baby, I—”

You cut him off again, harsher this time. “These past few months… everything has felt different. We’re not the couple we used to be, and I hate it. I love you, Frankie. I love you so much. But loving you doesn’t mean I’m going to let you disrespect me like this.”

The only sound for several heartbeats is the steady drum of water against tile.

Frankie stands there, water droplets from the steam clinging to his t-shirt.

You’re the first woman who’s ever made him want to be better. Not just coast like he has been, surviving on old military habits and easy nights out. You make him want to fight the version of himself that still reaches for another drink or makes bad decisions for the fuck of it.

The thought of losing you feels like free-falling without a parachute.

He won’t let it happen just because he’s an idiot.

Frankie swallows hard. “I hear you. I’m not making excuses.” 

He waits for answer, the steam swirling between you, heart pounding as he hopes you’ll give him something—anything—to hold onto.

“It won’t happen again, baby. I promise you that,” Frankie murmurs when your silence stretches, his voice rough with sincerity.

The shower curtain shifts. You peek out, water streaming down your face, faint streaks of mascara tracing dark paths along your warm cheeks.

“Join me?”

He doesn’t hesitate. Frankie nods quickly, peeling off his shirt and shoving down his sweatpants in one fluid motion.

Nevermind that he showered under an hour ago. He doesn’t give a fuck about that, not when you’re looking at him the way you are now.

He steps into the shower behind you, not even flinching as the near-scalding water pounds against his broad shoulders and chest. The heat feels good—punishing and cleansing at the same damn time.

The moment he’s close, you press against him. Your soft, wet, soap-slicked body molds perfectly to his harder frame.

A deep groan rumbles from his throat as his large hands settle on your waist, pulling you tighter. His already thickening cock, nestles hot and heavy between the cheeks of your ass.

“Mmm,” you moan softly, the sound dissipating through the steamy air. Having him so close to you chases away the last remnants of your irritation, replaced by a slow, liquid ache low in your belly.

You turn in his arms to face him and Frankie’s hands roam greedily over your soapy curves—tracing the dip of your waist, the swell of your hips, then boldly grabbing two handfuls of your ass.

He squeezes, kneading the soft flesh as he grinds forward, letting you feel every inch of how hard you make him. His thick length slides against your skin, twitching with need.

You tilt your head back, offering your mouth. He takes it instantly.

The kiss is deep and desperate—his tongue sweeping across your lower lip before plunging inside, tasting mint toothpaste and the sweetness of your lips

Steam swirls thicker around you both, amplifying the heated lust flaring in the air like wildfire.

He pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, wet curls plastered to his forehead, water dripping from his lashes. His breath is ragged.

“Let me make it up to you.” He mutters.  “I’ll make you feel so fucking good, baby.”

Your breath catches. God, you’ve missed this—the way he knows exactly how to touch you, how to fuck you without needing instructions. Frankie has always been dangerously gifted in this department.

“Promise?” you ask, your tone turning flirty and breathy. Your hand slides down between your bodies, fingers wrapping around his swelling cock. You stroke him slowly, twisting your wrist under the cascading water.

He grunts, hips jerking into your grip, a smirk tugging at his lips despite the hunger in his eyes. “I’ll take care of you, baby. Don’t you worry.”

The raspy timbre of his voice sends a fresh wave of heat straight to your core. You pump him faster, loving the way he pulses in your palm.

Suddenly, Frankie catches your wrist, stopping you. With effortless strength, he turns you around and presses your chest against the cool tiled wall. You arch your back instinctively, pushing your ass out toward him.

The position leaves you beautifully exposed—water streaming down your curves, your soaked skin glistening under the dim bathroom light.

He steps in close behind you, hands gripping your hips possessively. His lips brush your ear, voice dropping into a filthy whisper.

“Should I kiss it better?” One of his hands slides down, fingers tracing slowly along your slick pussy from behind. He groans deeply as he feels how wet you already are, your arousal coating his fingertips despite the water.

“Apologize to this pretty pussy for neglecting her… when all she wants is to be kissed, licked, and fucked real nice and deep.”

You whimper loudly at his dirty words, your clit throbbing with every syllable. Your thighs tremble as you nod frantically, all words failing you.

Frankie takes it as the invitation it is. His fingers press more firmly against your aching folds, rubbing deliberate circles over your swollen clit.

The pressure is perfect with how teasing and firm it is. Your knees weaken, thighs shaking as slick coats his fingers.

The steam, the heat, and his skilled fingers have you gasping, pressing back against him desperately, lost in the building pleasure.

Frankie drops to his knees behind you without a word, the spacious shower giving him plenty of room to do what he has to. 

You brace yourself and bend forward even more, arching your back deeply and pushing your ass toward his face.

The hot water cascades down your spine as his large, calloused hands grip your cheeks and spread you wide open.

“Fuck…” he groans. Your pretty pussy is on full display. “Look at you. So fucking wet for me already.”

Without warning, he leans in and drags his tongue in one long, broad stripe from your clit all the way up to your entrance. Then he devours you like it’s the only thing he’s good for.

“Oh my god, Frankie—” you whine, voice cracking as your eyes roll back.

His mouth is relentless, pouty lips sucking on your swollen cunt while his tongue flicks rapidly over your throbbing clit.

The rough scrape of his facial hair against your sensitive skin sends sparks of pleasure shooting through your body. You grind back against his face shamelessly, fingers clawing at the wet tile.

He groans loudly into your cunt, the vibration making your knees buckle. His tongue pushes inside you, fucking you with deep, hungry strokes while his nose presses against the crevice of your ass.

The lewd, wet sounds of him eating you out echo off the shower walls, mixing with your desperate mewls.

“Frankieeee—” you cry out, standing on your tiptoes as your first orgasm crashes over you without mercy. Your thighs shake violently, but he doesn’t let up. He keeps sucking hard on your clit, licking and nipping until he drags you straight into a second, even more devastating climax.

Tears blur your vision. You’re sobbing with pleasure, hips jerking back against his golden mouth as wave after pleasurable wave washes through you.

His fingers dig into your hips, holding you firmly in place while he drinks every drop of your creamy release.

Only when your legs are truly trembling does he slow down, placing soft, reverent kisses along your soaked pussy until your breathing steadies.

He rises to his full height behind you, water now cooling slightly against your overheated skin.

His lips trail slow kisses up your spine as one hand pumps his aching shaft. He cups your chin with the other, tilting your head back so he can kiss the side of your neck.

“You ready for me, baby?” he murmurs hotly against your ear.

You barely manage a nod before he lines himself up and pushes inside you deep.

Your mouth falls open in a silent scream as his cock stretches you, filling you completely. The delicious pressure of him pressing against that perfect spot deep inside makes your toes curl.

“Fuck, you feel so good, gorgeous,” he groans, teeth grazing your shoulder. “So tight… so fucking perfect.”

He starts thrusting, slow at first, then faster. The sound of your wet ass clapping rhythmically against his thighs fills the shower.

You push back to meet every stroke, mewling with pleasure.

“Just like that—yes, Frankie, just like that,” you gasp.

Sensing your posture weakening, he wraps one hand sprawls against your stomach, holding you upright, while the other gropes your breast, pinching and rolling your sensitive nipple between his fingers.

He leans over you, chest pressed to your back, lips at your ear as he fucks you harder.

“C’mon, baby. Give me another one,” he growls, kissing your cheek sloppily.

You turn your head and crash your lips against his in a messy, desperate kiss—tongues sliding, spit swapping, breathing into each other’s mouths.

His fingers slide down your stomach to rub tight circles on your swollen clit.

The overstimulation hits you like a fucking lightning bolt.

“Oh my god, I’m gonna—!” 

Your scream echoes in the enclosed room as your last orgasm rips through you, your pussy clamping down hard around his cock.

The feeling is too much for Frankie. His thrusts turn feral, slamming into you until he buries himself to the hilt and comes with a heavy sigh.

Thick, hot ropes of his cum flood deep inside you, pulse after pulse, as he grinds against your ass. 

It feels amazing when he comes inside you like this. It’s your favorite feeling in the world, especially when he keeps you plugged up with his spend so none of it leaks out.

You both stay locked together, panting under the now-cool spray. Frankie’s arms are wrapped around you, holding you close as the water rinses away the evidence of your passion.

A soft, giddy giggle bubbles out of you. You feel drunker on him than you ever did on those drinks at the bar.

“I really am sorry, baby,” he whispers, kissing along your shoulder and up your neck tenderly. 

“It’s okay,” you sigh, melting back against his chest. “Just don’t let it happen again.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He gives your breasts one last affectionate squeeze, making you laugh.

He pulls out slowly, then turns you in his arms. His voice drops low again, eyes dark with renewed lust.

“Let’s get into bed. I’m not done apologizing yet.”

You bite your lip, a fresh spark of desire flickering through your exhausted body.

How could you possibly say no to that?

i have a tag list for my works here, so if you're interested— pls check it out 🖤

You stumble up the narrow walkway to your place, the world tilting just a little under your heels.

Your fingers fumble clumsily with the keys, the metal jangling loudly in the quiet hallway as you miss the lock for the third time.

A soft, tipsy laugh escapes you while the pleasant buzz of too many cocktails pulses warmly through your veins.

This was supposed to be your night. 

A celebration of the hard-earned promotion you’d fought for months to secure. Frankie had been the one who insisted on it.

You can still picture the way his face lit up on video call when you told him—eyes wide with that boyish pride that always made your heart flutter.

“We’re doing this right, baby,” he’d said, mentioning the name of that rooftop bar downtown you’d been dying to try. “Drinks, dancing, the whole damn thing. I’m taking my girl out.”

That was eight hours ago.

Now the only thing waiting for you is an empty apartment and the sour taste of disappointment lodged in your throat.

You finally manage to shove the key into the lock and push the door open. The familiar creak echoes through the dark space as you step inside.

Your phone feels heavy in your purse, its screen dark and damning. No missed calls. No texts. Nothing.

At first, you told yourself he was just running late.

Frankie’s a pilot—his schedule is chaos at the best of times. You’ve learned to live with the unpredictability of it.

But after getting ready, slipping into that little black dress you know he loves, and Ubering across town… his silence became way too loud.

You called. Again… and again… and again. Straight to voicemail each time.

That’s when the worry really sank its claws in. So you dialed Santiago.

The moment he picked up, you knew exactly what was going on.

Loud, rowdy laughter crashed through the speaker, making you pull your phone from your ear. Santi’s voice came through thick and sloppy, his words slurring together.

“Heeeey… look who it is!”

You demanded to speak to Frankie.

There was a rustle, muffled voices, and then—click! The line went dead.

The memory makes your blood simmer all over again, worse than it did at the bar where you drowned it in your favorite cocktail and forced smiles for the bartender who was clearly hitting on you.

The keys slip from your fingers and clatter onto the entryway table as you nudge the door shut behind you with your hip.

Had Frankie really ditched you? Blew off the night he planned just to go slam cheap beer with the boys?

Signs of uncertainty have been here for weeks now—maybe even months.

The arguments that flare up over nothing. The way your time together has slowly shrunk into quick hellos and tired goodnights.

The comfortable rhythm you once shared has curdled into monotony that’s stagnant and gray.

You’ve felt it. You know he has too, but saying it out loud felt like it might make it too real.

You drop your bag and run a hand through your hair, letting out a long, shaky breath.

Not tonight.

Whatever this mess with Frankie is… it can wait until morning. For now, you just want to wash the night off your skin and disappear into bed.

You flick on the living room lamp, bathing the space in a warm glow that does little to soothe the exhaustion weighing on your shoulders.

“Where the hell have you been?”

You gasp loudly, nearly jumping out of your skin.

Frankie is sitting on the couch, elbows on his knees, staring straight at you with furrowed brows. His hair is still damp from a shower, dark curls messily pushed back, and his eyes are glassy—ringed with the haze of whatever he’s been drinking.

“Jesus Christ, Frankie,” you breathe, pressing a hand to your chest. Your heart hammers against your ribs. “You scared the shit out of me. Why are you sitting in the dark like some kind of creep?”

He rises slowly, his chiseled jaw tight. “Why are you out until midnight without telling me where you are or who you’re with?”

A disbelieving laugh bursts from your throat. The audacity of it burns away the last of your cocktail haze.

“Excuse me?” You kick off your heels with angry little thuds against the floor. “Are you seriously trying to lecture me right now? You’re the one who ditched our plans—your plans, mind you—to go drink with your idiot friends!”

Frankie’s stupidly handsome face shifts rapidly: irritation flickering into confusion, then crashing hard into guilt as the realization seems to slam into him all at once. His mouth opens, but no words come out right away.

You scoff, already turning away. “Yeah. That’s exactly what I thought.”

Before he can respond, you stalk down the hallway and slam the bathroom door behind you with a decisive rattle, shutting him out.

He stands frozen in the living room, dragging a hand down his face.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath. He knows he’s a fucking idiot.

He lost track of time—Santi kept ordering rounds, the guys were loud and insistent (as they always are), and saying no has never been his strong suit.

But that’s no excuse. Not for this. Not for you.

He hears the faucet turn on, then the rush of the shower. Steam soon curls out from beneath the door.

After a long minute, he walks down the hallway and stops outside the bathroom, knuckles hovering.

“Baby…” He knocks once, gently. No answer. He sighs, leaning his forehead against the wood. “I’m sorry. I know I sound like the world’s douchiest boyfriend right now, but I mean it. You don’t deserve to be treated like this. I’m gonna make it up to you, I swear.”

Silence answers him and it’s louder than any escalating argument. He’s ready to accept defeat, turning to grab a blanket from the hall closet, when your voice finally cuts through the sound of running water.

“Come in.”

Frankie hesitates for half a second, then opens the door.

Warm, humid air rushes out to greet him, heavy with the sweet scent of your body wash.

You’re under the scalding spray, the glass door fogged up, your silhouette softened by steam. Water cascades down your skin, washing away the long night.

“You really hurt my feelings, Frankie.”

He chews the inside of his cheek, guilt twisting like a knife in his gut. “I know—”

“I got stood up by my own boyfriend,” you continue, voice a little more emotional from all the drinks. “On a night he suggested to celebrate one of the biggest moments in my career. Do you have any idea how pathetic that made me feel?”

“Baby, I—”

You cut him off again, harsher this time. “These past few months… everything has felt different. We’re not the couple we used to be, and I hate it. I love you, Frankie. I love you so much. But loving you doesn’t mean I’m going to let you disrespect me like this.”

The only sound for several heartbeats is the steady drum of water against tile.

Frankie stands there, water droplets from the steam clinging to his t-shirt.

You’re the first woman who’s ever made him want to be better. Not just coast like he has been, surviving on old military habits and easy nights out. You make him want to fight the version of himself that still reaches for another drink or makes bad decisions for the fuck of it.

The thought of losing you feels like free-falling without a parachute.

He won’t let it happen just because he’s an idiot.

Frankie swallows hard. “I hear you. I’m not making excuses.” 

He waits for answer, the steam swirling between you, heart pounding as he hopes you’ll give him something—anything—to hold onto.

“It won’t happen again, baby. I promise you that,” Frankie murmurs when your silence stretches, his voice rough with sincerity.

The shower curtain shifts. You peek out, water streaming down your face, faint streaks of mascara tracing dark paths along your warm cheeks.

“Join me?”

He doesn’t hesitate. Frankie nods quickly, peeling off his shirt and shoving down his sweatpants in one fluid motion.

Nevermind that he showered under an hour ago. He doesn’t give a fuck about that, not when you’re looking at him the way you are now.

He steps into the shower behind you, not even flinching as the near-scalding water pounds against his broad shoulders and chest. The heat feels good—punishing and cleansing at the same damn time.

The moment he’s close, you press against him. Your soft, wet, soap-slicked body molds perfectly to his harder frame.

A deep groan rumbles from his throat as his large hands settle on your waist, pulling you tighter. His already thickening cock, nestles hot and heavy between the cheeks of your ass.

“Mmm,” you moan softly, the sound dissipating through the steamy air. Having him so close to you chases away the last remnants of your irritation, replaced by a slow, liquid ache low in your belly.

You turn in his arms to face him and Frankie’s hands roam greedily over your soapy curves—tracing the dip of your waist, the swell of your hips, then boldly grabbing two handfuls of your ass.

He squeezes, kneading the soft flesh as he grinds forward, letting you feel every inch of how hard you make him. His thick length slides against your skin, twitching with need.

You tilt your head back, offering your mouth. He takes it instantly.

The kiss is deep and desperate—his tongue sweeping across your lower lip before plunging inside, tasting mint toothpaste and the sweetness of your lips

Steam swirls thicker around you both, amplifying the heated lust flaring in the air like wildfire.

He pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, wet curls plastered to his forehead, water dripping from his lashes. His breath is ragged.

“Let me make it up to you.” He mutters.  “I’ll make you feel so fucking good, baby.”

Your breath catches. God, you’ve missed this—the way he knows exactly how to touch you, how to fuck you without needing instructions. Frankie has always been dangerously gifted in this department.

“Promise?” you ask, your tone turning flirty and breathy. Your hand slides down between your bodies, fingers wrapping around his swelling cock. You stroke him slowly, twisting your wrist under the cascading water.

He grunts, hips jerking into your grip, a smirk tugging at his lips despite the hunger in his eyes. “I’ll take care of you, baby. Don’t you worry.”

The raspy timbre of his voice sends a fresh wave of heat straight to your core. You pump him faster, loving the way he pulses in your palm.

Suddenly, Frankie catches your wrist, stopping you. With effortless strength, he turns you around and presses your chest against the cool tiled wall. You arch your back instinctively, pushing your ass out toward him.

The position leaves you beautifully exposed—water streaming down your curves, your soaked skin glistening under the dim bathroom light.

He steps in close behind you, hands gripping your hips possessively. His lips brush your ear, voice dropping into a filthy whisper.

“Should I kiss it better?” One of his hands slides down, fingers tracing slowly along your slick pussy from behind. He groans deeply as he feels how wet you already are, your arousal coating his fingertips despite the water.

“Apologize to this pretty pussy for neglecting her… when all she wants is to be kissed, licked, and fucked real nice and deep.”

You whimper loudly at his dirty words, your clit throbbing with every syllable. Your thighs tremble as you nod frantically, all words failing you.

Frankie takes it as the invitation it is. His fingers press more firmly against your aching folds, rubbing deliberate circles over your swollen clit.

The pressure is perfect with how teasing and firm it is. Your knees weaken, thighs shaking as slick coats his fingers.

The steam, the heat, and his skilled fingers have you gasping, pressing back against him desperately, lost in the building pleasure.

Frankie drops to his knees behind you without a word, the spacious shower giving him plenty of room to do what he has to. 

You brace yourself and bend forward even more, arching your back deeply and pushing your ass toward his face.

The hot water cascades down your spine as his large, calloused hands grip your cheeks and spread you wide open.

“Fuck…” he groans. Your pretty pussy is on full display. “Look at you. So fucking wet for me already.”

Without warning, he leans in and drags his tongue in one long, broad stripe from your clit all the way up to your entrance. Then he devours you like it’s the only thing he’s good for.

“Oh my god, Frankie—” you whine, voice cracking as your eyes roll back.

His mouth is relentless, pouty lips sucking on your swollen cunt while his tongue flicks rapidly over your throbbing clit.

The rough scrape of his facial hair against your sensitive skin sends sparks of pleasure shooting through your body. You grind back against his face shamelessly, fingers clawing at the wet tile.

He groans loudly into your cunt, the vibration making your knees buckle. His tongue pushes inside you, fucking you with deep, hungry strokes while his nose presses against the crevice of your ass.

The lewd, wet sounds of him eating you out echo off the shower walls, mixing with your desperate mewls.

“Frankieeee—” you cry out, standing on your tiptoes as your first orgasm crashes over you without mercy. Your thighs shake violently, but he doesn’t let up. He keeps sucking hard on your clit, licking and nipping until he drags you straight into a second, even more devastating climax.

Tears blur your vision. You’re sobbing with pleasure, hips jerking back against his golden mouth as wave after pleasurable wave washes through you.

His fingers dig into your hips, holding you firmly in place while he drinks every drop of your creamy release.

Only when your legs are truly trembling does he slow down, placing soft, reverent kisses along your soaked pussy until your breathing steadies.

He rises to his full height behind you, water now cooling slightly against your overheated skin.

His lips trail slow kisses up your spine as one hand pumps his aching shaft. He cups your chin with the other, tilting your head back so he can kiss the side of your neck.

“You ready for me, baby?” he murmurs hotly against your ear.

You barely manage a nod before he lines himself up and pushes inside you deep.

Your mouth falls open in a silent scream as his cock stretches you, filling you completely. The delicious pressure of him pressing against that perfect spot deep inside makes your toes curl.

“Fuck, you feel so good, gorgeous,” he groans, teeth grazing your shoulder. “So tight… so fucking perfect.”

He starts thrusting, slow at first, then faster. The sound of your wet ass clapping rhythmically against his thighs fills the shower.

You push back to meet every stroke, mewling with pleasure.

“Just like that—yes, Frankie, just like that,” you gasp.

Sensing your posture weakening, he wraps one hand sprawls against your stomach, holding you upright, while the other gropes your breast, pinching and rolling your sensitive nipple between his fingers.

He leans over you, chest pressed to your back, lips at your ear as he fucks you harder.

“C’mon, baby. Give me another one,” he growls, kissing your cheek sloppily.

You turn your head and crash your lips against his in a messy, desperate kiss—tongues sliding, spit swapping, breathing into each other’s mouths.

His fingers slide down your stomach to rub tight circles on your swollen clit.

The overstimulation hits you like a fucking lightning bolt.

“Oh my god, I’m gonna—!” 

Your scream echoes in the enclosed room as your last orgasm rips through you, your pussy clamping down hard around his cock.

The feeling is too much for Frankie. His thrusts turn feral, slamming into you until he buries himself to the hilt and comes with a heavy sigh.

Thick, hot ropes of his cum flood deep inside you, pulse after pulse, as he grinds against your ass. 

It feels amazing when he comes inside you like this. It’s your favorite feeling in the world, especially when he keeps you plugged up with his spend so none of it leaks out.

You both stay locked together, panting under the now-cool spray. Frankie’s arms are wrapped around you, holding you close as the water rinses away the evidence of your passion.

A soft, giddy giggle bubbles out of you. You feel drunker on him than you ever did on those drinks at the bar.

“I really am sorry, baby,” he whispers, kissing along your shoulder and up your neck tenderly. 

“It’s okay,” you sigh, melting back against his chest. “Just don’t let it happen again.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He gives your breasts one last affectionate squeeze, making you laugh.

He pulls out slowly, then turns you in his arms. His voice drops low again, eyes dark with renewed lust.

“Let’s get into bed. I’m not done apologizing yet.”

You bite your lip, a fresh spark of desire flickering through your exhausted body.

How could you possibly say no to that?

i have a tag list for my works here, so if you're interested— pls check it out 🖤

WARNINGS: Enemy to Lovers, Secrets, Misunderstanding, Jealousy, Fluff, Pining, Loneliness, Helicopter Parenting, OverProtective Dad, More to add as story moves on.

It’s his Baby Girl’s first day in school. First full day where he will drop her off to be cared for by complete strangers and hope he had done a good enough job to have prepared her for this day.

He fed his daughter her breakfast, scrambled eggs with tablespoon peanut butter today, her request. The little girl devoured her scrambled eggs, picked up her tablespoon peanut butter and merrily walked out the front door while he was still struggling with cutting the crusts off her sandwich. He doesn’t usually do that. But he wasn’t going to send his daughter off to school with crusts on her sandwich like some caveman.

But why was the bread flattening? Why did the pictures of the sandwiches he saw online look all perfect and pretty? Okay, he’ll Google how to make perfect sandwiches later for tomorrow, he thought, adding the now flattened sandwich to the paper bag full of lunch. He picked the bag up, calculating in his mind if it was enough for her morning break and lunch.

PB&J, check.

One French Toast, check.

Two Jell-O cups, check.

Strawberry yoghurt, check.

Apple and orange slices, check.

A scoop of Fruit Loops, check.

A Cracker Stackers Lunchables pack, check.

Cheese sticks, check.

A handful of cashews and raisins, check.

Mini M&Ms bag, check.

Sour sticks, check.

2 juice boxes, check.

She won’t go hungry, right? She’ll make it until 3.30?

Images of his daughter crawling out of the Kindergarten to get to him, all weak and emaciated from hunger kept flashing in his mind.

Okay, maybe just one more pack of Lunchables. You can never be too safe these days.

“Daddy! School!”

“I’m coming, Baby Girl,” he said, tossing an extra apple and juice box in the bag, now bursting at its seams, her fancy new purple water bottle hanging from his middle finger.

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"Miss Cole, my dear, and – yes, dear, you too, come, come, don't be shy now…"

Mrs Robertson is approaching down the side of the hall. You lift your head from the trestle and turn to see her beaming as she sails down the side of the room with two of the Americans in her wake. At her elbow, half a step behind her, is the dark-haired one, the captain having been claimed by Mr Robertson at the kitchen door for what is visibly going to be a long conversation about the harvest. And behind the dark-haired one, half a step further back again, with his cap under his left arm and his right hand at his side and his face composed in the careful neutral attentiveness of a man being introduced to people in a public room, is him.

"Miss Cole, my dear, and – let me see, I just had it – Lieutenant…Garcia, Garcia, that’s right, isn't it, Lieutenant – and Lieutenant Morales, who is the lieutenant's good friend and crewmate. They’ve come over together. Gentlemen, this is Miss Margery Cole, and this is…" and here Mrs Robertson says your name, with the proprietary warmth reserved for the village's own girls, “…and the girls here have grown up together since they were so high, and they will be very happy to make you welcome to our dance, won't you, my dears."

"Yes, Mrs Robertson," says Margery, who has assembled, in the half-second since the elder lady has begun speaking, the bright public face of a girl prepared to be charming to a stranger. "How do you do, Lieutenant Garcia."

"How do you do, Miss Cole."

His voice is quieter than you expect, a warm voice with a soft accent at the back of it that isn’t quite the accent of any of the films you’ve seen. His hand, when it takes Margery's, is tanned and square and unhurried, his eyes on her face with assessing attentive friendliness. He’s not, Margery's non-Mexican, an unsophisticated man. You recognise it without having to think about it. He’s the kind of man who knows what he’s doing in a room.

"And you, Lieutenant Morales, how do you do."

Margery turns to give him her hand also, and he takes it.

"Miss Cole, it’s a pleasure."

He also has a low, quiet voice with the soft American accent under it that you have, in the past three days, been turning over in your head as a remembered thing without ever having actually heard it. You’ve been making it up on the basis of the films and the fragments of the soldiers' voices that drifted up to you on Tuesday afternoon at the gate, and you’ve got it wrong. The real voice is lower than the imagined voice, quieter, and more careful. The pleasure he’s just spent on Margery has been entirely correct in tone and entirely sincere, and you understand that you’re about to hear the same voice say something to you, and how you’re going to receive it without your face giving you away hasn’t yet been worked out.

Mrs Robertson says your name again and you put out your hand to the dark-haired one first, because Margery has set the order and because to alter the order would be to do something noticeable. Lieutenant Garcia takes your hand with the same correct two-second pressure he gave Margery's.

“Pleasure to meet you, ma’am."

"How do you do, Lieutenant Garcia."

"Santi's fine, ma’am, when we're off the base.”

“Santi?” you repeat.

“Short for Santiago,” he grins. “Mrs Robertson’s been telling us about the village. It’s real pretty and nice of you all to put on a dance for us."

"We're…we're glad to have you."

"Kind of you to say so."

He lets your hand go and turns half a step toward Margery who turns with him, and the two of them angle themselves a quarter-turn away from you towards the trestle.

"Have you tried Mrs Robertson's tea-loaf yet, Lieutenant?” Margery says, with the clarity of a girl who knows she’s providing cover. “You mustn't leave without trying it for it’s the thing in this village,”

Mrs Robertson goes sailing back up the side of the hall in the direction of two more arriving villagers with the satisfied air of a woman who has successfully placed her guests, and you turn, with the composed face you’ve been holding ready for the past minute to face him.

He’s been waiting with the patience of a man who hasn’t, in fact, been in any hurry at all about it. He’s stood half a step back through the whole of the introduction with his cap under his arm and his right hand back at his side after the handshake with Margery, and hasn’t, you understand now looking at him, been doing what you assume a man would do in the small interval between being introduced to one girl and being introduced to her friend, which is to look ahead at the friend.

Instead, he’s been looking very carefully at the small embroidered crest on Mrs Robertson’s lapel, the small WVS crest of a thing she wears to all parish functions, and he’s been looking at it with the fixed professional attention of a man making sure not to look at the girl beside her until the girl beside her has been formally presented to him. You haven’t seen this particular kind of self-discipline before in a man at a village dance and you find, observing it, that it does something rather complicated under your sternum that you’re going to have to think about later, when you have time.

He puts his hand out.

"How do you do."

"How do you do, Lieutenant Morales."

"Frankie. If… please. If that's all right."

"Frankie."

His hand closes around yours, warmer than Lieutenant Garcia's – Santi’s – had been. You register the temperature of it the same way you register the dry firmness of his palm and the particular pressure of his thumb just below the knuckle of your own. And you register that the handshake, although it’s the same correct two-second handshake he gave Margery, is, in some small private way that you would not have been able to defend in court, not quite the same as the handshake he gave Margery.

It’s a fraction of a second longer, perhaps, or a fraction of a second slower in the release. You’re not entirely sure, but you know it’s been different, and you know that he knows it too.

"Pleased to meet you," he says.

"Pleased to meet you, Lieutenant…Frankie."

His mouth does the small thing again – the small not-quite-a-smile at one corner – and his eyes, which are very dark brown, don’t leave yours. And you can feel, in the small back compartment of your mind that’s still functioning, Margery and Santi at your elbow conducting a parallel performance about the tea-loaf, which has now expanded into a discussion of what Santi’s mother puts into the tamales she makes at Christmas.

You can feel, behind you somewhere across the hall, Henry by the kitchen door not turning his head, and you can feel, all around you, the warm yellow noisy hall going on without paying any particular attention to the unmoving spot at the trestle where you’re looking at a man you’ve not, until now, ever spoken a word to.

"You…you've come down from the base," you say because someone has to say something and because the small interval of looking has gone on for slightly longer than the small public interval that two strangers introduced at a trestle are strictly permitted.

Your voice comes out steadier than you feared it would.

"Yes, it’s about a mile and a half walk."

"In this drizzle."

"It's a…it's a pretty lane."

"It's a wet lane."

"It's a pretty lane and a wet lane."

"Yes."

He nods. "You live in a pretty country."

"Thank you. We…we like it."

"You've been…"

"Frankie?" Santi half-turns "Frankie, Miss Cole here is telling me something about the tea-loaf I want you to hear.”

"Sure, Pope."

"Miss Cole, would you tell my friend what you were telling me about the…"

Margery, the brilliant traitor, opens her mouth to oblige, and you’re spared, for half a breath, the small impossible business of finishing your sentence.

You’re not spared for longer than half a breath, however, because a hand suddenly comes around, firmly across the small of your back.

You know the hand at once, the size and weight of it – careful, proprietary, the long-settled hand of a man for whom the small of your back has been a piece of permitted territory for four years. You turn your head and there’s Henry.

"Evening, my love."

"Hello."

"They've started a waltz." He says, not looking at the Americans. He looks at you and says, in the even voice of a man who’s been raised to be polite to strangers without being effusive about it, "Begging your pardon, gentlemen, Henry Whitlock. My…this is my young lady. They've started a waltz, my love, and Mrs Robertson has been giving me looks for the past five minutes about you not being on the floor yet, and I shouldn’t like to disappoint her. Will you excuse us, gentlemen."

"Of course," Santi says, smoothly. "Of course, sir. Pleasure to have met you, Mr Whitlock, ma’am. Enjoy your dance."

"Sir." Frankie says quietly in the small careful neutral voice of a man being entirely correct in a room. "Mr Whitlock, ma’am."

"Lieutenant."

You don’t look at him as you say it, nor do you call him by his name. You don’t, in fact, allow yourself even the small peripheral fragment of him you might have been able to take with you on the small swing of your head. You turn and walk with Henry away from the trestle out into the small open space at the centre of the hall where four other couples have already begun the slow unsteady waltz that Mrs Cook is making her best effort at.

Henry takes your right hand in his left and put his right hand back on the small of your back and you put your left hand on his shoulder in the familiar way you’ve been putting it on his shoulder at every village dance and every wedding and every harvest tea since you were fifteen. Then he begins to move you in the slow box step around the floor.

"You alright, my love?"

"I'm fine."

"You looked pale a minute ago."

"It's warm in here."

"It is warm. They've banked the stove so hot we’ll all be in a faint by ten."

"Mm."

"You sure you're alright?"

"I'm sure."

You’re not sure. You’re the exact opposite of sure. You’re standing in the middle of the open floor with Henry's hand at your back and Henry's attentive eyes on your face and the small steady humming under your sternum is running now at a pitch you haven’t previously known it was capable of, and you understand that the small steady humming hasn’t been an abstract thing for three days. It’s been an anticipation, and the anticipation has now met its object, and the object has a name and a voice and a moustache and the small not-quite-a-smile at the corner of his mouth.

And the small steady humming, having met its object, is not going back into its banked state easily, and you’re going to have to get through perhaps three minutes of waltzing with Henry without looking once over his shoulder at the trestle.

The trestle is over Henry's left shoulder, depending on which way around the floor he turns you. When he turns you the other way it’ll be over your right shoulder, which will mean it’ll be on the same side as your face, and looking at it will be merely a matter of letting your eyes slide a quarter-turn in their sockets, a matter of perhaps a quarter of an inch of movement, undetectable from where Henry's face is.

When he turns you back the other way the trestle will be behind you and you’ll have to actively turn your head to look, which will be detectable, and which you’re not going to do.

You hate, with a small clean immediate self-loathing, that you’ve mapped this out.

Henry turns you in the slow box step. He turns you the easy way first, which puts the trestle, briefly, into the corner of your right eye and then he turns you back the other way, so the trestle is behind you.

"That dark-looking fellow," Henry says, conversationally. "The Mexican.”

“I don’t think he is Mexican.”

“No?”

“No, Florrie’s aunt says she thinks she was mistaken and that it was a different man she saw who could be Mexican.”

"Mm. His friend looks a quiet sort."

You don’t allow your hand on Henry's shoulder to do anything in particular. "Does he?"

"The fellow with the moustache and beard. He looks a quiet sort.”

"Mm."

"You're not being very chatty tonight, my love."

"I'm sorry, I'm a bit tired. We had a long day."

"Doing what?"

"I ran errands with Margery into Ellsmere."

"That’s a long way to go for errands."

"There were things we couldn't get in the village."

"Like what?"

“Just…things.”

He turns you again and the trestle comes round into the corner of your right eye. You fix your gaze on the small dark blue knot of his tie and hold it there. Then you step, and let yourself be turned, and the small steady humming under your sternum holds at its new pitch.

Somewhere in the back compartment of your mind, a clean clear voice you haven’t heard before says, you are in serious trouble, my girl, in the small dispassionate tone of a person making an observation about somebody else. You note the observation, don’t disagree with it, and don’t look.

The trestle slides out of the corner of your eye as Henry turns you again, and you close your eyes, just for a second, against his shoulder. He feels the small movement and his hand at your back tightens by the smallest fraction.

"Steady, my love. Lean on me a minute."

You lean, letting your forehead rest, for two beats of the music, against his shoulder, and breathe in the familiar smell of him. You use the smell to anchor yourself to the floor of the hall, and you keep your eyes shut against his shoulder. After two beats you lift your head again and give him the private smile you give him in public, the slight tired smile of his girl, and he gives you back the private nod he gives in public, and the box step goes on.

"You shouldn't have walked down if you were tired."

"I wanted to come, Henry."

He turns you and the trestle comes back into the corner of your right eye. You don’t look. You hold on to the small dark blue knot of his tie with your eyes. The trestle slides out of your peripheral vision again as he turns you the other way and you try to picture what might be happening at it. The waltz is perhaps three minutes long, perhaps three and a half, and you’ve been on the floor for perhaps a minute and a half of it.

You can do two minutes, you can.

Henry turns you, the trestle comes round into the corner of your right eye, and you look.

You don’t mean to. You’ve set yourself, with the small fierce private discipline you’ve been holding for ninety seconds, not to look. But the discipline breaks without warning the third time the trestle comes round, the way a small length of thread breaks under steady pulling without giving any warning that it’s about to.

Your eyes, without your permission or consent, slide a quarter-turn in their sockets, and look.

He’s at the trestle, holding his cup with both hands, standing half a step back. At this exact instance, he’s not looking at you. Instead, he’s looking at the cup with the concentrated attention of a person determined, in a public room, not to look at one particular thing.

He’s not looking at you because he’s not letting himself look at you.

You understand this and it does something hot and quiet in the middle of your chest that’s more dangerous than the looking-at-you would be. The looking-at-you is a thing two strangers across a hall can do once, by accident, at a door, and pretend afterwards has not happened. The not-looking-at-you, deliberately, with effort, while standing at a trestle pretending to admire a cup, is a thing a man only does when he’s decided that the looking is a thing that needs to be controlled, and a man only decides that when…

You don’t finish the sentence in your head because you don’t need to.

You close your eyes again, very briefly as Henry turns you again, and the trestle slides out of your sight, and you don’t look back at it on the next pass.

You look at Henry’s tie through the next pass, and the next, and the next, and Mrs Cook brings the waltz to its slightly wandering end with the small extra flourish that she likes to give the last bar, and the couples on the floor come to a halt, with a small smattering of polite applause.

"One more, my love."

"Henry…"

"They're putting on a foxtrot. I can do the foxtrot. Stay where you are."

"Henry, I've got to…"

"One more, then I'll let you sit. You can sit with Margery and Florrie and have your tea, and I'll go back and talk to Father. He wants to introduce me to Mr Robertson’s brother who's in from Lincoln. One more, my love. I see you twice a week and a man may have a foxtrot with his girl when he sees her."

You can’t refuse him a foxtrot for any reason, so you smile, nod and agree and Mrs Cook starts up something that’s approximately A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square in a foxtrot tempo. Henry takes your hand and begins to move you.

The foxtrot turns you on a different axis from the waltz. The trestle, on the foxtrot, comes round into your field of vision sooner and stays there longer, and you understand that the dark blue knot of Henry's tie isn’t going to be enough to hold you for three more minutes. That the private discipline is going to fail again, and that the failing of it is not, this time, going to be an accident, but a thing you’re going to do on purpose because you can’t not.

You look and, this time, he’s not at the trestle.

He’s moved while you’ve been looking at Henry's tie and is now three steps further down the side of the hall, near the bench where the older men's coats are heaped, with his back almost to you and his cap still under his arm. He’s talking to the sandy haired quiet boy from his crew and is not looking anywhere near the dance floor.

He has, you understand, moved on purpose to a place from which it’s no longer geometrically possible for him to look at you without making himself a spectacle.

He’s being very good in a way that’s directed at you and you’re going to have to spend the next two and a half minutes of A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square not crying about it.

"Henry."

"Yes?"

"I think…after this one I do need to sit. I'm sorry."

"Of course, my love. After this one. Just lean on me, it's all right."

He holds you a little closer for the foxtrot – not improperly closer – and you let yourself lean, just a little and put your forehead almost but not quite against the side of his jaw and let your eyes go past his shoulder to the bunting in the rafters. You fix your eyes on a particular blue triangle that’s been cut, you notice for the first time, from what looks like an old curtain of Mrs Robertson’s sitting-room. You hold it, and don’t look down or across or at the bench by the door.

The foxtrot winds to its small unsteady end. Henry walks you off the floor with his hand still at your back, to the side of the room, not toward the trestle where Margery is standing with Santi, leaning against it now, the two of them deep in something that has Margery laughing, but to the row of chairs along the opposite wall.

He sees you settled into one and fetches you a fresh cup of tea from the trestle himself rather than send you back over for it.

"You sit, my love,” he says. “I'll come back in twenty minutes. Father wants me, I can see him looking. You'll be all right with Florrie."

"Yes, thank you."

He bends and presses his lips, very briefly, to the top of your hair, before he walks away down the side of the room toward his father at the kitchen door.

You sit with the cup in your hands and don’t look up.

You look at the small dark pool of tea, and breathe, and feel the small humming under your sternum settle, very slightly, from the high pitch of the dance back down toward whatever its resting pitch is going to be for the rest of this evening.

You realise that it isn’t going to bank or stop but is only going to find a slightly lower note and hold it for the next four hours and then for the walk home up the lane and then for the night and then, you suspect with a small grim honesty, for some considerable time after that.

Florrie sits down beside you with a small bump and a sigh.

"Lord, my feet. My aunt’s been making me stand for forty minutes!"

You make the small obliging sound that the conversation requires, and Florrie goes on at length about her aunt and the sandwiches and whether there’s going to be cake later, and you nod in the right places.

Across the room, by the bench at the door, the small olive-drab back of him stays turned towards his crewmate. You sit with your cup, and you don’t look, and the small private ledger goes on recording, against your name, no entry.

And the small steady humming under your sternum, with its new lower note, hums on.

➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰🇺🇸➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰

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“Yeah.”

She held the door open with her hip. “Welcome to hell.”

You laughed, because you didn’t know what else to do.

You thought she was joking.

The ER at that hour was quieter, but not calm.

There is a difference you learn quickly.

Quiet means fewer voices. Fewer footsteps. Fewer people arguing about beds that don’t exist.

It does not mean stillness. Monitors still beep. Patients still breathe too fast or too slow. Someone is always crying, even if it’s soft enough that it blends into everything else.

You stood at the nurses station with your backpack still slung awkwardly over one shoulder, trying to look like you belonged there.

You didn’t. Not yet.

Your hands didn’t know where to go. Your eyes kept moving, trying to take everything in at once. The board. The rooms. The way people spoke in shorthand you didn’t understand yet. The way no one explained anything because they didn’t have time.

You kept nodding like you understood anyway.

Someone handed you a list.

Someone else said your name wrong.

You corrected them softly, then immediately felt bad about it.

You were trying too hard.

You knew that even then.

You didn’t meet your attending right away. Not properly.

You saw him first. Across the department.

He was standing at the foot of a bed, shoulders squared, head slightly bowed as he listened to someone speak. His hands were in his pockets, which struck you as strange at the time, like he was holding himself back from doing something.

People moved around him differently.

You noticed that before anything else.

They gave him space without being told to. They spoke to him directly, but not casually. There was no hesitation, but there was no familiarity either. It wasn’t fear, exactly.

It was respect sharpened into something a little more dangerous.

You didn’t know his name yet.

You just knew he mattered.

“Dr. Miller’s on today,” someone said, like it was information you were supposed to already have.

You nodded.

“Okay.”

You had no idea what that meant.

—

Your first patient was a disaster.

Not medically.

Technically, it was simple. A laceration. A fall. Nothing you hadn’t seen before in training.

But your hands shook.

Not visibly, you hoped. But enough that you could feel it. Enough that every movement felt slightly off, like you were half a second behind your own body.

You forgot to introduce yourself properly.

You forgot to ask one of the basic questions you knew you were supposed to ask.

You over explained something that didn’t need explaining, your voice running ahead of your thoughts.

You could feel yourself slipping.

And then you felt it.

Not a touch. A presence. At your shoulder.

You didn’t turn right away. You didn’t want to.

Because you knew.

“Slow down.”

His voice was low. Not unkind. Not gentle either. Just… certain.

You froze for half a second, then forced yourself to keep going.

“I am,” you said, a little too quickly.

He didn’t respond to that.

He stepped closer.

You could feel the heat of him, the way he filled the space without trying.

“Start again,” he said.

Your throat tightened. You glanced up at him.

That was the first time you really looked.

Older than you expected. Lines at the corners of his eyes. A kind of stillness that didn’t come from calm, but from control.

He wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t frowning either. He was just watching you.

Waiting.

You swallowed.

And you started again.

“Hi,” you said, your voice steadier this time. “I’m—”

You gave your name.

You did it properly.

This time, your hands followed.

He didn’t praise you after. That’s what you remember.

He didn’t say good job. He didn’t tell you that you were doing fine. He didn’t soften anything to make it easier.

But he didn’t take over. That mattered more.

He stood there while you worked, correcting you when you needed it, letting you figure things out when you didn’t. He didn’t rush you, but he didn’t let you drift either.

When you finished, you stepped back slightly, your shoulders tight.

He looked at your work. Nodded once.

“That’ll hold,” he said.

It felt like more than it should have.

You learned his patterns before you learned his name properly.

The way he moved through the department. The way he spoke. Short. Direct. No wasted words.

The way he listened more than he talked.

The way he didn’t tolerate bullshit, but didn’t humiliate people either. He corrected in real time. Expected you to adjust.

And you did.

You found yourself watching him.

The way he placed his hands when he examined a patient. The way he asked questions that cut straight to what mattered. The way he stood slightly to the side, never blocking your view, but always close enough to step in if he needed to.

You started anticipating him.

What he would ask. What he would want. What he would expect you to notice before he said it out loud.

You wanted to be right.

There was a moment.

You didn’t realize it then.

Not fully.

It was small.

You were charting, hunched slightly over the computer, your eyes already starting to blur from the screen. You had been there for hours. You hadn’t eaten. You hadn’t sat down properly since you arrived.

You were trying to keep up. You were failing.

He came up behind you.

You didn’t hear him. You just felt the space shift again.

“You eat today?”

You blinked. Looked up at him.

“No,” you admitted.

He stared at you for a second.

Not annoyed. Not surprised.

Just… assessing.

“Fix that,” he said.

You nodded.

“Okay.”

You didn’t move. He didn’t leave. You felt it.

You looked back at the screen, like that might make it easier.

“Go,” he said.

It wasn’t loud. But it wasn’t optional.

You stood. Walked away. Got something from the vending machine you didn’t want. A granola bar.

You ate it standing in the hallway, watching the department move around you.

When you came back, he was in your spot.

Not charting. Just waiting.

He stepped aside when you approached.

“Better,” he said.

You nodded.

It felt like something had settled.

By the end of the shift, you were exhausted in a way that didn’t feel physical anymore.

Your feet hurt. Your back hurt. But it was your head that felt too full.

Too many names. Too many faces. Too many moments where you almost got it right and didn’t.

You were standing near the exit, your bag in your hand, trying to remember how to leave.

You didn’t want to do anything wrong.

Even that.

He found you there. Of course he did.

“You’re still here,” he said.

You nodded.

“Yeah.”

He looked at you like he was trying to decide something.

“You coming back tomorrow?”

You blinked.

“Yeah,” you said, a little confused. “I—yes.”

He nodded once.

“Good.”

That was it.

No speech. No welcome. No reassurance.

Just that.

You stood there for a second after he walked away. Holding onto it. Like it meant more than it should have.

It did.

You didn’t know it yet.

But that was the first moment something shifted.

Not into anything you could name.

You started measuring yourself against him without meaning to.

Started wanting his approval in a way that felt different from everyone else’s.

Started noticing when he noticed you.

Started noticing when he didn’t.

And you didn’t realize that somewhere between your badge not working and that single word—good—you had already stepped into something that would be very hard to step out of.

You just thought you had survived your first day.

Now

“I’m pregnant.” She says it like she’s telling me what the weather’s like outside. Calm. Casual. Not at all the way I expected her to sound after randomly showing up at my door three months after we spent one drunk night together. One night. And then nothing.

What the fuck? Pregnant?!

And maybe you’re confused right now. Trust me, not more than I was. Not even close. But I should probably take you back three months earlier. Back to the three months that led to this whole… situation.

✄┈┈┈┈ Three months earlier

The second I step out of the airport, the dry Texas air hits me right in the face. Hot, dusty, familiar. The kind that sticks to your skin and settles in your lungs before you even realize it. Haven’t felt that in a long damn time. Haven’t missed it either. And now? Now it looks like I’m stuck with it again. I let out a quiet breath.

There’s a duffel bag hanging from my shoulder. Not even a big one. Funny how your whole life can somehow fit into one bag after all these years. One bag. Like maybe there wasn’t much of a life there to begin with. Then again… what kind of life was Bogotá really? Ten years of chasing cartels, staring at dead bodies, corruption, blood, cocaine, men who destroy entire countries and still sleep like babies at night. Yeah. Real fulfilling experience.

I rub my hand over my face and undo another button on my shirt. The flight exhausted the hell out of me and honestly, all I want right now is a shower, a cigarette and maybe twelve hours of sleep.

I look around the parking area for my father’s old Ford. A minute later I finally spot it pulling up near the curb.

And there he is. Same old hat. Same truck. Same tired face I’ve known my entire life. He barely changed since the last time I saw him before going back to Colombia again as country attaché. Maybe a few more wrinkles around the eyes. Probably because I left. Again. My father always hopes I’ll stay this time. And every single time I leave, something between us gets a little quieter afterward. Not bad. Not angry. Just… different. Hard to explain. “Welcome back,” he says once I finally reach him with my bag.

Then he pats my shoulder. Same way he always does. Same way he did after mom died and we both realized it was just gonna be the two of us from then on. Same way he did last year at this exact airport before I got on another plane and disappeared again.

“Dad,” I mutter, forcing a small smile that probably looks as exhausted as I feel. Not because I actually wanna smile. But because the last thing I wanna do is dump all my bullshit onto him within the first minute of being back home.

The drive back happens mostly in silence. Well. Silence if you don’t count the noise from the road and the wind coming through the open window, messing up my hair while I stare outside.

Everything feels weirdly unreal. Like I’m not actually here yet. Because this time it’s not just a week or two before I disappear again. This time it’s supposed to be permanent.

Fuck. I hate that word. Permanent.

What the hell does permanent even mean for someone like me? What am I supposed to be without the DEA? Who am I when I’m not chasing somebody? And–

“Uhm.” My father’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “So… it’s good to have you here. At least you can help me fix the fence near the river tomorrow morning. Storm knocked part of it down.” He says it casually. Like that’s the most important thing he could possibly tell me after a year apart.

I glance over at him. “Good to know nothing changed. Still obsessed with that damn fence.” Normally I’d say it with more amusement. Maybe even laugh a little. Now it just comes out tired. Because somehow I’m still angry at everything. And maybe even more angry because Laredo didn’t magically fix me the second I got off the plane. Not that I really expected it to.

“Well,” my father shrugs lightly, eyes still on the road, “like I always tell you… somebody’s gotta do it.” Then after a second: “And I should probably take advantage of having you here. God knows when you’ll disappear again.”

That finally makes me turn toward him properly. I can’t decide if that was supposed to sound like guilt or not.

He still doesn’t look at me though. Just keeps driving.

“I’m not planning to,” I say quietly.

“Planning not to what?” And even without looking at me, I can tell he actually cares about the answer.

I lean my head back against the seat for a second before answering. “I resigned from the DEA. So…”

Silence fills the truck for a moment. Then: “So this time you’re staying? Or is your heart gonna drag you somewhere else again?”

I don’t answer immediately. Because the truth is… part of me probably would leave again if I let it. But another part of me is just fucking tired.

The DEA offered to pull my resignation. Said they needed me in Mexico. Apparently what I did in Colombia impressed somebody. Funny. Because I don’t feel like I did a damn thing worth admiring. Not after everything that happened. Not after all the people who still ended up dead anyway.

“Ask me again in a few months,” I say eventually. The word stay gets stuck somewhere in my throat. I’ve promised it too many times already. And every single time, I left anyway. To save the world. Or whatever the hell I thought I was doing back then.

“Okay,” my father says softly, giving a small nod like maybe a few months is enough for him right now. Maybe to him it sounds hopeful.

I wish it sounded hopeful to me too. But honestly? I have no fucking idea what I’m supposed to do here now. Escobar’s dead. Cali’s falling apart. Mexico still sits in the back of my head like an itch I can’t scratch. But I don’t think any of it would make me feel useful anymore. Not now. Colombia beat that out of me pretty fucking thoroughly.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

By the time we pull up to the ranch, everything looks exactly the same. Same house. Same yard. Same old fence that somehow still hasn’t completely fallen apart. Nothing changed.

Not since I used to run around here as a kid. Not since I kissed a girl for the first time behind the barn. Not since I got drunk for the first time and threw up near the damn fence afterward. Not since dad and I stood out here after mom’s funeral not knowing what the hell we were supposed to do next. Same place.

And for one small second, all those memories hit me at once hard enough to make something in my chest loosen. It feels weird being home again. Good weird. Painful weird too.

Dad kills the engine and I climb out of the truck, slamming the door shut behind me.

A second later the front door of the house flies open. And out comes Ana Sofía. Tiny little missile.

I call her my niece even though technically she’s my cousin’s daughter, not my actual niece, but when you grow up an only child in a huge family, your cousins basically become your siblings anyway. So when they start having kids… well. Close enough.

Last time I saw Ana Sofía was about a year ago when I came back here for that forced day off after the whole Los Pepes disaster. And honestly? Watching her sprint toward me now, it still surprises me how fast kids grow. Not like we ever had a shortage of them in this family. But for ten years I barely spent time around any kids at all.

Hell, before last year I didn’t even really know Ana Sofía existed outside of hearing about her from dad during phone calls. Because life here didn’t stop just because I disappeared into Colombia. The Peña family kept growing while I was gone. Marriages. Babies. Birthday parties I missed. Kids I didn’t know.

And somehow this little girl decided after meeting me exactly once that I was gonna be her favorite tío for the rest of her life.

At first it drove me a little crazy. Mostly because I wasn’t used to somebody following me around constantly. But honestly? It’s hard to hate being loved by a kid who doesn’t know enough about you to judge anything you’ve done. Maybe that’s exactly why I ended up liking her so much too.

“Tío Javi!” Ana Sofía yells the second she reaches me before throwing herself straight at my chest.

I barely catch her in time before both of us end up flat on our asses in the dirt.

Her dark hair immediately gets everywhere.

“Jesus, princesa, slow down,” I laugh, trying to sound serious and failing completely.

“You almost fell!” she yells directly into my ear while hanging onto my neck with both arms. “You need to eat more so you can get bigger muscles.”

I snort. “And maybe seven-year-old girls shouldn’t attack innocent old men like me.”

Ana Sofía immediately pulls back just enough to stare at me with narrowed eyes. “I’m not seven anymore.” The way she says it sounds genuinely offended, like forgetting that information should probably be illegal.

I put on an exaggerated shocked face. “Damn. Was I gone that long already?”

Ana Sofía bursts out laughing. “You were! You weren’t even here for my birthday.”

I carefully set her back down on the ground. I’m not about to hit her with adult logic and point out that I’ve technically missed every birthday she’s ever had except last year. Instead I go with the usual adult bullshit. Mostly because… hell, I still don’t know how long I’m staying myself. “Well,” I say, crouching down a little so we’re eye level, “guess I better not miss the next one then, huh?”

Ana Sofía studies me for a second like she’s deciding whether that answer is acceptable. Apparently it is, because she immediately shoves a piece of paper into my hands. There’s a drawing on it that definitely looks like–

“Wow, Sofi. That’s a really nice dog. Is this for me?”

“Tío Javi!” she gasps dramatically before dissolving into giggles. “You’re so weird. Everybody knows that’s a horse.”

That finally gets a real laugh out of me. “Right. Of course. Definitely a horse. I was just testing you.” I grin and take the drawing from her. I already know it’ll probably end up forgotten in some drawer eventually, but the fact she actually drew me something because I came home still does something weird to my chest.

Dad’s already heading toward the house by then.

Ana Sofía immediately grabs my hand and starts dragging me after him. “You know why I drew the horse for you, tío?”

“Hmm. Because you knew I like horses?”

“No,” she says instantly. “If I wanted to draw an animal you actually like, I would’ve drawn a dog. Obviously.” Eight-year-old logic. Brutal every time.

I swallow the comment about the horse still looking suspiciously like a dog.

“I drew it because you don’t have a girl here,” she says casually while swinging our joined hands back and forth. “So you won’t feel lonely.”

That catches me off guard for a second. Not because she means anything bad by it. She doesn’t. But for some reason the topic hits a nerve today. Not because I desperately need a relationship or some shit like that. It’s just… Maybe hearing things like that reminds me that I spent most of my adult life chasing cartels across another country while everybody here kept actually living.

And the worst part? Back then I loved it. I really did. But now? Now there’s no Escobar left to chase. Cali’s falling apart. And suddenly all that’s left are empty rooms, cigarettes and long quiet nights. Fuck. I shut the thought down immediately.

Unfortunately my brain decides to throw Lorraine into the middle of it anyway. Lorraine standing in front of me last year after I finally apologized for everything and went looking for… honestly, I still don’t know what the hell I expected. Maybe I thought she’d still be stuck too. Maybe part of me expected to find her alone somehow. Instead she had Randy. Two kids. A whole life that kept moving without me in it. And maybe Colombia fucked me up enough that seeing a marriage actually survive all those years felt almost unreal.

I shake the thought away before I spiral too far into it. Thankfully the noise inside the house interrupts me first.

The second we walk in, Ana Sofía lets go of my hand and immediately runs off toward the rest of the kids somewhere deeper inside.

I stop in the hallway for a second, looking around. Same orange walls. Same stone details. Same colorful tile floors. Sometimes this place feels more like Mexico than Texas.

The noise hits me immediately. Too many voices at once. English mixed with Spanish. Kids yelling somewhere down the hallway. Somebody laughing way too loud. And underneath all of it, the smell of gorditas hits me straight in the face.

I know exactly who made them before I even see her. Tía Rosa. At some point after mom died, gorditas basically became comfort food in this house. Especially for me and dad.

Rosa practically moved in with us back then, acting like enough food and enough time could somehow glue two grieving people back together again. And honestly? She wasn’t completely wrong.

I try to find her somewhere in the crowd while relatives keep stopping me every five seconds to shake my hand, pat my shoulder or tell me how good it is to finally have me home again. Feels like dad invited half the damn Peña family. Not just from Laredo either. Still not as bad as last year after ten years away, but Jesus Christ. Big families are exhausting.

Before I can spot Rosa myself, she finds me first. “Ay, mijo,” she gasps dramatically the second she reaches me, throwing her hands up. “Did they feed you anything in Colombia or did you survive entirely on cigarettes?” She looks me up and down like she’s deciding whether to hug me or beat me with a sandal.

“Good to see you too,” I laugh quietly, avoiding the question completely because honestly? Food wasn’t exactly high on my priority list most days down there.

“You need to eat. And stop smoking.” She keeps staring at me with that same disapproving look for another few seconds before finally pulling me into a hug so tight I almost lose oxygen. “Oh, corazón,” she whispers against my hair. “I missed you.”

And shit. It actually feels good. Warm. Familiar. Like getting dragged straight back into childhood for a minute.

Rosa always used to say I was her favorite person in the family. Apparently that still applies, even after she smacked me with a flip-flop the first time she caught me smoking behind the barn as a teenager. Back then she still thought she could scare me into quitting.

A few seconds later she pulls away and grabs my wrist immediately. “Come on. I made your favorite.” She doesn’t bother asking whether I’m hungry before dragging me toward the kitchen.

The kitchen looks exactly the same too. Dad never really changed anything after mom died. Same red walls. Same decorative plates hanging everywhere for reasons I still don’t understand. I grew up in this house and never paid attention to half this stuff until after mom was gone. Then suddenly every little thing felt impossible not to notice.

“Out, all of you,” Rosa suddenly yells at the kids running around the kitchen looking for hidden candy somewhere. “Go bother somebody else. I need to feed my nephew.”

The kids groan dramatically but she shoos them out laughing before shutting the door behind them.

And for the first time since I got back to the ranch, it’s quiet. Well. Mostly quiet. I can still hear muffled conversations outside and distant laughter coming through the window from the yard.

Rosa moves around the kitchen like she owns the place. Honestly, maybe she kinda does at this point. After mom died, she just naturally stepped into keeping this family together. And without her? Dad probably would’ve fallen apart a long time ago.

The smell of gorditas gets even stronger once she sets a plate down in front of me. My stomach growls immediately and I realize I’m actually hungry. Or maybe I’m only hungry for this specifically. Hard to tell.

“Eat,” Rosa orders before sitting across from me like she plans to personally supervise the entire thing.

And honestly? The second I take the first bite, my taste buds practically fucking ascend. Which is probably why I end up eating way more than I normally would without even noticing.

“So…” Rosa points a finger at me while I practically inhale the food in front of me. “What are you planning to do now? Here in Laredo?”

Jesus Christ. Straight to the point. I haven’t even been back for twenty-four hours yet. And unlike dad, Rosa isn’t somebody I can escape with a vague shrug and an ‘I don’t know.’

“Well, uh–”

“You should settle down, mijo,” she cuts in immediately.

I let out a short laugh. “Pretty sure ‘welcome home’ would’ve been the kinder way to start this conversation.” I’m joking, mostly. Mostly trying to drag the conversation somewhere else before she starts interrogating me properly.

“Javier Peña!” And there it is. The full name. The tone that means she’s officially serious now. “You didn’t come home just for another vacation, did you? You’re not about to run back to that Colombian hell again?” She narrows her eyes at me. “Not like last year.”

“No. No,” I cut in quickly. “I resigned from the DEA.”

Rosa leans back slightly, still watching me carefully. “Mhm. You said something similar last year too, remember? Then suddenly you disappeared again chasing God knows who.”

Fair. Can’t even argue with that. I stare down at my plate for a second instead of answering immediately. Because if I tell her I’m staying, it’ll sound too much like a promise. And I’m not ready to promise anybody anything right now when I still have no fucking clue what my life is supposed to look like without the DEA. Without Colombia. Without all of it. “Tía, I–”

“I ran into Lorraine in town.”

The sentence hits me so unexpectedly I actually blink at her. “What?”

Rosa gives me a look. “Lorraine,” she repeats slowly. “You remember her, right? Blonde girl. The one you left standing in a wedding dress waiting to see if you’d show up.”

I put the half-eaten gordita back down onto the plate. “I know who Lorraine is,” I mutter, rubbing a hand over my face. “I just don’t understand why you’re bringing her up.”

“Well,” Rosa shrugs lightly, “thought maybe you’d wanna know she and Randy are having problems.”

And just like that it feels like somebody punched me directly in the stomach. Lorraine. Randy. A whole part of my life I tried real hard to bury somewhere deep enough not to think about too often.

Last year at Danny’s wedding was the first time I’d really talked to her after ten years. And honestly? It fucked with my head way more than I expected. Because somehow she looked… okay. Happy, even. No anger. No resentment. No “go fuck yourself, Javier.” Nothing. Just forgiveness. Like she’d actually moved on while I was still mentally standing in the same damn place we left each other.

And no, I didn’t want her miserable for ten years because of me. Obviously not. But maybe part of me expected something. I don’t even know what. I already knew she was married to Randy. Still weird as hell realizing they actually lasted all those years. Kids too. Meanwhile I couldn’t even keep a damn cactus alive in Bogotá.

“Ay Dios mío, you’re not listening to a word I’m saying.” Rosa’s voice snaps me out of my thoughts again.

“Hm?”

“I said they’ll probably get divorced.”

“Well…” I shift awkwardly in the chair.

“No matter what, it’s because of you,” Rosa says casually before taking a sip of her drink.

I stare at her. “What?”

Suddenly it feels like all the air disappeared from the kitchen.

“Yes… because do you know when their problems started?” Rosa asks carefully. “Right after Danny’s wedding. Apparently you two talked there, so…” She narrows her eyes at me. “What exactly did you say to her?”

“Madre de Dios, tía,” I groan, rubbing both hands over my face. “Nothing happened. What do you think we talked about? I apologized. She made it very clear she’d moved on with her life. End of story. They are definitely not having marriage problems because of me.” I don’t even wanna look at the gorditas anymore.

Rosa keeps watching me way too closely. “Well, something must’ve happened,” she insists. “People don’t suddenly start falling apart right after someone’s wedding if everything was perfectly fine before.”

“Jesus Christ…” I lean back in the chair. “Just because people look happy doesn’t mean they actually are.” Funny thing is, I don’t fully believe that myself.

Because Lorraine looked happy to me. Married. Kids. Stable life. Everything she probably wanted. She made it sound pretty damn clear last year too. Except… a memory suddenly pushes itself back into my head before I can stop it.

“Can you actually imagine us being married?” Lorraine asked me that day at Danny’s wedding.

And I’d just shrugged a little. Smiled. Didn’t really answer properly.

And now, suddenly, I remember the way she looked at me afterward. Surprised almost. Like maybe she expected me to immediately say no. But before she could say anything else, Randy showed up and I backed off completely. Then I went back to Colombia and barely thought about Lorraine again after that.

Well… almost barely. Maybe once or twice. Like when I talked to Christina Jurado.

But Lorraine never felt like unfinished love anymore. Just old guilt. Old history. Something I thought I’d already buried years ago. Still… that look on her face suddenly feels different now that I’m replaying it.

No. Bullshit. It doesn’t mean anything. I shut the thought down immediately before it can grow into something bigger. If Lorraine’s marriage is falling apart, it’s not because of me. And definitely not because of some lingering feelings. “Why are you even telling me this?” I ask Rosa sharper than I meant to.

Her expression softens instantly despite my tone. “Because I thought maybe you’d wanna know.”

“Why? Because you think it’s some reason for me to stay?”

Silence settles between us for a second.

“Because she was your first love, mijo. You wanted to marry her and–”

“And what?” I cut in, irritation slipping out faster now. “First loves usually don’t get happy endings, you know? And besides…” I point at her slightly. “You never even liked her that much.”

That finally makes Rosa smile faintly. “Well… your taste in girlfriends didn’t exactly impress me back then, no,” she admits. “But that wasn’t the point. You were happy with her and I cared about that.”

“I was,” I mutter. “Until I realized being happy with someone isn’t always enough.” Because it wasn’t. I was young. Stupid. Naive as hell. Maybe I ignored a lot of things back then because I wanted the idea of us more than the reality. Either way, it doesn’t matter now. Lorraine is not the reason I’d stay in Laredo permanently. She just isn’t.

“Last year at Danny’s wedding you went to talk to her yourself,” Rosa says carefully. “And afterward you looked sad the whole rest of the night, so I thought–”

“What did you think?” I snap before she can finish. “That I was going through some tragic fucking heartbreak? We talked. I apologized for leaving her at the altar. That was it. She made it very clear she’s moved on. End of story. There’s nothing else there to analyze.” The second the words leave my mouth, I already know I’m being too harsh.

And the worst part is Rosa doesn’t deserve any of it. She goes quiet for a second before slowly standing up from the table, smoothing her apron nervously like she suddenly doesn’t know what to do with herself. “Bueno… you’re right,” she says softly. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

Guilt immediately twists in my stomach. “Wait,” I exhale quickly. “I didn’t mean to snap at you, I just–”

“No.” She shakes her head gently. “You don’t have to explain. Lorraine is in the past. I understand.” Then after a second: “Finish eating before it gets cold.” And just like that she walks out of the kitchen before I can say anything else.

Fuck. The last thing I wanted was to come home and start taking my shit out on family. I stare down at the plate for another few seconds before shoving a hand through my hair.

Fuck this. I need a drink. And a cigarette.

I don’t finish the gorditas. Which honestly pisses me off a little because they’re good as hell, but suddenly I’m not hungry anymore.

I leave the kitchen instead, slipping past relatives still hanging around the house while avoiding eye contact with literally everybody. Last thing I need right now is someone taking one glance at me as an invitation to start another conversation.

I make it outside fast. The yard’s mostly empty now. Just a few kids near the barn fighting over the swings.

Even Ana Sofía barely notices me leaving. Which is surprising considering she’s apparently decided I’m her favorite uncle in the entire world. But honestly? Good.

I pull out a cigarette and light it immediately, taking a long drag the second the flame catches. Every time I come back home, I tell myself I should quit. Every single time. Like somehow fixing my life starts with cigarettes. Like there’s still some better version of me left to recover if I just try hard enough.

But honestly? I don’t think that guy exists anymore. Not after Colombia. Not after everything that happened down there. Everything I did. Everything I didn’t do. Everything I could’ve stopped. Everything that still feels like my fault no matter how many times people tell me otherwise. Fuck. Still smoking, I cut across the yard toward my part of the ranch.

Dad stayed in the main house. Rosa slowly took over half the rooms on the other side years ago. And me? I ended up with the house section that had its own entrance where people usually left me alone. Exactly what I need right now.

I don’t even go back for my bag yet. There’s time for that later. Maybe part of me is avoiding it on purpose because unpacking that bag means unpacking the life I built in Colombia too. And somehow that makes this whole thing feel way too final. I’m not sure I’m ready for final.

The second I step inside and shut the door behind me, silence settles around me immediately. Just the occasional hum from the old fridge near the kitchenette whenever it kicks back on.

Everything looks almost exactly the same as always. Same worn-out couch that probably should’ve died years ago. Same old radio sitting on the shelf. Same kitchen table covered in scratches from years of living on the ranch. A couple photos still hang crookedly on the wall too. One of me and dad near the horses. Another from when mom was still alive. Haven’t added anything new in a very long time.

I basically moved into this part of the house as a teenager because I wanted privacy and freedom and the illusion that I wasn’t living with my parents anymore. Turns out having your own entrance does wonders for a teenage boy’s ego. Especially when you start bringing girls home. Though honestly, mom and later Rosa were never exactly great at respecting boundaries. Dad usually stayed out of it more. Mostly just sighed heavily whenever something annoyed him. Somehow that part about him never changed either.

But then I left anyway. DEA academy first. A few years later, Colombia. And somehow my life just kept moving farther and farther away from this place after that. Still… even if I didn’t actually spend most of my life in this part of the house, it’s the only place on the ranch that ever really felt like mine. The one place where I can shut a door and actually be alone for a while. Which is rare around here.

There’s almost always somebody from the Peña family at the ranch. Cousins, kids, uncles, random relatives I barely remember the names of anymore. This place is basically the family meeting point for everything. Holidays, birthdays, Sunday dinners, funerals, random Tuesdays… doesn’t matter.

But honestly? I’ve always been weirdly grateful for that. At least dad was never alone after mom died. That thought drags me right back to Rosa. Fuck. I shouldn’t have snapped at her like that.

I know she meant well. She always does.

I’m just tired of hearing about settling down all the damn time. Like there’s some invisible timer counting down over my head because I’m thirty-seven and apparently supposed to already have a wife, three kids and a lawn mower by now like half the guys I grew up with.

And mostly… I just don’t wanna think about Lorraine. Still, the thought keeps crawling back anyway.

What if Rosa’s right? What if Lorraine’s marriage actually started falling apart after our conversation last year? Or worse… what if there really was something unfinished there before Randy interrupted us?

No. Bullshit. I shut the thought down hard before it can spiral any farther.

Instead I fall back on one of the many bad habits Colombia gave me: when my head gets too loud, I go to a bar. A drink usually makes thinking easier. Or at least quieter.

I glance around my place one more time, briefly wondering if I’ll ever actually make it feel lived in again. Maybe fix things up. Maybe stay long enough for it to matter. But then DEA and Mexico flashes through my head again and the thought dies immediately.

I grab my keys instead. Drive there. Cab back. No big deal. Used to do it all the time before I left Laredo anyway.

A minute later I’m back in the truck, engine rumbling to life beneath me as I pull away from the ranch. And honestly? Just getting farther away from the house, the memories and all the questions already makes it a little easier to breathe.

Now

Fuck. No. No, no, no, no. No fucking way. This has to be a joke. A mistake. A defective test.

I stare at the two lines like they’re personally mocking me while screaming congratulations, you got knocked up by a man you met once at a bar.

“Oh my God, fuck NO,” I blurt out loud, hands already shaking. Then I force myself to breathe because this has to be wrong.

Sure, my period’s late, but my cycle’s always been a mess. That doesn’t automatically mean pregnancy, right? And besides… my boobs don’t hurt. I’m not throwing up. Nothing feels different. Something should feel different, shouldn’t it?!

I only bought the stupid test because even for my chaotic period this delay was getting suspicious, but this? This wasn’t supposed to happen. No.

Because he had a condom. Javier.

I think his name was Javier. Javier Peña. Jesus Christ, I barely even remember his fucking name.

Yeah, okay, he did say the condom had been sitting in his wallet for months, but it’s still a condom, not expired milk. That’s not how this works, right?!

This has to be some kind of mistake.

We were drunk, but not blackout drunk. I literally put the condom on him myself. And yeah, I hadn’t slept with anybody in six months after my shitty breakup, but I’m pretty sure I know how condoms work without accidentally destroying one in the process.

No. Absolutely not. I refuse to believe I’m pregnant with a near-stranger I spent exactly one drunken night with before we both silently agreed never to see each other again.

Neither of us wanted a relationship. That was the whole point. This can’t be happening.

People don’t just accidentally create whole human beings with random hot strangers from bars. Not in real life. Not in my life.

And considering I haven’t slept with anybody since him, that would mean–

Nope. No. I physically shake my head at the thought like maybe I can force it out of existence.

Unfortunately I only bought one damn test because apparently I’m an idiot. But honestly? Even if I had ten more sitting here, I probably wouldn’t trust any of them right now anyway.

So instead I grab my phone with trembling fingers and immediately call my gynecologist, praying they’ll somehow squeeze me in today because there is absolutely no way I’m surviving another night with this sitting in my head.

✄┈┈┈┈ Three months earlier

Honestly, I didn’t even wanna go to the bar in the first place. Ever since the breakup with Jesse, leaving the house for anything other than work felt exhausting. Not because I still missed him that much after six months. I didn’t. Not really.

Okay, maybe a little sometimes.

But mostly I just got used to being alone. Throwing on some comfort show, making popcorn and pretending my life was perfectly fine.

Unfortunately for me, I have friends like Kathy and Olivia. I’ve known them basically forever, which is probably the only reason I finally gave in and agreed to drinks at the local bar. No men. No flirting. Just us girls. Girls’ night. Woo-fucking-hoo.

I wasn’t exactly excited about it while standing in front of my mirror getting ready, but I figured I could survive two hours before coming home and continuing my peaceful little ‘divorcee lifestyle.’

Still… I tried. Tight jeans that made my ass look good. Yellow strappy top. Not because I planned on impressing any men at the bar, but because after six months of feeling miserable, I kinda wanted to feel pretty for myself again.

I curled my hair, threw on mascara and called it a day. I never really wear much makeup anyway.

Honestly? Could’ve been worse. For someone crawling out of a breakup cave for the first time in half a year, I looked pretty decent.

The loud honk outside nearly gives me a heart attack.

I jump slightly before laughing at myself.

Right. The girls.

I spray perfume on one last time before grabbing my bag and heading outside.

The second I step toward the cab, Kathy and Olivia start yelling and waving at me through the windows like they’ve already had three drinks each before even picking me up.

Which honestly… wouldn’t surprise me.

The second I climb into the backseat, they both immediately start talking over each other.

“Oh my God, Adri, I seriously thought you’d cancel,” Olivia says dramatically. “I literally told Kathy there was no way you were actually coming.”

Kathy immediately points at me. “And you look hot, by the way. Huge waste of a girls’ night.”

I snort. “Trust me, no man is suffering because I’m unavailable tonight.”

“Mmhm,” Olivia hums suspiciously.

And honestly? Even if some random guy was interested, I wouldn’t care. Okay, maybe I missed certain physical aspects of having a man around sometimes. But relationships? The emotional bullshit? The crying? The arguing? Hard pass.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The drive itself ends up surprisingly nice though. The girls keep talking nonstop until eventually they drag me into the conversation too, and after a while it actually starts feeling… normal. Easy. Like old times before Jesse and all the mess that came with him.

And for the first time in months, I suddenly realize maybe I actually want to enjoy tonight instead of just surviving it.

When we walked into the bar, it was already pretty full. Loud music, people talking over each other, glasses clinking somewhere near the back. Kathy and Olivia immediately headed for the bar to order drinks for us. And honestly? The cocktails here were actually really good. Dangerous kind of good.

By the time they came back with the second round, Olivia had already dragged me toward the pool tables in the corner. “You haven’t touched a cue in like a year,” she laughed while handing me one.

“I haven’t touched a lot of things in the last year,” I muttered before taking another sip of my drink.

“Jesus Christ,” Kathy snorted. “Okay, somebody needs to get laid.”

“Can you both shut up?”

They only laughed harder. That was the problem with best friends. They knew too much.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

A few drinks later, I was leaning against the edge of the pool table while Olivia absolutely destroyed both of us at the game and Kathy kept dancing badly every time a good song came on.

For the first time in months, I actually felt… lighter. Not okay. Definitely not okay. Jesse had made sure of that. But lighter, maybe.

And then Katy suddenly nudged my arm. “Don’t look immediately.”

Which of course made me look immediately.

A man was sitting at the other end of the bar with a beer in one hand and a cigarette between his fingers. Dark hair. Mustache. Broad shoulders hidden under a dark shirt. Older than us, definitely. And very, very handsome.

The second he realized I caught him looking, he glanced away for maybe two seconds before looking right back.

“Oh my God,” Olivia whispered dramatically after turning around to check. “He’s hot.”

“I’m not doing this tonight.”

“You’re not doing anything ever,” Kathy shot back. “It’s been six months, Adri.”

“Yeah, because Jesse turned dating into a traumatic experience.”

“That sounds dramatic.”

“It was dramatic.”

They laughed again while I took another sip of my drink, trying very hard not to look back toward the bar. Which obviously lasted maybe thirty seconds.

Because he was still there. Still looking at me sometimes between sips of his beer like he was trying not to make it obvious.

And stupidly enough, I could feel warmth creeping into my cheeks from the alcohol and the attention combined. Not because I wanted a relationship. God no. The idea alone exhausted me. But maybe I missed being looked at like that. Maybe I missed feeling wanted a little.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

By the time another round appeared at our table, I was pleasantly buzzed and warm all over, my thoughts slower and softer around the edges.

And that was probably why I didn’t notice immediately when Kathy and Olivia exchanged one of their looks. The dangerous kind. “Oh my God,” Olivia suddenly said, grabbing her purse. “I completely forgot I promised my sister I’d call her before midnight.”

“At a bar?”

“She’s emotional.”

Kathy nodded way too seriously. “Very emotional.”

I narrowed my eyes at both of them immediately. “You’re lying.”

“We would never.”

“You literally are right now.”

But they were already grabbing their jackets, both fighting smiles. Kathy leaned closer before leaving and quietly murmured: “You deserve to have a little fun for once. Stop acting like your life ended with Jesse.” Then the two traitors disappeared toward the exit, leaving me alone at the table with my drink.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

And after another minute… my eyes drifted back toward the man at the bar again. Still there. Still handsome. Still looking at me every now and then. Oh my God.

I stared at my drink for another minute before finally finishing the rest of it in one go. Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was the loneliness. Maybe it was the fact that for the first time in months, someone looked at me like I was still capable of being wanted. Whatever it was, it made me slide off the chair before I could overthink it.

His eyes lifted almost immediately when I stopped next to him. Up close, he somehow looked even better. Older. Tired around the eyes. The kind of handsome that didn’t seem intentional.

“Your staring is getting a little obvious,” I said before I could stop myself.

For half a second he just looked at me, then a small smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth. “Was starting to think maybe you liked it.” God. Okay. Definitely dangerous.

I leaned against the bar beside him, trying very hard to look calmer than I felt. “What if I did?”

“Then I guess I owe your friends a thank you.”

I let out a laugh before taking another sip from my glass. “You noticed them?”

“They weren’t exactly subtle.”

“Yeah, well. Kathy and Olivia think my life is over because I haven’t dated anyone in six months.”

“Six months?” he repeated. “That all?”

I narrowed my eyes immediately. “You’re annoying already.”

That finally made him laugh properly. Low and rough and unfairly attractive. “Javier Peña,” he said after a second, holding his hand out slightly.

“Adriana... Morales.” His hand was warm when I shook it.

“And how old are you, Adriana?”

“Thirty.”

One eyebrow lifted slightly like maybe he expected younger.

“You?”

“Thirty-seven.”

Yeah. That sounded about right. Older than me, but not in a bad way. More like… settled into himself. Even if there was something heavy sitting behind his eyes. “You from here?” I asked.

“Used to be.” The answer came short and simple, like there was more behind it he didn’t wanna explain.

And honestly? I didn’t really wanna explain my own life either. That was the nice thing about strangers. No expectations. No history. No Jesse.

We kept talking after that. About stupid things mostly. The music. The awful beer selection. Pool. Texas heat. Nothing important and somehow still enough to make time blur around the edges. Another drink appeared somewhere in between. Then another.

At some point my knee brushed his under the bar and neither of us moved away. I could feel the alcohol warming my face by then, my thoughts softer, slower. And judging by the way Javier kept looking at my mouth every couple of minutes, I wasn’t imagining the tension building between us either. “So,” I said eventually, tracing the rim of my glass with my finger. “What exactly are you staring at now?”

His eyes flicked back up to mine slowly. “You really want an honest answer?”

I swallowed. Maybe I was a little drunk. Maybe I was a little lonely. Maybe I was just tired of feeling absolutely nothing all the time. “I don’t know,” I admitted quietly. “Maybe.”

For a second neither of us said anything.

Then Javier leaned back slightly, rubbing his thumb against the side of his beer bottle before speaking. “Look,” he said. “I’m not really looking for anything.”

The honesty in it should’ve probably offended me a little. Instead, it almost relaxed me. “Good,” I said. “Because neither am I.”

His eyes stayed on mine. “No relationship.”

“Definitely not.”

“No expectations.”

I let out a small laugh. “You always negotiate things this seriously?”

“You’d be surprised.”

That finally made me smile again.

And for a second we just looked at each other while the noise of the bar blurred around us. Two strangers. A little drunk. A little lonely. And probably about to make a terrible decision.

Javier glanced toward the window for a second before looking back at me.

“I’m not driving.”

“Good.”

Another pause. Then finally: “I can call a cab.”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The cab barely even stopped completely before I noticed it. The ranch. Even in the dark, it looked huge. Warm lights glowed from parts of the main house while the rest disappeared into the Texas night around it. Somewhere farther back I could make out another building near the fields, probably a barn, and for half a second I just stared through the car window. “Jesus,” I muttered under my breath. “You live here?”

Javier paid the driver before answering. “Technically.” That answer barely made sense, but before I could ask more, he was already leading me across the courtyard instead of toward the main entrance.

We passed the larger part of the house completely, heading to the side, where another door sat under a dim porch light. His space.

The second he unlocked the door and we stepped inside, he barely had time to shut it behind us before his hands were on me.

And honestly? Mine were on him just as fast.

His mouth crashed into mine hard enough to steal the breath from my lungs while my fingers immediately grabbed at the fabric of his shirt. Everything after that blurred together into heat, alcohol, rough kisses and his jacket hitting the floor.

I barely even noticed where we were walking. At some point we stumbled into a wall. Both of us laughed against each other’s mouths for maybe half a second before he kissed me again, deeper this time, one hand sliding down my waist.

God. Maybe Kathy and Olivia deserved rights after all.

The place around us was dimly lit and warm, smelling faintly like coffee, cigarettes, old wood and something that was just… him.

I could feel the slight roughness of his hands against my skin while he kissed down my neck slow enough to make my head spin even more than the alcohol already had.

By the time we finally made it to the bedroom, both of us were breathing harder.

Javier kissed me again the second the back of my legs hit the mattress, one hand sliding under my top while mine tangled into his hair. And then, somewhere between kisses and half-drunk fumbling, reality finally caught up with us.

“Wait,” I breathed out softly against his mouth.

He stopped immediately, forehead still pressed against mine while both of us tried to catch our breath.

“I’m not on the pill,” I admitted quietly.

For a second neither of us said anything.

Then Javier let out a low curse under his breath before reaching for the back pocket of his jeans. “I think I have a condom somewhere.”

“You think?”

“I wasn’t exactly planning this tonight.”

That made me laugh softly despite everything.

He pulled his wallet out and opened it, staring at it for a second before grimacing slightly. “Okay,” he muttered. “I do have one.”

“That doesn’t sound convincing.”

“It’s been sitting in my wallet for a few months, but it should still be okay.”

I looked at him for a second. “You really know how to make a girl feel safe.”

Another rough laugh left him before he handed it to me.

I stop thinking about it completely after that. I take the small plastic wrapper from his hand, toss it onto the bed beside me and pull Javier down on top of me again before he can say anything else.

He laughs softly against my mouth, low and rough, before kissing me again. This time slower. His fingers slip under my top first, warm against my skin, and a second later the fabric is gone completely, tossed somewhere onto the floor together with his shirt.

I barely even look where it lands. I’m too distracted by the feeling of his mouth against my neck and the way his hands move over my waist like he’s trying not to rush even though both of us are already halfway gone from the alcohol and tension.

I reach for the button of his jeans while he pushes himself up just enough to help me get them off.

Everything after that turns messy and impatient again. A laugh when we almost get tangled in the sheets. Another kiss. My bra disappearing somewhere behind me after he finally manages to unclasp it.

His forehead briefly resting against mine while both of us breathe harder than we probably should already.

The room suddenly feels too warm. Too small. Too full of him.

By the time the rest of our clothes end up on the floor, I can feel my heartbeat everywhere.

Javier reaches for the condom again, but I take it from him before he can open it himself.

His eyes stay on me the entire time. Quiet for once. Almost careful underneath all the heat and alcohol.

Hell no. I’m way too drunk to think about him like that right now anyway. Or maybe I’m not thinking at all anymore. Maybe all I can think about is how badly I want him inside me already. I break eye contact first and focus on opening the condom instead. It takes me a second with my alcohol-blurred coordination, but eventually I manage to pull the small slippery thing out of the wrapper. My eyes drift down to Javier’s cock and–

Oh my God. He’s big. Like… really big. Jesus.

I swallow hard, sudden nervousness flashing through me at the thought of how the hell this man is supposed to fit inside me. But I don’t let myself think about it for long. I roll the condom slowly over the tip of his cock and down the rest of him, my fingers tightening around him slightly like I’m trying to make sure he stays exactly this hard.

Javier watches me the entire time, one hand sliding over my chest, thumb brushing over my nipple lazily enough to send another wave of heat straight through my stomach.

By the time the condom is finally in place, my entire body feels hot and restless.

Javier settles himself between my knees, spreading them farther apart, and suddenly my heart is beating so hard I can actually feel it in my throat.

Before he pushes inside me, he drags his fingers between my thighs first, testing how ready I am.

And honestly? I’m soaked. I’ve probably been soaked since the moment he said he’d call a cab.

His fingers move slowly inside my pussy and Javier lets out the faintest amused breath when he realizes just how wet I already am. “You’re fucking tight,” he mutters before he can stop himself.

In another universe, if some stranger I met a few hours ago had said that to me, I probably would’ve rolled my eyes so hard I’d see another dimension. But here? With Javier? The rough sound of his voice just sends another shiver through me instead. I grab his shoulders and kiss him hard enough to cut off whatever he was about to say next. “Please,” I whisper against his mouth.

That’s all the encouragement he needs. He slides the head of his cock slowly between my folds first, teasing my clit just enough to make me squirm beneath him before finally, finally pushing inside me. “Ah, fuck,” Javier groans directly into my mouth and I moan with him immediately.

Every fear that he wouldn’t fit disappears in seconds. Because he fits perfectly. And I can feel him everywhere. God. Everywhere. The stretch of him alone almost makes my head spin again.

For a few seconds neither of us moves properly. Javier stays half above me, breathing hard against my mouth while my nails dig into his shoulders automatically.

“Jesus Christ,” I breathe out shakily.

He laughs softly under his breath like he’s barely holding himself together too. Then he starts moving. Slow at first. Deep enough to make my thoughts completely disappear one by one until all I can feel is him, the heat of his skin, the rough sounds leaving his throat every time I tighten around him.

The room fills with breathless moans, skin against skin, the old bed creaking quietly underneath us.

At some point my legs wrap around his waist without me even realizing it.

At another point he presses his forehead against mine and curses softly in Spanish while I completely lose the ability to think straight.

And when the orgasm finally crashes through me a few minutes later, sharp enough to rip a broken sound out of my throat, one thing becomes painfully clear immediately: This was easily one of the hottest experiences of my life.

Javier thrusts into me a few more times before finally coming too with a loud groan against my neck. I can feel his cock pulsing inside me as the condom fills and… oh my God. The feeling alone almost makes me shiver all over again.

And when his cock twitches inside me one more time, my body tightens around him automatically in another wave of aftershocks that pulls a low curse from his mouth.

Jesus Christ. This is so fucking hot.

By the time it’s over, both of us are breathing hard, sweaty and half tangled in the sheets.

Javier pulls out carefully before collapsing onto his back beside me with a low exhausted groan.

For a minute neither of us really says anything. The alcohol haze is still there, softer now, heavier.

I stare at the ceiling while trying to catch my breath and somewhere beside me Javier reaches down to pull the blanket halfway over us. Not romantic. Not cold either. Just… quiet. Eventually he mutters a rough: “You okay?”

“Yeah. You?”

A tired laugh leaves him. “Well, it could be worse.”

That somehow makes me smile.

A few minutes later the room falls silent again except for the sound of the fan turning slowly overhead and distant crickets outside the ranch.

At some point, without really meaning to, we both fall asleep on opposite sides of the bed. Not touching. Not holding each other. Just two drunk strangers sharing the same mattress for one night.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Morning comes way too early. For a few seconds I don’t even remember where I am. I just lie there half-awake with a dull headache pulsing behind my eyes while pale morning light slips through the curtains. Then I feel the warmth beside me. Right. The bar. The cab. Javier. And… yeah. The sex. Jesus Christ.

I close my eyes for a second, suddenly replaying flashes of last night way too clearly for someone who drank that much tequila. His hands. His voice. The way he looked at me.

Okay. Yeah. Definitely not bad. Actually… probably one of the best hookups of my life, which honestly feels unfair considering it happened with a man I barely know.

Maybe it’s just because I hadn’t slept with anyone in six months. That has to be it. There’s no deeper meaning here. No fate. No soulmate bullshit. Just alcohol, loneliness and really good sex. Simple.

I slowly turn my head toward him.

Javier’s still asleep beside me, one arm thrown loosely across the mattress, dark hair messy from sleep and sex. In the soft morning light he somehow looks younger and more exhausted at the same time. Still ridiculously attractive though. Annoyingly attractive, actually.

I let my eyes drift over him for maybe a second too long before immediately stopping myself. Nope. Not doing this.

We already made the rules pretty clear last night. No relationship. No expectations. No complicated emotional aftermath. Honestly, that’s probably for the best.

I quietly sit up, immediately wincing at the pounding in my head. Okay. Maybe tequila was a mistake.

The room is still warm and smells faintly like cigarettes, sex and yesterday’s alcohol. My clothes are scattered all over the floor and for one horrifying second I can’t find my bra. Fantastic.

Eventually I manage to gather everything without making too much noise while Javier stays completely asleep behind me. Good. Because I really don’t think either of us needs an awkward morning-after conversation right now.

By the time I finally pull my jeans back on and grab my shoes in one hand, I glance back at him one last time. Still asleep. Still handsome. Still basically a stranger. And somehow that thought alone makes leaving easier.

So without waking him, I quietly slip out of his room and disappear into the early Texas morning before either of us can accidentally turn one drunken night into something bigger than it was ever supposed to be.

Now

The drive from the gynecologist feels unreal. Like I’m watching somebody else’s life happen from outside the car window.

The little pregnancy card sits on the passenger seat beside me like some kind of cruel joke.

Congratulations. You’re pregnant.

Fantastic.

I grip the steering wheel tighter and let out a shaky breath.

No matter how many times I replay everything in my head, it still doesn’t feel real. But the doctor confirmed it. Twice. There’s literally a tiny human growing inside me right now and considering I haven’t slept with anybody except Javier in almost a year total…

Yeah. It’s his. Jesus fucking Christ.

I stop at a red light and stare blankly ahead while my thoughts keep spiraling. I don’t even really remember him that clearly anymore after three months. Not fully. Just pieces.

Dark eyes. Rough hands. That stupidly attractive mustache. Really good sex.

But honestly? Maybe the sex only felt that good because I hadn’t touched a man in six months before him. That’s probably it.

Because whatever this is now, it definitely isn’t romantic. If anything, right now I’m mostly pissed off. At him. At myself. At that stupid expired-wallet-condom bullshit. At the universe. I don’t know.

What I do know is that I’m not driving out to the Peña ranch because I suddenly want some beautiful love story with a stranger. I don’t want money. I don’t want a relationship. And I definitely don’t expect him to magically become excited about this.

I just… need him to know. Maybe because it feels unfair carrying this alone already. Maybe because I want somebody else to panic with me for five fucking minutes.

By the time I pull onto the road leading toward the ranch, my stomach feels tight enough to make me nauseous again. I still remember the way there surprisingly well.

And when I don’t fully trust myself, asking around Laredo for directions to the Peña ranch turns out to be ridiculously easy anyway. Apparently everybody knows the Peña family. Great.

I park near the house and sit there gripping the steering wheel for another ten full seconds before finally forcing myself out of the car.

Please let him actually be home. Please don’t let me embarrass myself in front of his entire family.

Luckily the yard looks mostly empty. No kids. No giant family gathering. Just silence and distant wind moving through the trees. And somehow I still remember exactly where his part of the house is. Of course I do.

My heart pounds harder with every step toward the door until finally I force myself to knock.

Once. Twice. A few seconds pass before the door opens.

And there he is. Javier looks half-awake, confused and slightly annoyed right up until he actually recognizes me standing there. Then his entire expression changes. Confusion first. Recognition second. And finally complete shock.

For a second neither of us says anything.

Honestly, I almost lose my nerve right there. But I didn’t drive all the way out here for nothing. So before I can overthink it, I look directly at him and say the words that have been destroying my sanity all day. “I’m pregnant.”

Silence. Total silence.

Javier just stares at me like his brain stopped working completely.

And suddenly, standing there in front of him, I realize this might actually be the moment both of our lives just split into a before and after.

First of all, thank you so much for reading chapter 1

I honestly don’t even know how to explain what this story already means to me. In a weird way, it feels like a little dream I carried around in my head for years without ever really writing it down anywhere. I think part of me always imagined a life like this for Javi somewhere deep inside my brain. Not perfect, not magically healed, not suddenly free of all the things Colombia did to him… but still something warm. Something human. Something that actually feels like living instead of surviving.

And one day I kinda just sat there and thought… okay but what if I actually write it? What if I let him have this?

Not an easy life. Not a perfect relationship. Not some fairytale ending where everything magically works overnight. But a home. Family. Complicated love. Chaos. Late night talks. Fights. Healing. Stubbornness. Growing older. Learning how to stay.

I genuinely want this series to live for a long time if inspiration keeps coming. I already have so many ideas in my head for future chapters, playlists, drabbles, little side moments and random Peña family chaos. This world already feels very alive to me and honestly… I’m way too emotionally attached already for something that literally just started.

I already adore Adriana so much. Obviously I love Javi with my entire soul. Tía Rosa owns my heart. And I’m really excited to slowly introduce more people into this little world over time.

This story feels very personal to me already. In a different way than Javi’s Journal for example, but with a very similar emotional attachment behind it. Which is kinda insane considering this is only chapter one.

Anyway… Thank you again for being here at the beginning of this journey with me. I really hope you’ll love these emotionally constipated idiots as much as I already do 🤭🧡

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

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