History is beautiful

Nine months. 

Out of all the months that have come and gone, somehow this one hurts the most. 

More than the first month of false hopes, more than the sixth that marked half the year gone by. 

The nine month mark hurts the most, because if your body would just do what it’s supposed to, this would be the month your family could have grown by one. 

One more high chair at the dinner table, one more pair of little shoes by the doorway, one more tiny onesie to fold with the rest of your laundry. 

Instead, it’s just another month, like the past eight before it, where you stare at the blank, empty space where two pink lines should be, when all you get is one. 

You’re not sure what so cruelly compelled you to sneak out of bed and take this test alone this morning. Maybe because Javi was so convinced this month would finally be the one- no matter how badly you wanted to believe him, you couldn’t help but shake the sinking feeling in your gut that this time was no different than the rest. That watching his optimistic smile fade in real time would hurt just as badly as the missing little line.

You stare at the slim stick of plastic, inspecting it one more time from every angle you can think of, hoping, praying, that maybe, if you just believed hard enough, the line you yearned for more than anything would finally be there. 

Tears well behind your eyes wondering if it ever will. 

It doesn't take long for the ache in your chest to shift from sadness to something much more sinister- a blinding, hot rage that eats you up from the inside out, consuming every inch of your body until you have no choice but to succumb to its desire for anger about everything your mind can muster. 

Vision blurred from the sobs pouring down your cheeks and brain numb to any rational train of thought, your only release is to throw that godforsaken pregnancy test across the bathroom as hard as you can, with no regard for what stands in its way. 

It’s not until you hear the startling crash from across the room that you snap from your spell, realizing you’ve managed to break the clock hanging next to your bathroom vanity. 

Another reminder of something broken you can’t fix. 

Even with the clear wake of chaos you’ve left behind in the bathroom, it still isn’t enough to satisfy the all consuming pit sinking in your stomach, derailing you from any dash of common sense. 

All you want is to find a way to hurt a little less. 

Today is one of those days you’re thankful your neighbors come few and far between, secluded enough down the path of your lesser traveled dirt road that no one is peaking out their windows to watch you storm out of your house as the sun begins to rise, looking about just as insane as you feel- Chunks of messy hair fly out of your slept in braid as you storm out of the house, still barefooted and drowning in one of Javi’s t-shirts, newly christened with potent patches of where your tears seem to keep falling. 

You’re not really sure what your goal is once you’ve reached the end of the cement. The crazy part of your brain tells you to run as far as you can, and don’t look back. To let the gravel rip your bare feet to shreds until you can’t take it anymore. At least then, your pain will shift to somewhere else, somewhere other than the home its made, sinking in your chest. 

The crazier part of your brain tells you that lying down in the middle of the street  without any plans of getting up when a car passes by would hurt least of all. 

But your mind doesn’t have enough strength to do either. All it can do is focus on the tiny piles of endless rocks that line the road, some below you now wet and speckled a few shades darker from strangled sobs you keep choking out. 

You reach down to pick one up, rubbing the ridges and bumps over the callouses of your fingers before your fist engulfs it completely, squeezing it as tightly as you can, until the impulse strikes again. 

Throw. 

Throw these stupid fucking rocks as far as you can. 

The first few are powered by fury, leaving your grasp and disappearing into the tall grass across the road. 

It’s not until the third, that the weathered and worn down fragments in your hands stop being simple stones, and transform into every little thing that's chewed away at the person you once were before this all started. 

Every month of planning when their birthday would be. 

Every way you’d watch Javi’s reaction play out in your head when you found out. 

Every baby name you’d written down and stowed away, praying you’d finally get to use it. 

Every bib and onesie and tiny pair of socks you couldn’t wait to buy. 

Every conversation of hiding the utter heartbreak behind your forced smile when your friends asked when kids were coming, and having nothing to say. 

Every month of false hopes and crushing reality. 

Every day of wishing you weren’t stuck in a never ending cycle of heartbreak and disappointment, only to do it all again next month. 

You would have kept throwing until every rock in existence had made its way towards the sun softly peaking over the horizon. The only thing keeping you from doing just that was the familiar weight of a pair of broad arms suddenly wrapping around your body, freezing you in place. 

Your first instinct is to fight, to try and squirm your way out of Javi’s grasp, too angry with the world to be held still. 

“J-just let me go! Please, I can’t- I don’t, I don’t- Fuck!” 

You can barely stammer out a word as your body shakes with each sob, gasping for breath like a fish out of water as you tremble against his chest, soaking the cotton of his worn shirt beneath you. 

“I know. I know, baby. It’s okay. I’m right here. It’s okay.” 

Out of all the things that have left you feeling broken this morning, it’s the unmistakable twinge of agony that he tries to hide as it quivers in the back of his throat that hits the hardest. 

It sends your knees buckling, gravity pulling you down to the ground as you collapse in his arms, fistfulls of his shirt wrapped around your fingers the only things anchoring you in place while you continue to weep. 

“I don’t know- I- I- I- I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do anymore. I don’t wanna do this anymore. I hate this, Javi. I hate this.” 

“I- Fuck, I know, baby. I know.” 

You know just as well as him, that all there is to do is let you cry. Cry until you have no more tears left to give. You know as long as it takes, he’ll be there to hold you. 

You’re not sure how much time passes by until the crazed fog starts to fade, when your tears begin to slow and the reality of it all begins to kick back in- The soreness in your arm, the prickling cement beneath your bare feet, the crisp morning air tickling your legs. The reality that you’ve all but lost your mind at the end of the driveway before the sun has even risen. 

“I’m sorry.” You whimper, pathetically squeaking out the two words. 

“Honey,” Javi hushes, gently stroking your hair, trying to ease you back to him, “You have nothing to apologize for.” 

“Nothing?” You rebuttal, tears welling back in your eyes, “I just had a meltdown in the driveway at 7:00 A.M. I’m not pregnant, again. I can’t give you a baby. I’m a fucking mess, Javi. All I can do is apologize. It’s the only thing I feel like I can fucking do for you having to put up with me.” 

You can feel an impending wave of grief building to crash through you again, bracing your body for another blow, when Javi’s palm slides across your wet cheek with just enough force to brush away your tears and lift your gaze towards him. 

“Stop. Don’t- Baby, Don’t say that,” Not a command, but a plea. His brown eyes begging you with every fiber of their being to help you see past all the sadness you’ve let yourself drown in, “Don’t ever think that I’m putting up with you.” 

You wish you could believe him. You wish it were that simple. You wish that your brain wasn’t spending every waking moment warping and twisting your thoughts into believing you’d become a person your husband couldn’t stand. 

“I just- I feel so broken. All of this- it’s-  I’m turning into this person that I hate, and I don’t understand how you don’t hate me, too. I feel crazy, Javi. I feel fucking crazy.” 

Your eyes dart to the ground, gnawing on your bottom lip as your last line of defense to keep the lump in the back of your throat at bay, unable to stomach the thought of looking back at the disappointment you’re convinced is plastered across your husband’s face. 

“Hey, look at me.” A bit more stern than before, patiently waiting for your reluctant compliance as you let your eyes shift back to his, “I don’t hate you. You’re not crazy. Okay? Those things couldn’t be farther from the truth.” 

You clench your jaw amidst a shaky exhale, trying to form another thought without bursting into tears. 

“You promise?” 

“Of course, I promise. I swear.” 

The two of you stand in silence for a moment, the subtle warmth of the rising sun and the heat of each other’s bodies melded together enough to bring you a moment of comfort, a tiny shroud of light in the otherwise raging storm. You try with everything in you to hold onto the ray of hope, but it’s hard to not let it be shadowed by the dark clouds it's barely parting through. 

“What- What if it never happens for us?” 

Javi takes a deep breath, trying to inhale enough courage for the two of you. You know it’s a question that lingers in the back of his mind, an unrelenting thought that haunts him too, but there’s a kind of strength he carries for you both. You're not sure what you’d do without. 

“Then we cross that bridge when we come to it. But we’ll do whatever it takes to get there, first.” 

It’s the uncertainty that stings the most, that there is no guarantee he can provide, no matter what either of you do. All you can do is hold on to hope there’s a world where there’s no bridge at the end of the road to cross and the universe finally grants you the wish you’ve been waiting for. 

Even when it feels like there’s no hope left to hold on to, Javi finds a way to hold onto it tight enough for the both of you. 

“I love you.” He whispers, softly kissing your forehead and letting one hand slide across the side of your stomach, fingers barely digging into your soft flesh, a quiet promise that one day, where his palm rests will be a reason for joy. One day, the bitterness and anger over the emptiness that sits there now will be replaced by the love and life you’ve waited for. 

“I love you, too.” You murmur back, your hand finding its way to intertwine with his, squeezing his fingers with the reassurance that one day, all of this hurt will be worth it. 

One day can’t come fast enough. 

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You stutter, fidgeting with your fingers, “Last night, when- when I came to bed I told you about the news that I got, but you didn’t answer to me or anything, so I thought…” a deep breath, his eyes looking up at you, “I thought you were mad at me.” You mutter, words coming out like you’re spitting out rocks, hands even trembling because the flashbacks of the silent treatments you got in the past are too vivid right now.

He drops all his tools, hands smoothing on his denim shirt, his eyes lost as he looks at you, “Honey, I really didn’t hear you last night, I’m so sorry.” He gets up, but you instinctively take a step back. Frankie freezes in his tracks, stopping from doing any other step towards you. “It’s alright, it’s alright, I must have been already dead asleep, and I’m very sorry that I didn’t hear you at all.” He’s staying in the same spot, while you’re holding your breath, eyes already swelling with tears looking at him, vision going blur for the way you’re holding them back. You feel a single tear starting to leave the corner of your eye, quickly wiping it with your hand and holding your hand in a fist after, like you did something not allowed.

“So-”, you clear your throat for how awkward your voice is coming out right now, all chocked up by the tears. “So you weren’t mad at me, it- it wasn’t something I said.” And you don’t know if these words are coming out as a statement or as a desperate question. He has already answered but you’re so overwhelmed right now that anything will probably have to be repeated more than once for you to really grasp it.

“I wasn’t, babe, I wasn’t.” He holds his hand over his heart, and your stomach flutters, your heart sinking and rising at the same moment, breath itching. And those damn tears still giving you a blurred image of Frankie, standing right in front of you like a denim stain.

Frankie is puzzled when he sees you taking those steps back, your hands trembling and reaching for your forearms, hugging yourself after having already fidgeted with your fingers. And those little signs that your nails have left on your skin don’t go unnoticed to him. Half moon shaped signs, thanking at least that your nails are short and it doesn’t seem like a lot of damage, but still, he’s seeing you hurting yourself in front of him.

And it’s destroying him.

His heart shatters when he sees you trying to get far away from him, a horrible sensation lingering on his head, on his heart, a buzzing sound making his ears ring and his pulse being so fucking loud in his jugular.

The thought in his mind strikes like the worst lightning, “Somebody must have hurt her.”

He doesn’t dare to move anymore, he stays put, raising a bit his hands like showing defeat, and meaning no harm. But he can see your glossy eyes, how you’re wiping out the tears that you’re so desperately holding back with a gesture of the hand that looks both angry and ashamed. As if crying was something to be ashamed of, like something you’re not allowed to do.

His heart keeps breaking, as you’re holding onto the door frame, almost wanting to go get behind it.

“Honey, it is me, Frankie. You are safe here and no one is gonna hurt you.” His voice low and speaking so slowly to let you grasp every word. And yes, he keeps his tone low, sensing that maybe yelling was part of hurting you too. He has no idea about what is going on, he doesn’t have the full picture of that, so he will just guess, and guessing implies that he will take absolutely no risks, not on his watch.

He sees you shaking your head a little, a tear falling quickly from your eye, so quick that this time you cannot catch it and it ends on the floor, and given the silence even that has a sound.

Your look falls down, and that’s when he sees you falling to the ground too, slowly, still grabbing the door frame, until you’re sitting next to it, knees pulled to your chest, a sort of armour for you.

Frankie feels like if he’s gonna stand he’s gonna look too scary, so he mimics you, calmly sitting on the floor. He’s sitting cross legged away from you, searching for your look that has fallen to the ground, focusing on that tear on the floor.

“Babe,” his voice coming out so sweet, and once again so low, “It’s okay, you can cry if you need to and just know that you have done nothing wrong, everything is alright.”

He leaves out the whole news thing, not asking you that because right now he knows that there is something else he needs to ease.

And it’s like his words hit a switch in you, the tears starting dropping cruelly on your cheeks, a hand going to cover quickly your mouth as the first sob is coming up.

You suffocate it, wanting to choke on it rather than letting it out, or rather than daring to be loud while crying. It fucking hurts, your lungs asking for more air as you’re denying it to them, making your chest burn and your throat feeling blocked.

Your hand soon becomes wet in all the tears, feeling ashamed of that, now you’re giving a whole scene and that’s gonna worsen the situation, your mind yells at you, and it has the voice of all the people who yelled at you, so damn loud in your head.

Frankie can’t stand that, feeling powerless at the moment, and all he can do is haltingly making his way close to you, crawling to you. It’s just few steps and he goes so slow to catch any reaction from you. He stops when you raise your look on him, sitting then on his knees, hands gathered on his lap, looking as harmless as he can. As if he could ever land even just a finger on you. Just the thought of that repels him, would always make him sick the way a partner or literally anybody else could ever do something like that to their lover, their child, etc…

Your laboured breathing is getting worse and he can’t stand that again, he has to do something, but what? That hand is really making it harder for you to breathe, so he gently tends his own hand towards your wrist, wanting to reassure you and wanting to take it away from your lips, so that at least it will be a little easier to breathe.

But you notice that hand tending towards you and even that makes you snap your hand away from your lips, just to get it away from him, from being touched, a series of “no, no, no” having been muffled behind your palm.

Frankie raises his hands then, keeping them visible to you, “It’s alright, it’s alright, baby, I’m not gonna touch you, I’m not gonna do anything that you don’t want.”

That at least gets him a nod from you, arms hugging your knees, as the sobs keep coming, shattering the place like a glass chamber is coming down.

Frankie sits there, and it’s driving him crazy. Then he sees the little water bottle with the corner of his eye, and he reaches for it, making it roll on the floor carefully until it gets to your feet, your eyes having followed every single movement, both of Frankie and of the bottle.

It’s still a blur, but well, you’re sure that’s a bottle of water, and your look goes up at him, asking for his permission as you’re about to reach it.

“Yes, please, drink from it as much as you need.” He understands that he has to communicate that, even though it’s the obvious, but clearly it isn’t for you at the moment.

The bottle feels heavy in your hands, because whenever this wave of tears kicks off everything starts feeling heavier and your strengths are all gone. You manage to uncap it and you take some gulps from it, the water being cold against your burning throat and easing at least that pain. You breathe a little before drinking more, realising how much liquid you’re actually losing with all the tears, head almost spinning.

“That’s it, baby, that’s it.” The words of encouragement make you feel safe for a moment, as you put down the bottle half empty now. You clear your throat, that ends up in coughing, all the tears clogging up your breathing. That is how you drink just a little more sips, closing the bottle after and placing it between you two, hands still trembling though.

But your heartbeat has slowed down, and as you wipe your tears you can feel another thing hitting softly your feet, being a package of tissues. You take one from it, wiping your face and cleaning it from the tears, even though you know more will come up.

“Frankie, is it really you?” Your voice almost filled with surprise, and it shatters Frankie’s heart even more.

“Yes, angel, it’s me.” His hands still mid air, keeping them well visible to you.

And finally Frankie’s silhouette is taking shape in front of you, instead of those ghosts from the past, leaving place for Frankie’s deep brown eyes and that loving look that he has for you.

“Frankie, please…” and this time you’re the one tending your hand towards him, your body aching for that comfort you have denied yourself.

“I’m here, baby, I’m here.” He makes his way to you, until he can delicately and carefully wrap his arms around you. And he almost doesn’t even have the time to do that, since you’re falling on his chest, arms slouching messily around his waist and just cuddling on him. The shirt ends up held in your fists, grabbing it as the tears start coming up again.

“I’m- I’m so sorry Frankie, I’m so sorry, it’s on me and-“ your words are hard to leave your mouth, but he holds a hand behind your head, lulling you.

“Nothing to apologise for, honey, everything is alright, let everything out.” His voice sweet, as his thumb circles behind your head, the cruel tears wetting his denim shirt.

You almost jump in his arms for the violence of the sobs coming up again, him ready to hold you, to protect you from those in a way, “I know, baby, I know.”

Even though Frankie literally knows nothing about the cause that has made you crumble like this, but he knows how painful it is to relive any kind of flashbacks.

His other hand massages your back, and the comfort is almost overwhelming for you, your muscles relaxing but hurting at the same time for the way they have held back so much tension.

He presses a kiss on your forehead, which somehow is wet in tears too, but he doesn’t mind, he really doesn’t care either that the tears by this time have stained his shirt. He only cares about you.

You slouch more on him after that kiss, your eyes closed, soaking in that safety that his arms give you, the peace that his heartbeat is placing in you.

And your mind goes silent, the screams aren’t there anymore, only Frankie’s breathing and his heartbeat, nothing else. The hold around you is gentle, no one is tugging your arm while screaming at you, everything is quiet and you almost go numb against his chest, against that heart that beats for you.

“Breathe, honey, breathe.” The soft voice breaks the silence, and you gulp in some air, inhaling the precious air and getting in also his familiar perfume, the one that always feels like home.

You open your eyes when your breathing is being normal again and you move one hand from his waist until you can reach his jaw, fingers tracing his soft beard, taking in that feeling and staying present in the moment; Frankie just leans onto the touch, and he presses light kisses on your fingers, finally seeing a smile creeping on your lips.

He kisses your palm as you’re cupping his cheek, your skin feeling the soft beard, those heart shaped patches being there, just as you remember them.

“Everything is alright,” he repeats, as you lay your face on the crook between his shoulder and his neck, wetting that in tears too, “It’s just you and me, no one is gonna hurt you.”

You nod lightly, and you stay in that moment, enjoying all this love that gets delivered to you, limbs going numb because you don’t have to be in guarding mode anymore. The flashbacks are gone, all the voices and screams are gone too, all disappeared thanks to this man who loves you more than anything else.

Frankie holds you until you need to, until he feels you slightly moving and so he releases his arms, letting you free to do whatever you want to, which is just sitting in front of him, but this time closer than before.

He ponders on what he wants to ask you, so many questions making his ears ringing, making his throat closing too just at the idea of pronouncing them, afraid of hurting you more or even making you uncomfortable or scared.

“Feeling a little better?” He opts for a neutral question first, his eyes studying you and your tired face, after all the distress you have been through.

All he gets is another slight nod, and he knows that maybe you don’t even want to talk but he has to check on you, he needs to know more, to know if someone could ever hurt you right now, if someone has been hurting you recently.

“Babe, I’m still so sorry for not having heard you,” he starts, picking his words carefully, piloting the question like it was a difficult landing, “But, honey, I need to know if someone is hurting you, if you feel in danger or if you have felt in danger lately. You don’t owe me a response, I know,” he raises his hands, still keeping them mid air, “I just feel like there is something that has happened and that has hurt you deeply, and I want to understand more so that I can help you in all the ways I can.”

He has kept his voice reassuring, his tone still low, still like everything could shatter any minute. And even desperate, because there is just pure desperation to know what is really happening.

“I- I have never talked to you about this, but,” you utter, fidgeting with your fingers again, and Frankie knows that after he might need to medicate those little scratches you are still leaving on your skin, “I haven’t had a normal happy childhood, nor adolescence.”

And spitting out these words is hard, even harder than doing it in therapy.

But seeing Frankie’s sincere look, makes you want to continue, wanting to let him know what is happening.

“Whenever I would do something wrong, or something that they didn’t like, I would receive the so called silent treatment.”

And you have to stop, because remembering hurts a lot, Frankie slouching next to you and holding you again, your hand reaching on his arm, holding it desperately.

Frankie hates that he sensed the right thing, that his assumption was right, having wished so much that he was wrong.

You stay in his hug, continuing to talk, “They would ignore me, act like I didn’t exist, even if I was just a kid and I was crying, crying because I had no idea about what I had done wrong. I would still be ignored even if my crying was so bad that I couldn’t breathe anymore, saying it was just a show.” And some tears start falling again, this time not wiping them, just letting them go.

He places his chin over your head, that innate instinct to wanting to protect you, even if it’s too late, since he can’t protect that traumatised part of you, but he can do it with the present one.

“And I felt so bad, so guilty, thinking it was all my fault, that I was always wrong.”

You take a big breath before going on, “But when it wasn’t the silent treatment, it would be the screaming at me, taking my arms and holding them-” a sob escaping your lips, “Holding them, tugging them only to hurt me.”

And Frankie cannot hold the tears too, whispering “I’m so sorry, baby, I’m so damn sorry.”, before breaking into tears, holding you even more and trying to not let his sobs coming out because this is all about you.

“You didn’t deserve any of that, no one does, darling.” His words soft, “You had no fault and you have no fault today either, it was never your fault.”

And he fights the battle with the tears, feeling a wave of sadness that seems unbearable and he cannot even fathom how unbearable it must be for you, how it must have been living like that and how these things still haunt you now.

“It’s alright, baby, it’s alright.” His arms around you, those arms that will always remain your safe place, his right hand rubbing on your back so gently, as his hands could never hurt you, could never cause any pain to you.

“I’m so sorry-” you mumble from his denim shirt where you’re hiding your face, him shaking his head, because he can’t believe that you still feel like you have to apologise.

“Shh nothing to apologise for, you’re safe.” He whispers, placing a kiss on your cheek, feeling it still wet, as he brushes his thumb there, collecting the tears.

The embrace is what finally brings you home, together with Frankie’s soothing voice and when you want to get up he gives his hand to you, gently lifting you up, as you slouch against him, not wanting to leave his side for nothing else in the world.

-

“Alright let me see, we should have some disinfectant here.” He opens the cabinet of the bathroom, looking through the shelves until he finds the bottle that he needs, together with some gauzes to clean those little cuts.

You show your hands to him, biting you lip for the way they look right now, but he doesn’t flinch, he soaks the gauze in the liquid, stopping although before touching you.

“May I?” He asks, his hand mid air and you let out a little “yes”, and he takes your hand in his, looking at the scratches and starting to tap gently the gauze on them. It doesn’t burn, but still your hand trembles, him brushing his thumb over your knuckles.

He studies the other hand too, collecting a stain of blood on it, and cleaning a little cut, as you just trust him to do that. Frankie gets a band aid and he carefully place it on the hurt area, covering the cut and making sure that it’s sticking to the skin the right way.

“Alright, that’s it, all done.” He presses a kiss over your forehead, looking down at your hands and nodding quietly, as you take his hand in yours and you make your way to the bedroom.

It’s when you’re settling in bed, his arm under the pillow as he props himself up, that he speaks again, breaking the silence, “How are you feeling now, love?” He asks, hand rubbing over your back.

“I’m feeling better, Frankie, all thanks to you.” You utter and you reach him to give him a brief kiss, his arm going around your waist as you do so, your hand landing on his chest and feeling that heartbeat under your palm.

His nose brushes against your cheek, “Do you feel like telling me the news?” He checks in, his fingers tracing your eyebrows, seeing your look relaxing, a smile making its appearance on your lips, and you give him a nod.

“So,” you start, thumb brushing on his cheek, “Remember when the other day I was feeling very nauseous while we were in the car?”

And Frankie’s heart skips a beat because for sure the first thing that comes to his mind is just one…

He raises his eyebrows, “Babe, is that what I’m thinking?” His hand keeping on caressing your back, as he’s sitting up in bed, you mimicking him.

You tilt your head to one side and then the other, “If you’re thinking about something that can be positive then…” you take a big breath, “Then yes, Frankie, the test I took yesterday was positive.”

His hand goes covering his mouth, and only after you can see his big smile and the tears already creeping at the corners of his eyes, “Oh my god, darling, you’re-” and Frankie can’t even finish the phrase because he is so overwhelmed by the happiness rushing in his bloodstream.

“Yes, I’m pregnant.” Your voice breaking too a little, biting your lip.

“This the best news ever, angel, and-” he takes a breath, “I lost it last night because I was sleeping, oh my.” He passes his hand over his face, still in disbelief.

And that gets a little giggle out of you, “So you’re happy about that?” You check in, still not able to contain your smile, as finally the tears that right now you’re both shedding are because of happiness and not because of pain. The impossible and inexplicable turns that life takes.

"My love, I’m over the moon.” He gingerly says, wrapping his arms around you, before he kisses your lips and then places a kiss on your forehead.

“I’m just so sorry that you went through all of that between yesterday and today and-”

You kiss him again, hands going behind his neck and tangling your fingers in his curls, “It is alright now, Frankie, everything is alright.”

Your heart beats with joy seeing that big smile on his face, seeing that happiness making him shine like the brightest sun.

And for sure it has been a rough day, for sure the worst thoughts had flooded your mind, making your heart feel heavy; but everything is turning quiet now, all the screams are silent and all the bad thoughts are gone.

The only thing that remains is your other half of your soul standing in front of you, those happy tears marking his face, and you think you have found what you had been searching for your whole life.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

“No promises.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

“It’s my birthday today.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

Frankie: Thanks for making my birthday suck a little less

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

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

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

Frankie: Guess I’m better at darts than gratitude 

Your reply was quick and playful.

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

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

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You knock on Frankie’s door and then let yourself in, like you’ve been doing for a while now. Knocking is only a way of announcing your arrival.

“It’s me, guys !” you say nonetheless, peeling off your jacket in the entryway and peering into the living room.

The TV is on, playing whatever cartoon Cassie is currently obsessed with and she scrambles up from her seat at the coffee table, abandoning her games to come and hug you hello.

“Hey, Peanut Girl, how are you?”

She giggles at the title, well earned with how she devoured the snacks on the plane back from visiting your parents. Hers and Frankie’s and yours.

“I’m making bracelets with my new beads! You can make one, too, if you want, there’s tons of colors. Oh! I’ll show you my new book, it’s in my room.”

She’s already hurrying up the stairs, pausing in the middle, remembering something important.

“Papá’s not feeling very good today,” she explains, turning around. “He has a ja-hammer in his head, you know, when they do construction and it goes rat-tat-tat, rat-tat-tat, rat-tat-tat, so we have to use our inside voices.”

“Ah, gotcha.”

He’s indeed not looking that good, your boyfriend, from the corner where he’s hunkered down on the couch. Wrapped in a duvet, trying to give you a smile but it’s weak and his eyes are glassy and he sniffs, clears his throat, evades the kiss you want to gently give him. Shaking his head no is indeed torture.

“Don’t wanna get you sick too.”

He sounds congested as he says it. You kiss his forehead instead.

“You do feel a bit warmer than usual,” you wince, feeling it with the back of your hand, too, and Frankie leans into the soft touch, coughs almost in your face.

“Sorry.”

“You’re okay.”

“I can’t believe—I,” he heaves, “I can’t believe she’s the one who went around Colorado with no gloves, sometimes no hat and she would’ve gone without a jacket and I’m the one who got sick.”

“Life is unfair, Muffin. But I’m glad you told me.” You pet his hair and he makes the softest grunt in response. Before a shudder runs along his spine and he clutches the duvet closer. “What can I do? Do you want some more tea?”

There’s an empty mug by Cassie’s game. An array of paper tissues and a slob of honey sticking to the furniture. Frankie coughs again.

“That’d be nic—”

Cassie calls out your name from the top of the stairs, peering down at you both, no book in sight so far.

“Are you coming to the museum with us?”

“The museum?”

“Yes, Papá is taking me to the museum to see Big Jim, he’s a fossil!”

“Big John?”

“Yeah! I can’t wait!”

Then she dashes off again, for the book, not waiting for your answer, taking it for granted probably. You do love dinosaurs as much as she does and that is one fun exhibit to see.

“Fuck,” Frankie mutters, “the museum. I forgot about the museum.”

“I’m sure she’ll un—hey, what are you doing?”

He battles with the duvet, limbs tangled in it and the second one you discover hiding underneath it when he manages to get out of his cocoon.

“I promised we’d go. I’m not—I can do it, I’m not that—that—,” he sneezes, pain ringing in his skull and bright spots hide how skeptical you look, cocking your head at him, “—that sick.”

“You can barely stand, Frankie, I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“I’ll be fine. I’m gonna have a shower, that’ll make me feel better,” he nods to himself, doesn’t see you come closer as he tries to round the couch, “and then some of that tea and—”

He takes another couple of steps in the general direction of the staircase, but without the support of the couch to steady him, his legs too wobbly, his head spinning, he can’t get that far and you have to reach for him.

“Frankie. Sit back down. Don’t make me use my teacher voice.”

This time, when Frankie’s eyes shine, it’s with a hint of mischief and he smirks.

“Now, that’s a thou—” cut off by more wheezing and gasping and he all but collapses against you, losing his footing until you do help him back to the couch, sitting next to him as well, wrapping him back up in his layers of fluffy material.

“Let’s put a pin in that, shall we? You’re not going anywhere right now, Muffin.”

“M’okay.” He finally surrenders, lulled by the graze of your fingers on his temples and down his cheeks and his neck and he keens softly, closing his eyes and trying to focus on that feeling instead of the pounding headache behind his eyelids.

“Tell you what. I’m gonna make you some tea, bring you some medicine, painkillers, cough syrup maybe. You’ve got some upstairs, right?” He nods to confirm. “And then, I’ll take Cassie to the museum so you can rest. Here or in bed, your choice.”

“You don’t have to, we can go another time.”

Even if he’s aware, in between sharp breaths through his mouth, that his daughter will be disappointed for the rest of the day (if not the school break) and that’s the last thing he wants. But standing up is exhausting.

“I want to. It’s been a long time since I’ve visited Big John myself. It’ll be fun.”

“Thank you,” Frankie purrs in the crook of your neck when you guide him there, your fingers brushing sweaty locks of hair in the nape of his neck. He makes a very contented noise when you kiss the top of his head again. Before he coughs against your clothes. Once, twice, three times until all he can do is gasp.

“I can stay over tonight, too, if you’d like,” you whisper, so much rummaging coming from upstairs, you doubt you’ll see that book and you’re actually dreading seeing the state of Cassie’s bedroom. “If it makes things easier for you.”

“You said you were going to prep for school.”

“I can prep for school here, you have an internet connection as well. We’ll just swing by my place after the museum so I have everything I need.”

Frankie looks up from his cozy spot, everything a blur around him except for your concerned look and your kind smile. The warm lips to his temple.

“I love you, Frankie. I want to take care of you. You don’t have to do it all alone.”

He sniffles in your face, everything so heavy all of a sudden, his head and his body, that he has to lean against the armrest and the cushion there, hand grabbing around until he finds your fingers and holds them as tight as he can. Everything so heavy but also less scary, less stressful. To have someone else having his back. He loves you so much, too, and he doesn’t realize he’s been saying it out loud on a loop until you shush him quietly and then, blissfully, there’s no more cartoon sounds in the living room but only you and Cassie finally reading a story.

You stir in bed, shifting against soft bedding, nose brushing fabric that smells of sweat and warmth and fancy laundry detergent. Eyes still closed, your toes curl with happiness and you breathe in, smiling.

It’s early morning in the hotel room, you can tell by the relative darkness as you blink your eyes open, touches of dawn peeking through the tall windows and the curtains.

Where Frankie’s head should be on the pillow by your side, you’re met with his naked waist instead, from how he’s sitting up. Soft tummy that you can’t help but kiss gently and he jerks with surprise, a reflex. So deeply engrossed in his thoughts he hadn’t realized you were awake.

“’Morning, hermosa.”

He smiles down at you, squeaks adorably when you kiss him again, the hot spot by his hip. Everything else hidden by the sheet thrown over you both. You giggle against his skin before giving him a break. Frankie loves those sounds. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to how silly you are in the morning when there’s no rush. He hopes he never does.

“Good morning. Is something wrong with it?”

You point at the wedding band he’s taken off to study closer. The one you put on his finger the day before yesterday and it still feels a bit surreal, that your boyfriend is your husband now. That you have a handsome husband you get to yourself with no interruption for your short honeymoon. A husband that you get for the rest of your life.

The one whose waist is the perfect cushion to rest your cheek as you watch him slide the shiny band back on his hand. Frankie flexes his fingers a couple of times, mesmerized by it too. Mesmerized by the sleepy sight of you. His hand comes to rest against your back, grazing the edge of the sport bra you have to wear if you want to get a decent rest these days.

“Nothing wrong with it. It’s perfect. I was just—still can’t believe we did that.”

“We did.”

“You’re my wife.”

“I am.”

You hold your own hand up to admire, the matching band and your engagement ring and then you’re laughing to yourself again, giddy with happiness, hugging Frankie as tight as you can from your tangled embrace, burying your face in his body and breathing him in deeply.

Before you hoist yourself up to his actual level and groan at how your body refuses to wake up properly. You kiss his cheek.

“I love you, Muffin.”

“Love you too.”

“But we also did something else a few months back and now he’s pushing against my bladder so I gotta go pee.”

Frankie chortles, his throat dry from too much exertion last night. The recollections come to him with a sigh as he watches you hurry to the bathroom. Your beautiful face lying on the bed and your open arms urging him to join you. The sharp rise and fall of your chest and your hands buried in his hair. The ghost sensations of your lips everywhere on him made for some nice dreams and the sight of you now, coming back to him and the warmth of the bed, it makes his heart skip a beat.

“Wow.”

He’s staring at you in disbelief. Your disheveled appearance right after waking up, wearing nothing but that bra. Your hand rubbing the stretched skin of your stomach. Staring like he can’t quite believe you’re real. Can’t believe his luck. Before his face breaks into a giant grin again.

“You’re so beautiful,” he praises, helping you back in bed, tucking you the way you like it so that you can rest your cheek on his chest and listen to his heartbeat and his calm breaths. You drop a kiss on freckled skin right there and you hum at the strong press of his lips on your hair, then hot lips are on your forehead.

“I’m so lucky I’ve found you,” he mumbles, the words seeping straight to your veins. “I never thought I’d be lucky enough to find someone like you. I love you.”

“We’re lucky we’ve found each other. I’m never letting you go.”

You press another kiss to his chest to seal the deal, and you’re quiet for a moment, watching your own finger trace heart shapes on his stomach. Frankie watches you, too, squeezes your arm and it is foreign, the press of his wedding band against your bare skin. You never want to get used to it. It feels magical.

Then, his body rumbles under yours with his quiet laughter, he’s grinning when you look up.

“Are we reading our vows again?”

Memories of the ceremony come back to you like they must have come back to him, misty eyes and the wind and the flowers and all the faces of the people you loved and Frankie’s hand strong in yours. All that you said to each other and yet not enough. Not enough words in the world to tell each other how you felt then, how you’ve been feeling for so long. All the time in the world to show each other instead.

“Now, that’s an idea, baby.”

You yawn, close your eyes, ready to sleep in some more. Lulled by Frankie’s fingertips and how they’ve been grazing your stomach, the edge of your bra. Right where your skin flutters with your son’s movements inside of you, close to his dad.

You wave at Frankie and Cassie from the armchair by the living room window before going back to cradle your son’s little face and the very little but oh so very soft hair on his head as he nurses. Cassie tries to wave back when she notices you, and promptly drops the bag she’s been carrying. Content spills all over the driveway and you have to stifle a laugh at how Frankie shakes his head behind her, his own arms way too full to help her right away.

So it takes some time for them to join you inside but once they do, Cassie is sporting a face-splitting grin that stretches the wonderful butterfly make-up adorning her entire face.

“Hey, guys, how are you? How was it?”

“It was so much fun!” she stresses, bouncing a bit, dropping what you suppose are gifts she got on the coffee table before she huddles close to you and her brother, always curious about him. Invested.

“Oh, I’m so glad, you look beautiful, sweetheart.”

She giggles and nods at the compliment.

“I almost chose the tiger but there wasn’t enough blue and I like blue.”

“I know you do. You’ll have to tell me everything!”

With your due date being so close to Cassie’s birthday there was never any doubt that it wouldn’t be feasible to host your daughter’s 9th birthday party at your house. Not with a newborn who’d be barely a month old. You did only give birth three weeks ago, constant reminders shooting through your body all the time and you wince a bit at how your sore your nipples feel right now.

But it was no reason for her not to have a birthday party at all so she was given the choice of Chuck’E’Cheese with a couple of friends or a bigger party at the park where tables and space and games were already available for free. You’d given her a couple of days to think it through when you’d sat her down to tell her but she’d made her choice in a couple of hours. The park it was. With her dad.

“But I have a question first. Why isn’t Papá fully made-up too?” you tease, a glint in your eyes as he strides to you three.

Frankie can’t hide his grin as he drops a kiss to your forehead, so gently. Even more gently when he bends further down to give one to your son before he plops down in a chair by your side with a heavy sigh. Children birthday parties are exhausting.

“Because, everyone wanted to see photos of Mateo.”

“I bet. He’s really cute.”

“He is. And then there was cake to be cut and—”

“It had palm trees on it and also crabs and a star fish and a treasure chest!”

“Oh my.”

“Yes, Papá has pictures, he can show you. I had a crab on my piece, it tasted like strawberries.”

“We’ve saved you a piece too,” Frankie mentions and you can’t help how your face lights up at the news. You did have time to eat lunch yourself, in between naps and changing diapers and resting your eyes just for a second, but you’ve been ravenous lately.

“You did? Thank you, Muffin. It sounds delicious but I’ll have to have it later, my hands are pretty full right now.”

You look down to find Mateo staring up at you, lips puckered and it hits you every time, that wave of love that threatens to overwhelm you. You wouldn’t mind.

“You can have it now if you’d like. Gimme me a sec.” He brushes his lips to your temple once more, how much he’s missed you both even though his own hands were pretty full too, before he stands up with a groan, hands his unlocked phone to Cassie. Even if she could have unlocked it herself. It’s been the same combination forever. “Here, Cass, show Mom the pics.”

She does, running a very complete if not out-of-order summary of her afternoon. Listing all the friends who came, all the drinks they had, who won the games, who fell during their race, the gifts she got, especially the tickets to the cinema that she can’t wait to use.

And then Frankie is back with your piece of cake on a plate, half of a star fish and some of Cassie’s name in frosting you suppose. A fork, too, so he can feed you pieces of it himself. You deserve it. You must be starving and exhausted too.

“There you go, Mama. Enjoy.”

You shake your head with a smile at how he’s forever surprising you. So attentive and loving and you do miss some of what your daughter tells you, too focused on the divine taste of the buttercream. The fluffiness of the sponge and the sugar rush of the frosting. That bakery better never go out of business.

You can’t even help the pleased sound that you make as it all melts on your tongue and you’re eagerly asking for a second bite before you’ve even swallowed it down.

“Good?” Frankie asks, already knowing the answer and you nod happily.

“Very. Thanks.”

“Of course, hermosa. Open wide now.”

You laugh out loud, but still do as he says, his lips stealing some of the crumbs on the corner of your mouth as you chew. Frankie stays there for a second longer than necessary, the sounds of Mateo being done eating close to his heart, which means this is a stolen moment coming to an end.

Right before you’re both being chastised by Cassie for not listening and he feels you smile against him. Give him another quick peck before you focus on your children again. And your cake.

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Big John isn't made up, you can totally go see him in Tampa!

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For a split second Joel wonders if the kid at Blockbuster pulled a prank on him by swapping out the tapes. But, no - it must have been an accident with these unmarked VHS boxes. His instinct is to reach for the remote so he can turn off the movie and put in one of the other tapes. But his mouth goes dry as he watches Young Guy slowly lick the older man’s cock, the camera lingering on every detail. 

Base to tip, his tongue tracing the thick vein on that large dick, and oh - Joel bites his lip hard when he notices the man is uncut. Just like him. Thick but trimmed pubes, yet another thing he hardly ever sees in porn. Maybe it’s the novelty of that, or that it’s been a very long time that he’s seen someone’s mouth on a cock that - minus the length - reminds him of his own. But when he sees the younger guy greedily suck on the fat dick head, drops of saliva sloppily sliding down the length, he feels himself twitch unmistakingly in his boxers. 

By the time that cock is buried into the guy’s throat, Joel’s hand is on his sweats, stroking himself through the soft fabric - his heart racing a hundred miles an hour, as if someone could suddenly catch him in the act and ask him what the hell he was doing.

What is it exactly that he is doing?

It’s fine. 

This is fine, he tries to tell himself. He’s just… wound up. 

It’s been too long since he’s dated anyone, or even had a one night stand. The last time was with that pretty woman who kept flirting with him at Sarah’s school. After they hooked up, she told him that ‘technically’ she was still married, but she was no longer attracted to her husband - which was a level of drama he didn’t want to get into, especially not since their kids were in the same class. It had been over a year ago, maybe two at this point, as there was hardly any time to breathe between work and raising Sarah, and all the never ending chores.  

He just needs to get off. Really, really badly. 

That’s all. 

Rub one out quickly because he’s too tired to get up and change the tape. 

That’s all this is.

“Goddamnit.” He didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath while staring at the tv, but when Young Guy cups Boss Guy’s balls in his hand, the air just whooshes out of Joel’s lungs with an embarrassingly loud sound. Both actors moan, and Joel’s breathing gets heavier when he sees Young Guy’s mouth travelling south, back down the throbbing length. Fuck. Is he gonna…

He watches the kneeling guy lick those heavy balls, teasingly and messily. He sucks one into his mouth, then tries to fit the rest of the ballsack into his mouth - and somehow, that is the thing that just fuckin’ breaks Joel and chases the last bit of hesitation out of his head. 

He pushes his sweats down quickly, cock hard and leaking against his stomach as he leans over to grab some lotion to help him out. The cool creaminess makes him hiss for a moment as it touches his hot skin, but as he generously spreads it over his dick, everything immediately feels so, so much better now that he’s giving into it. 

The tight fit of his hand around his cock is both relief and torture, and he roughly strokes himself up and down, matching the pace he’s seeing on the television. It has only been a few minutes, but he is achingly hard already, more turned on by porn than he has been in a long, long time. 

He gasps when the guy on the screen teases the other man’s foreskin, clearly riling him up and then backing off again - until he seems to have pushed him too far.

With a growl, Boss Guy grabs the younger man by his hair and tugs him up to his feet. But before Joel can be disappointed about the interrupted blowjob, the camera angle switches and shows Younger Guy being shoved back against the wall. Leaving no doubt about who is in charge, Boss Guy’s large hand is immediately wrapped around the base of the slighter man’s throat - not choking him, but nevertheless a clear display of dominance that makes shivers run down Joel’s spine. 

Young Guy whines as he stares back at the older man. His chest is heaving as he fumbles to undo his own jeans; not just pulling his cock out, but shoving his pants all the way down. 

“Please. Fuck my ass.” 

They’re the first words said during the movie that actually register with Joel, and his cock once again responds with resounding affirmation. On the tv, the guy is roughly being put on all fours, and then Boss Guy is on him like a starved man. Strong hands kneading his ass, spreading him wide to admire his hole - and when the Young Guy whines again, it’s because there’s a tongue up his ass and a hand firmly wrapped around his cock, starting to jerk him off.

“Jesus.” Joel’s breathing stutters as he’s enraptured by the view, his hips bucking up as his mind is reeling - hell, even imagining it. How it would feel to be pushed down like that and have someone eat his ass like that. Tongue, lips, fingers… He bites his lip hard as he watches a thick finger slip into the guy’s ass, making Younger Guy moan loudly, and all of a sudden Joel is mentally transported back to a holiday fling he’d had in his twenties. 

She - he couldn’t remember her name - was a lot more forward than he was used to. Barely an hour after she had made the first move at him in a bar, they were fucking at her apartment. She’d slipped the tip of her finger into his ass, right when he was about to come down her throat, making him orgasm so hard that he thought he was going to black out for a moment. It had been exhilarating, the shock of the sudden surprise lessened by the amount of alcohol he had consumed - and it had never happened again afterwards. He probably hadn’t even thought about it anymore… 

…until now. 

Until he watched the guy on the screen arch his back, drunk on pleasure as Boss Guy continues to eat him out and open him up. How Younger Guy grabs his own dick, starting to jerk himself off as he surrenders to how the other man handles him, getting him ready to get fucked. 

Joel’s breathing is heavy, hips thrusting up as he fucks his fist hard, unable to stop the thoughts that are suddenly embedded in his mind. Which one of the two guys did he wish he could be? The one getting the rimjob of a lifetime, or the older, broader guy who held him down and was about to take him?

He curses as the fantasy slams him over the edge much faster than he expected, and with a loud groan he spills his seed all over his hand and sweatpants, barely avoiding the couch. His heart races as he can’t tear his eyes away from the screen, seeing Boss Guy make the Young Guy cry out with his fingers buried into him - and suddenly it’s too much, all of it, right there. 

He fumbles for the remote and turns off the tv, his hand suddenly trembling. As post-nut clarity sinks in, he feels a wave of anxiety wash over him that he hasn’t experienced before. It crawls through his chest, flowing his throat and brain, shoving aside the euphoria of his orgasm. Scoffing at him about what he just did - about what got him so fucking turned on. The nerve wrecking doubt of whether he should report it’s the wrong tape when returning the VHS, or… not.

‘Just play dumb’, that little voice at the back of his brain whispers. ‘Do you really want to have a conversation with the rental guy about how you just got off to gay porn?’ 

He drains the rest of his bottle of beer, trying to shake the thoughts out of his head. But they only grow louder, questioning him (‘You hit your mid thirties and suddenly you’re into dick? Are you having an early midlife crisis?’ ), reminding him of all the times in an average week he hears gay slurs all around him. Mr. Adler’s vocal dislike “of those city boys”. Tommy’s asshole friend at the hardware store - shit, Tommy. What the hell would his brother think of him if he knew what he just jerked off to?

Another beer later, still trying to suppress the panic in his brain, he finds himself staring at Tess’ phone number. It’s been a long time since they last hooked up, especially since she’d been pretty seriously involved with someone for a while. But that relationship had recently ended - plus, in addition to living pretty close to him, she is one of the few people he knows who wouldn’t mind a last minute thing on a Friday night.

He sighs as he hits the dial button, his skin crawling when he looks over at the stacked VHS tapes on his coffee table. Sure, he doesn’t have to call her - but the other option is to just sit here and probably get more anxious about the whole thing. He just had to shake it off, spend some time with her, even if it’s just to reassure himself that *that* is what he is actually into.

“Hey, it’s Joel,” he says, eyes still closed and his head tipped back against the couch. “Yeah, all ‘s fine. What are you doing right now?” 

Her laugh, always somewhere between cheerful and mocking, sounds so good to him right now. As he suggests where to meet up, he can’t help but think back of the last time they fucked - it was also a weekend that Sarah wasn’t home, except for that time Tess had ended up at his doorstep. And in his bed, for most of those two days. He almost didn’t go into work that Monday, physically worn out, but god - it had been good.

This will be good, too. Drinks, then her place. No VHS tapes to think about or questions to ask himself.

 —-------

Somehow, less than two hours later, he’s right back on his doorstep again. 

The beer was good. Tess had been more than fine - that perfume he always likes on her had been calling his name, whispering all kinds of promises. Reminding him this was basically a done deal. It felt good when her hand moved to rest on his thigh after the second drink, her eyes much too observant as always, reading him like a book. “My place?” 

Plain, simple, uncomplicated and direct; Tess all the way. Exactly what he wanted. They made out in the parking lot, pressed against his truck, and when Tess had grabbed his hand and guided it into her underwear, he had lost all sense of restraint. 

Joel ate her out rough and fast on the backseat, groaning against her pussy when she came by his tongue alone. Once they made it to her place, they fucked in the bedroom, and it was good - but it wasn’t… the same as usual. 

Even when he was buried deep inside of her, that goddamn video was on his mind. How Boss Guy had been preparing the Young Guy to get fucked, opening him up with his fingers and mouth. And, Jesus Christ, he’d blown his load right into Tess before he even realized it. First time since he was a teenager that he had fucked up so badly. He’d been too embarrassed to stick around, even though she didn’t make a big deal out of it, and that’s how he found himself home again.

Shower, then bed, he decides - especially when his watch signaled that it was close to midnight already. He scrubs his skin hard in frustration with his body wash, leaving the shower on too hot for too long just to get distracted, but once he lays down in his cool bed, he finally feels more balanced. Ready for sleep.

Even after twenty minutes. Thirty.

He’s not sure what time it is when he goes back downstairs. 

The video tape is still in the VHS player, almost taunting him. As if it knows Joel better than he knows himself. 

“Just five minutes,” he tells himself as he settles in on the couch, turning the tv on and hitting play on the VCR remote again. 

Maybe ten at the most. 

Just to see if they do fuck.

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dividers by @saradika!

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Frankie doesn’t believe anyone has heard him come back home from work. Not with the chatter coming from the kitchen, the laughter and the baby squeals. So he closes the door that connects to the garage just a tiny bit louder than usual.

“I’m home!”

“Don’t come in the kitchen!” Cassie gasps, in a flurry to stand in the doorway and effectively bar him entrance.

“What’s going on?” he asks playfully, making a grand show of trying to peek but not trying very hard either. He’s caught wisps of secretive whispers between you and your daughter these past few days, so even though he doesn’t know the specifics, he knows something is happening for his birthday.

“It’s a surprise!”

Of the baking sort he supposes, given the apron she’s wearing, the streak of yellow frosting in her hair, locks everywhere but in her scrunchy, and the specks of flour on her cheek.

There’s some in your neck, too, as you appear behind her. Tired eyes that still smile and a babbling, wiggling baby in your arms.

“Hey, hermosa. What are you guys up to?”

“She told you. A surprise for your birthday.” You wink, hand him your son who goes happily and already grabs a handful of his jacket to anchor himself to his dad. Mateo smells of sugar and exotic fruit when Frankie gives him a kiss. “It’s almost done, though. You’ll see soon. Why don’t you go relax outside for now?”

“Now, that’s a proper birthday gift,” he jokes, dodges the hand you try to swat him with. You’re not quick enough to dodge the quick press of his lips to your sweaty cheek. Not that you’d want to. “All right, big guy, let’s go play outside for a while. Maybe you can tell me what’s going on? What’s my surprise? I promise I won’t tell.”

It’s only more enthusiastic squeals that answer him, not that Frankie expects more from a six-months old, how ever talkative your son is. Always eager to take part in conversations happening around him.

About the swing or the butterflies in the backyard Frankie shows him from the cozy armchair he settles in, pointing things out, wiping drool and trying to evade grabby hands. Big round curious eyes stare at him as he narrates what he sees and that toothless grin which makes Frankie’s heart sing.

So blessed. So at peace with his family.

“We’re done!” Cassie exclaims after a while. “Close your eyes!”

“All right! Here we go!”

“Don’t you want him to see you with it?” you whisper and she considers it, glances down at the cake she’s carefully holding with two hands.

“Don’t close your eyes!”

“Got it!” Frankie chuckles, sits up straight and he’s glad his eyes are open because it’s a sight.

His daughter walking outside, watching her steps, carrying the most gorgeous birthday cake to him. You follow close with the plates and the cutlery, ready to help but she doesn’t need it.

Cassie is glowing with pride when she sets the plate in front of her dad for him to admire. There’s a face-splitting smile illuminating the porch, one that you match, watching how dumbfounded your husband look.

“Happy birthday, Papá!”

“Oh….wow, you guys...Cass, did you make that?”

“We did!” She bounces a bit on the soles of her feet. “I made the letters and the pineapples here and here!”

She points to the clustered frosting, the green and the yellow, the fruit that they represent. The letters are crooked and there’s a proportion problem, the first ones ginormous and day piped really small, but it simply ties it all together.

Frankie is stunned.

“This is incredible. Just look at th—”

He leans closer still to inspect it more. Too close. When he points to one particular design, he’s not fast enough to stop a curious baby from doing the same. With much less restraint. Both of Mateo’s chubby hands collide with the top of the cake. They dig straight into it with his little momentum and Cassie gasps in shock and horror.

“No!”

“Hey, hey, no, Mat, no…,” Frankie tries to make him stop but it seems like a delightful new experience and your son goes back for seconds.

“No! Stop!” Cassie pushes his hands away. Once, twice when it doesn’t work, getting more frustrated each time. So does her brother when Frankie stands up to put the cake out of his reach and away from his new game.

There’s gooey yellow filling everywhere on Mateo, white frosting almost all he way to his elbows and then some on Frankie’s chin and beard when the baby flails and pushes against his dad.

It’s all happened so quickly, you’re still frozen where you stand, surveying what seems like a disaster now.

Mateo is wailing, Cassie’s shaking, staring at what’s left of the cake that seems to have exploded all over the table.

“Here, I’ll take him,” you decide, setting everything on the table and opening your arms to collect your son. “I’ll get him cleaned up. Come with Mama, baby boy.”

That in itself is a struggle, to hand him to you, to listen to his angry, frustrated tears back in the house, that your soft voice doesn’t seem to calm at all.

There are tears on the verge of spilling closer to Frankie as well, as he stands by his daughter.

“Hey, Cass—”

“It’s ruined!” she blurts out, lip quivering, voice wobbling. She balls her fists. “It was perfect and now it’s—it’s ruined!”

She furiously wipes at her cheeks and she even shrugs the hand Frankie lays on her shoulder to comfort her. She refuses to look at him, fingers twitching, unable to decide what to do next to fix it all.

So Frankie sits back down instead. Lets her breathe a little bit better before he tries to speak to her again.

“Did you make it all?”

She nods, sniffles.

“The cake too?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, wow. Thank you.”

“Because you like pineapple on everything.”

“I do. Thank you. It must have taken you and Mom a long time to make all of this.”

She nods again. The entire afternoon since she’s come back from school and there were so many delays because of her brother and now this. She hiccups and tries to stop the crying. But it’s overwhelming.

“I wanted it to be perfect for you and now—now it’s ugly and—”

“Hey, sweetie, hey, listen to me. C’me here?” He opens his arms and this time she does come, burrowing in the comforting hug and crying on his tee-shirt while he rubs her back. “I understand why you’re upset, I’d be too. But you know what? You put so much love and care into it and that’s what matters to me. I saw how beautiful it was, still is, you know, because you made it with love. It’s not ugly.”

She doesn’t react, still staring at the mess of crumbs, filling dripping from the edge of the table now. It’s a disaster and she was so careful making sure everything was just right earlier. All of that for nothing.

“Maybe...maybe we can fix some of it?” Frankie ventures and this time she shrugs.

“He’ll just ruin it again,” she mumbles.

“We’ll be more careful when Mom and him come back, I promise. How about you tell me what to do? You’re the expert baker here.”

He grabs the closest knife and it does make her smile a bit, his praise. It’s impossible to restore the cake to its past grandeur, everything is uneven now, the edge where your son dug in collapsing on itself but at least somehow, Frankie manages to scoop all the filling inside and to cover it with a pile of crumbs that Cassie attempts to smoothe with what’s left of frosting. They have to use some of the colored frosting as well, only salvaging half a pineapple and Cassie sighs when she realizes it. The different shades on the side and the empty spot that now looks like a crevasse right below the only remaining P and A of Frankie’s title.

“Cass…,” he glances carefully at her, how she’s not crying anymore but definitely looks dejected still, “you know your brother didn’t do it on purpose, right?”

She sighs again. Louder. Deeper.

“I know. He’s a baby.”

“That’s right and—”

“I’m still angry with him.”

“I understand but—”

“We had to stop all the time in the kitchen because of him and I didn’t wrap your present and—”

“You got me a present?”

“Yeah?”

“Another one than that cake?”

“Yeah.”

“Cass. C’me here.” He goes for a second hug, pressing her close to him, dropping a kiss to her hair. “I’m so grateful you’re my incredible, caring daughter, warrior. I love you. You’re amazing.” Another kiss and a squeeze to her shoulder. “But yeah, it’s not easy every day, being a big sister, uh?”

She shakes her head. She loves being a big sister and playing with the baby but right now, not so much.

“I get you. But you know what? It gave us a chance to do some cake decorating together and I’m thankful for it.”

She gives him a weird look, because that’s not decorating at all, it’s like patching the holes and doing a poor job of it, much like the holes in the roads that create more bumps than anything, that’s what her dad complains about all the time.

“There’s some frosting left if we’d like to try and—oh you’ve done it!” You re-appear with a clean baby and a new shirt on his back, a bowl in your other hand, only to find out it’s not needed at all. “Well, look at that! Good job. It looks good as new!”

“That’s not true. There’s only one pineapple,” Cassie grumbles.

“Why don’t you show me how to make a new one with what Mom just brought us?”

“Okay…,” she considers it. “But he stays away.”

So it means you, too, but it’s probably for the best, to avoid another potential catastrophe. It was a handful enough, wiping his arms and his hands, stopping him from burying his fingers in the yellow frosting you brought outside.

It means that the pineapple Frankie makes is only of one color but Cassie is so dedicated in her instructions, a bit snappy, bossy, that she soon forgets she was upset, seeing the cake come back to what it used to look like. With the candles as a finishing touch, that she sets up herself, it does look almost as good as new. If only she could light them up, but that’s still forbidden.

The pictures you take of them both, of your husband lighting his own candles and asking your daughter if she’d like to help him blow them, they’re fuzzy, seeing that it’s impossible to keep your son still in your arms. It doesn’t matter.

What matters is how adamant Cassie is that no, those are her dad’s candles and he needs to blow them by himself because it’s his wish, he has to make a wish, and the best pictures of the afternoon are the last ones you take.

Frankie blowing out his candles, Cassie watching him do it.

Frankie smiling at you, frosting still on his face.

Frankie pressing his face to your shoulder when you join them to try and take a selfie of the four of you with the cake. Which is impossible. The angle is too hard to get and you don’t want to risk another diplomatic incident. So it’s just a photo of the four of you, one chubby hand pushing against your cheek and Cassie giggling at your weird face on the phone screen. Frankie laughing at how you huff.

So blessed with how imperfect everything at home. So imperfect that it makes it blissfully marvelous.

And even if the cake looks not quite like what Cassie had envisioned, it tastes delicious and she eats so much of it, she’s not hungry at all for dinner later on. Neither are you or Frankie and you all ride a nice sugar rush for the entire evening.

Thank you to @firefly-graphics and @saradika-graphics for the amazing dividers!!

If you enjoyed this story, don't hesitate to tell me!!

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You look up from your book, drawn back from your far away to the sound of his voice. Dieter is looking at you expectantly.

Your eyes widen as you process the four words that just left his mouth.

"Dee, we…why would we…" You trail off, drawing your legs up and out of his lap, his thumb presses down on the arch of your foot once more before he lets it go.

The conversation had moved on hours ago. Over takeout you'd mentioned trepidation over being able to stay in the country, struggling with your visa and having no sponsorship since you couldn't seem to get a fucking job right now.

Dieter had listened, sympathised, and then eaten you out for dessert just to make you feel better about your situation.

It helped. He'd been pretty mediocre but extremely enthusiastic when you'd met, but now you'd taught him some tricks he knew just how to turn your mind off for a moment.

The conversation was finished the moment he put his mouth on you, or so you thought. He could help you pay for an extension but he wasn't influential or wealthy enough to sway the embassy into letting you stay longer.

"I'd bribe the fuck out of them if I could, you know that"

You did know that. You knew he'd do anything for you. He'd been saying it since the day he met you, once famous (more like infamous) movie star turned rehabilitated recluse with no one willing to be by his side until that day.

He'd met you in a Dennys, of all places. 3am waffles served to his lonely little corner booth because he found it hard to sleep these days, and he got hungry at random times. You took the late shifts because they paid the best, and you could be available in the day for calls from your agent that never came.

It hadn't been sexual at first. It hadn't been anything but a displaced, alone man and an exhausted, untethered waitress sitting in a booth and sharing free fries because chef made too many and they'd only go to waste. It had been whispered giggles, and sharing ridiculous Hollywood horror stories, and 'same time tomorrow' over and over again.

No one in LA had made you laugh. Not until you met him.

Dieter hadn't heard genuine laughter in years. Now he got to hear it every night.

Back in the now, you shake your head. He's being silly. He's trying to make you laugh again.

"Don't be stupid" You playfully shove his shoulder with your foot, but his face falls into a frown, and you feel a little crack in your heart at the sight. You watch as he stands, rubbing fingers across his forearm and muttering a little 'Stupid, yeah'. The tremor you feel inside you is nameless, and you will it to remain that way.

In the last six months of your knowing each other, there have been times when you've felt this same feeling. An ache at the thought that he could be anything other than happy. You'd long since left Dennys for the upward trajectory of the Cheesecake Factory but still when the late shift rolls around you feel a tug at your lips and a name on them, even when you'd seen him only hours before.

You're not an item, that's the thing. You're not a couple. Neither of you have ever said the words outright, no 'I want to be with you', 'I want to be yours'. Not to each other, at least.

It's more than enough. Having what you have with him now. It's enough, it's enough, it's enough. Enough that he will sit up all night long and read lines with you again and again and again. Enough that he tells you not to come over on his bad days but you do anyway, and hold him while he cries.

It's enough to be just this. Because more would only make it hurt more when he relapses, when you have to leave.

When you have to leave…

You close your book, set it down on the table that's strewn with pages for your latest audition. Last night he'd coached you through every single line, and then told you with passion just how perfect you were. You can hear him in the kitchen, and you know he's making himself a decaf latte with way too much caramel syrup and a dash of the kitkat sprinkles because that's what he always makes when he might be starting to crave something else.

That's how you know he wasn't making a joke. That's how you know your hurt his feelings. That and every look he's ever given you, every smile that lights up his eyes that's only been for you. That and the way his hands never stray far from you, always grounding himself with the touch of your skin to his.

"Dee…" You pad up to him slowly, watch as he tenses at your presence. Another prickle in your chest, you can't let him think you don't feel...what it is that you feel.

"Would it be so bad?" He asks without turning, the tinge of dejection in his tone making you reach out. "I'd treat you good, you know. We wouldn't even have to live together or anything…it can just be a way for you to stay. That's all. I didn't think it would be so bad for you"

God, you've had him right in your grasp this whole time. The two of you dancing around your feelings all because of fears you didn't even fully realise you had til now.

"I'd- I wouldn't even tell anyone you were my wife, if you didn't want me to. I wouldn't expect anything from it. I just…fuck,"

You turn him around with a pull to his arm, shake your head and bite back something hopeful and beautiful that inches up your throat,

"I don't want you to go"

Your arms are around his middle, a stifled sob as you bury your face against the soft, worn fabric of his favourite t-shirt - your favourite by extension because everything he loves you love too. He smells like him.

You breathe him in.

He smells like home.

You look up at him and smile. Not the pretty smile you give to casting agents - the one that makes you look perfect - but the big, happy, loving one he saw the very first night you two met in that Dennys at three in the morning on a random Tuesday. The one he gives you back is the same; he's smiled a thousand times on camera, in films and press appearances and award shows. No one else but you has ever seen this smile.

You take a deep breath. The crack in your heart starts in fusing back together.

"We could get married"

It takes him a few months. You’re still sort of getting to know each other, but it feels deeper than that. You could both tell, right away, that there was something pulling you together.

A string, tied to your wrist, that led to his. Every moment of your life, as terrible as it had been, leading you here.

To safety. And you know Joel is safe. There are some men who hurt women, and some men who don’t. You know what kind Joel is. Even after everything he’s done. You know.

He brings it up, eventually. It’s late spring, the air is getting so warm now, you can wear shorts instead of jeans and don’t need your woolen hat and mittens every time you walk the streets of Jackson Hole.

The air smells sweet, and the weeds and flowers are blooming.

In the early evening, you and Joel sit on his porch, rocking gently back and forth in companionable silence.

He reaches to the table between you. He’s only reaching for his drink, but he does it a little too quickly.

You flinch. It’s so small. Barely perceptible, but his hand freezes.

“You do that sometimes,” he says after a long, tense pause. His voice is deep, and serious.

“Do what?” you ask, avoiding his eyes.

“Someone reaches for you, or near you, and you act like…”

Finally, you turn to him, your eyes narrowed. “A hit dog.”

All the breath leaves your lungs in a quick, painful exhale.

“Well, that’s quite a way to put it.”

He has the good sense to look ashamed of himself, but he doesn’t look away or back down.

“Is that it? Someone used to hit you?” There’s a hint of a challenge in his voice, but you know it’s not meant for you.

“Yeah. Someone used to hit me.”

Joel doesn’t pry. He sits back in his chair, eyes still on you, his expression wary. The air between you is tense for the first time, and your palms feel clammy.

It’s long minutes before you finally speak, but you can’t look at Joel while you say it. “In the QZ, I… was with this guy. Militia guy. Thought it would keep me safe, it was tough in there. You know. But, he liked to hit women. I was just a target for him. We were together a year. He…” You squeeze your eyes shut, your hands balling into tight fists. “He broke my arm twice, among other things. Until I left. Found my way here.”

It’s quiet again. You can’t say anymore, don’t want to go into details about the things he did to you, the things he forced on you. You’re not sure you’ll ever speak them out loud. It feels scary, but kind of good, to tell Joel a little about it.

“Where is he now?” Joel asks finally.

A sardonic laugh leaves you. “Dead. That’s why I left.”

You dare to look at Joel. He’s tense all over, his brow furrowed, gripping the edges of his chair so hard you fear it’ll splinter.

“You killed him?”

You clasp your shaking fingers in your lap. You can still hear the gunshot, feel that fear and desperation. It was forever ago, but it was yesterday.

“He was gonna kill me.”

Joel’s chair creaks as he rises from it. Your chest sinks as you think at first that he’s leaving, disgusted with you.

Instead, he kneels in front of you, between your knees, and pulls your hands into his. He doesn’t seem to care that they’re sweaty and shaking.

“Good. I’m proud of you for it.”

You haven’t cried over this in a long time. Truly, you feel as if the work you’ve done to move past it and heal yourself has been effective.

But seeing Joel there, kneeling at your feet, looking at you with such a strange mix of anger and awe, the sealed dam breaks again.

You fall forward, pressing your forehead to his, and the tears fall between you.

“I know you’d never do that. I don’t mean to flinch,” you tell him with shaky words. “I just, it’s a reflex I can’t get rid of.”

He squeezes your hands, then wraps his arms around you, pulling your chest to his.

“I’ll be more careful,” he says. His voice is thick with emotion. “Move more slowly. I’m old so it won’t be hard.”

Through your tears, you chuckle, and it helps to break the tension you’re still feeling. It means more than you can express that Joel would do that for you, would try to be so conscious of his movements.

Your face is in his neck, the scent of him filling your nose as he holds you so tight, tighter than he ever has.

“If he wasn’t already dead, I’d kill him,” he whispers, and you grip him tight. You pull away, just a little bit, so you can see him but stay in his arms.

“He died like a bitch. Crying, begging for his life,” you say, and Joel just nods, as if to tell you that was the right thing to do.

He presses his lips to yours, softly, once and then twice, and then urgently, as if to reassure you this way that you’re safe, that you’ll never have to go through that again, so long as you have Joel.

“This ain’t the right time to tell you,” Joel says when he pulls away and leaves you breathless, “but I’m in love with you.”

Your grin is ear to ear, and tears seep out once more. “There’s no wrong time to say that. I love you too.”

His small smile fades into an expression as serious as death. “I’ll never let anyone touch you, not ever again.”

You run your fingers down his cheek, and he leans into your touch.

“I know,” you whisper.

You’re sick. Like, truly miserable. Everything hurts—your skin, your bones, even your teeth feel like they’ve gone on strike. Every time you try to sleep, your body betrays you with a wracking cough that leaves your throat raw and your chest aching. The world is too loud, the light too sharp, and you’ve been surviving on weak tea and self-pity for what feels like years. You’re bundled in your favorite pajamas, half-buried under the covers, surrounded by a battlefield of used tissues and cough drop wrappers.

All you want is comfort. Real comfort. The kind that reaches deep inside you and makes it feel like, just for a moment, everything might be okay. And the only thing your foggy brain can cling to is a memory: your grandma’s chicken soup. Golden, rich, full of love and tiny pasta stars. She used to make it for you when you were sick as a kid, bustling around the kitchen, her hand cool on your forehead, her voice the safest sound in the world. She’s been gone for nine years, but right now, you miss her like she only just left the room.

Your phone buzzes on the nightstand, and you answer without checking the name.

“Hello?” you croak, voice hoarse and gravelly.

“Whoa, baby…” Frankie’s voice is a mix of concern and softness, threaded with that quiet intensity he reserves for when he’s worried about you. “You sound like hell.”

You sniff, not even pretending to argue. “Feel worse.”

There’s a pause, and you can hear him moving around on the other end. Probably pacing—he always paces when he’s anxious. “You need anything? I can swing by the store. Soup, meds, more tea?”

You almost say no, almost brush it off like you always do. But something about his tone so gentle, and steady unlocks something in your chest. You sigh, curling deeper under the blanket.

“I just…” Your voice cracks, and you pause. “I’ve been thinking about my grandma’s soup. The chicken one. She used to make it whenever I got sick. I—God, I miss her. She was more of a mom than my actual mom ever was.”

It’s a rare thing, this kind of vulnerability. The words hang in the air like glass, delicate and dangerous.

Frankie doesn’t speak for a moment. When he does, his voice is soft but sure. “Alright. I’ll be there in an hour.”

“Frankie, you don’t—”

“I want to,” he cuts in gently. “I’ll make you soup. Not your grandma’s, but… my mom used to make a mean one too. I know the recipe by heart. Trust me.”

You don’t argue again. You just let the tears prick your eyes and mumble a raspy, “Okay.”

—

True to his word, he shows up a little under an hour later, balancing a paper bag, a reusable tote, and that damn Coke Zero in a can you’re always teasing him about remembering. You can barely sit up, but from the cocoon of your blanket on the couch, you watch him move through your kitchen like he’s been there a hundred times. Confident, calm, sleeves rolled. He looks good—too good, honestly—and it shouldn’t be allowed how hot someone can look while chopping onions.

It’s not just soup ingredients he brought. There’s your favorite cookies tucked in the bag. More tea. A little tissue box with cartoon ducks on it that makes you laugh even through your misery. And the Coke Zero—you could cry. Maybe you do, a little.

“You didn’t have to bring all that,” you murmur from the couch, voice barely audible.

Frankie glances over, eyes soft but teasing. “I know. I wanted to. Besides, you’re a pain in the ass when you’re sick. I figured I better come prepared.”

The soup simmers, and the whole place starts to smell like home. Real home, not just the place you sleep. And something in you eases, just watching him there—taking care, being present, not asking you to be anything other than what you are right now: sick, sad, soft.

And you realize that maybe this is love. Not the loud kind. Not the fireworks. Just this: showing up. Making soup. Knowing what drink you like best when your throat hurts. Remembering the quiet stories you never thought mattered.

You melt, just a little. Feverish and aching and maybe a little in love, all at once.

—

The soup tastes like warmth and safety and something close to memory. It’s not your grandma’s recipe, no—too much thyme, not enough garlic—but it still hits something in your chest that’s been aching all day. You eat slow, curled up in a blanket on the couch while Frankie sits next to you, one leg tucked under himself, watching you like he’s trying to memorize the way you look even when you’re sick and puffy-eyed and halfway dead.

“Better?” he asks after you set the bowl down, wiping your mouth with a tissue.

You nod, too tired to say much, but your eyes say it all. He smiles—small, proud, stupidly beautiful—and then reaches out, pulling you gently into his chest. You go willingly, your body heavy with exhaustion and fever, your cheek pressed against his shirt.

“You don’t have to stay,” you murmur.

“I want to,” he says again, simple and firm.

His arm slides around you, and the other hand cradles the back of your head, fingers curling gently in your hair. He smells like cedar and laundry detergent and something that’s just… Frankie. You melt into him. Breathing is hard, your nose is a disaster, and your throat feels like sandpaper—but being in his arms is the first time you’ve felt okay in days.

You shift slightly, tilting your face up toward his. “You’re gonna get sick,” you warn, voice cracked and faint.

He looks down at you, and the edges of his mouth lift, but his eyes are serious. “I know.”

There’s a pause—just enough space for you to pull away, if you wanted. But you don’t. You lean in instead and so does he.

The kiss is soft. Careful, lingering.

Not because it’s a grand moment or some passionate heat-of-the-moment thing, but because it matters. Because you’re letting him close, even when you’re at your weakest. And because he’s letting you take up space in his heart, without asking for anything in return.

—

Three days later when you finally start to feel human again your phone buzzes. 

Frankie: Got it too now 🤧

You smirk, already typing.

You: warned you.

A second later, his reply comes through:

Frankie: worth it.

thanks for reading 💌

main masterlist

The stairs are a challenge, the last obstacle that’s keeping him from getting back to his life after almost six months of recuperation.

They stretch longer than he remembers, longer than he thinks he can handle. But he knows he has to. He knows he can… with your help.

He takes a deep breath, trying to find his balance, trying to find the strength to make it. He thought he was done with this part of healing, feeling weak. But now that he’s facing the stairs, he knows it will be hard.

"One at a time," you instruct. "Good leg first, then bring the cane and your left leg up together. Ready?”

“Hm,” he grunts an affirmative.

His foot drags over the first step as he pushes his body up it. He tries to steady his legs, his muscles screaming and twitching as they move in a way they haven’t in months.

His cane shakes under the weight of him as he takes a breath before lifting his bad leg up behind him. A sound of pain that he tries to fight escapes his throat.

“Joel,” you say softly.

“I know,” he grits, looking over his shoulder at you. “Just give me a minute.”

He feels so fucking tired. So fucking weak.

He barely manages to master the second step before his body protests, before he can’t take it any longer.

Two fucking steps down, twelve more to go.

Shit.

He turns, awkwardly shifting his body around, and lowers himself to sit on the same step he couldn’t make it past.

His knee is killing him, but the short walk to the living room seems too daunting now.

You crouch in front of him, waiting for him to tell you what he needs. Your understanding eyes staring into his.

“Not today,” he finally says, feeling totally defeated.

“Tomorrow,” you say, your hand comes to rest on his knee.

He looks down at your hand on him, his heart begins to race even faster at the sight.

—-

You know it’s more than just a set of stairs.

Joel knows it, too.

The next day, he tries again. And the next. And the next.

Each time, he does a little more, a little better. He makes it further up the stairs, your hands steady on him, holding him, keeping him from falling, from doing it alone.

It’s slow progress, but it’s progress.

And you’re always there with him.

By the fourth day, he can climb five steps.

His confidence grows—until a setback on the eighth day. He makes it to the landing, you’re standing in front of him, ready to help him catch his balance when he steps up. But when he steps on top of it, his left leg buckles and he falls forward. You react instantly, surging towards him, but it’s too much, Joel falls… and takes you with him.

You tumble backward, gasping loudly when you land against the hardwood. He falls forward, catching himself at the last second, and his hands slam down on both sides of your head. His arms tremble as he holds himself above you. You’re pinned beneath his warm, heavy body that now hovers mere inches from yours.

His face is so close. His dark eyes widen with concern as they search yours. You can feel his ragged breaths meeting with your own, the heat of his warming your face.

“Are you okay?” he asks, the rumble of his voice radiating through you.

You try to speak, but you can only nod as you still try to catch your breath.

His weight is solid and real, it reminds you of how far he’s come from the broken man you first treated. It’s then that you realize your hands have been grasping his biceps this whole time. You look down at the sight of your hands wrapped around his big arms, and try to hide the hitch in your breath.

“I’m fine,” you finally manage to say, but neither of you move.

“Okay,” he whispers. His eyes move to your lips before he swallows hard, and pushes himself off of you, grunting as he rolls to the side.

“Shit,” he mutters, sitting up against the wall, breathing hard. “I’m sorry.”

You sit up, trying to hide your grimace from the pain. “It’s fine. Nothing broken,” you assure. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he says. His voice is tight as he tilts his head back in frustration, his jaw working. "Just frustrated.”

“You’ll get there, one step at a time, Joel.”

“I know. It’s just… my bedroom’s up there, the rest of my life is up there.”

The vulnerability makes your heart ache. “You’re making incredible progress,” you tell him. “But your body needs time.”

He nods. His eyes staring into yours. Finally, he sighs, straightening himself and reaching for his cane. “Tomorrow.”

—-

His days used to be filled with rebuilding and fortifying Jackson. Now, his days are filled with rebuilding and fortifying himself; all that’s left is the stairs. The goddamn stairs.

Today, two weeks after he began this journey, his goal is to conquer all fourteen steps.

He stands at the bottom, determination fueling his ascent. He thinks of how happy he’ll make you. How proud you’ll be.

"I'll be right behind you," you reassure him, "but I don't think you'll need me."

He takes a deep breath. His knuckles now no longer choke the cane. He moves easier. He’s stronger.

His ascent begins methodically.

Right foot, then cane, and left foot together. Pause. Repeat.

You follow a few steps behind, close enough to help but giving him the space to succeed on his own.

Halfway up, he pauses on the landing to catch his breath.

You wait patiently, a slight smile on your face.

He begins again.

Right foot, then cane, and left foot together. Pause. Repeat.

And then he’s there, standing at the top of the stairs, looking down the hallway he hasn’t seen in months. His former life is now within reach again. He never thought he’d be so happy to see Ellie’s old, scratched-up door.

You step up, joining him at the top.

“So, how’s it feel?”

“Good,” he simply states.

"You did so well, Joel,” you say. “And… you didn't need me at all that time.”

He wishes he could utter the words that travel from his heart to his mouth, that he swallows down. "I still like to have you there.”

—-

Two hundred rows of crocheted yarn lay in front of you. Mainly blue, with a couple of rows of grey and dark green… a small chain of black in the middle from when you had to wait for more yarn. You’ve been working on it for months now, a warm, comforting blanket for Joel.

It started as a project to keep you busy, but soon turned into a gift to give to the man you’ve slowly been falling for. With each stitch looped and each row created of the blanket, your feelings for him have been knitted into every fiber.

Something to protect him from the cold.

Something to comfort him.

You fold it neatly, running your hand along the section you worked on during the first terrifying days when you weren’t sure he’d even survive. Loose stitches from sleepless nights, tight ones from anxious times, soon turning smooth as his health improved.

You pick it up, holding it close to your chest as you take it to the front porch, where Joel has been spending his nights.

He looks so peaceful, his guitar in his hands, his fingers gently plucking a melody. You pause in the doorway, not wanting to interrupt the moment. It’s the first time you’ve seen him play.

He senses you, his fingers pausing on the strings when he looks over at you.

You give him a soft smile. “It’s beautiful.”

“Just messin’ around,” he says, setting the guitar down. His eyes drift down to the bundle in your arms. “What’s that?”

You step closer to him, suddenly feeling shy about giving him something so personal. “I-uh, made you this.” You unfold the blanket. “I started it when you were… when things were bad.”

His eyes widen as he takes the blanket in. His fingers reach out, brushing against the soft yarn. “You made this whole thing… for me?”

“Yeah,” you breathe out, watching him trace the pattern. “It’s yours. “

He swallows, his eyes traveling across every stitch.

“It’s not perfect,” you add, suddenly self-conscious. “There are some uneven rows, and I ran out of yarn a couple—”

“It’s perfect,” he interrupts, as he looks up into your eyes. “Really. Perfect.”

—-

For five months, he was cooped up in his home, too prideful to let his fellow residents see him so bruised and beaten, relying on a wheelchair and others to get around. Now, his cane rests against the railing, and he looks more like himself.

The sun’s just setting, long, tired rays of orange and pink stretch across his yard. The leaves of the trees sway in the breeze rolling off the mountains. He missed this so much. The solitude of his porch, the peaceful sound of nature returning to itself at the end of the day. The quiet sounds of Jackson settling into the evening.

It still gets cold here when the sun goes down, but now he’s warm. He’s not sure if it’s from the beautiful blanket you knitted or the fact that you created it solely for him.

The door clicks shut behind you as you step outside with a mug in each hand. His eyes drift from the horizon to you.

“Coffee?” you ask, offering him one of the mugs.

He accepts it, his hand brushing your hand, his touch lingering against yours.

You’ve brought out a kitchen chair to sit next to him. Your chair doesn’t rock, but he notices how you sway slightly, holding your mug with two hands and sipping.

He takes a drink, savoring the coffee. “How much do we have left?” he asks. He pauses at we, as if this home, and everything in it, is also yours.

“Quite a bit,” you say, taking a drink from your mug. "I have tea. I’m saving the rest of the coffee for you.”

He swallows hard, looking down at his mug. You’re saving the coffee for him. Sacrificing again. It’s been this way for so long now.

As the stars begin to prick through the sky, the air begins to chill.

He takes the blanket on his lap, unfolding it, and offering the excess to you.

You scoot your chair closer, making the distance between the two of you disappear until you’re so close, he can feel your arm against his.

“Thanks,” you say, settling back in your chair with a contented smile.

He takes another sip of his coffee, relishing in the warmth of it, of his new blanket, and of you.

—-

Joel manages the stairs easier and easier with each passing day. Soon, he’s climbing them multiple times a day. Slow, but strong. You’re proud of him, but you can’t help but feel a bit melancholy as you watch him regain his independence. With each step he takes, it feels like a step away from needing you.

Lonesome Dove is still downstairs, unfinished with just a hundred pages left, resting near where Joel’s hospital bed used to sit in the living room, next to the recliner you used to sleep in every night. The furniture has all been moved back; no need to make space for Joel’s healing.

You’ve been thinking about it more. Joel doesn’t need around-the-clock care. He can walk, have a daily routine, and heal without your help. Soon, he’ll be able to go back to work, back to his normal life.

Back to being alone.

You should be happy. This is what you wanted—to see him recover, to watch him reclaim his life. But instead, you feel a hollow ache spreading through you.

You should be finding your own home to stay, should be forging your own path in Jackson, but you don’t want to leave the comfort of Joel’s home.

You’ve grown too attached to it… and him.

—-

After enduring countless years of tepid water and weak faucets, he can no longer resist the allure of a good shower. He’s been looking forward to it since he gained the strength to walk again.

Now, he’s alone. Under the hot water, steam billowing around him. It feels good, almost heavenly if it weren’t for the lingering aches and pains. He wants to wash it all away—the pain, the weakness, the need—but as the water hits him and soothes his muscles, he realizes he doesn’t want to wash away the memories of your care or the feelings he now harbors for you. Of how everything in his house now smells like you—sage and vanilla. Of how gentle your hands are when you touch him.

Of the glimpse of your bra, light purple, all lacy and pretty, hanging up to dry in your bedroom.

The water cascades down him, over the scars and marks that cover his body. The tap is hotter than it should be, almost scalding, but he likes the burn… it reminds him he’s still alive. That his body is healing, all because of you.

He can’t stop himself. He can’t stop his thoughts from drifting to you and staying there.

You’re everywhere, everything, and he can’t escape you. He doesn’t want to.

The water and the solitude should make it easier.

It doesn’t.

He knows he can’t hold back any longer. He knows he can’t fight it. He knows he can’t stop himself from wanting this, from wanting you.

He knows he can’t be strong enough.

He gives in.

His hand drifts down, over his chest, his stomach, and lower. God, it feels good. It’s been so long since he’s felt this way, since he’s wanted to feel this way.

His breath hitches and then he holds it when his hand moves over his cock. He gasps at how sensitive it is, how much it wants this, how much it also needs you.

He strokes himself slowly, letting the heat and pressure build inside him.

He thinks about you, the way you looked when you shaved him, the way your breath caught, the way your eyes went wide when you saw him.

To the way you touch him, working his muscles, washing his body, getting so close he could feel your heat, feel your breath, feel you.

He pulls and squeezes, trying hard not to make a noise as his knees feel shaky. It’s not going to take him long, especially as he thinks about how your skin would look against the white tile of his bath, as he fucked into you.

He strokes himself harder and faster, imagining the silk of your pussy wrapped around his cock, his breaths racing faster, his body trembling with the effort, with the need, with everything he’s been holding back. He squeezes his eyes shut as he pictures you underneath him, writhing and moaning for him.

It feels good. Better than he remembers, better than he thought it would, better than anything he’s had in a long, long time.

He braces a hand against the slippery tile. His legs are shaky and still weak, but he doesn’t stop. He can’t stop.

The tension tightens his body, his stomach clenching, his balls drawing up. He tries to fight the low groan that escapes his throat, but he loses. The sound radiating off the smooth tile.

He wants so badly to moan your name, to hear how sweet your voice is when you whisper his name in his ear.

He’s so close. He strokes his cock faster, more desperate to reach the first climax he’s had in months. “Fuck,” he whispers, remembering the peek of your tongue when you lick your lips. He imagines your lips wrapped around his cock, how warm your mouth would feel as he fucked it. His hips thrust forward, chasing the pleasure.

His back slams against the tile wall, the impact of his broad body hitting the hard ceramic makes the bottle of soap teeter before crashing to the shower floor.

Then, a knock. His vision blurs, the pressure crawls up his spine, the grip on his cock tightens.

“Joel? Everything okay in there?”

His heart stops. You’re right outside the door. How long? Did you hear him?

Oh god. The thought of you listening, of hearing his desperate grunts, of the wet sound of his strokes, maybe picturing what he’s doing, maybe even wanting it too—

“I’m—” His answer gets stuck in his throat as his orgasm shatters through him without warning. His mouth opens in a silent cry as he spills over his fist, pulsing hot ropes of his cum all over himself before it’s washed away with the spray of the shower. “Fine,” he finally manages.

He watches as his seed disappears down the drain, his legs trembling so badly he has to hold himself against the wall to stay standing. His chest rises and lowers rapidly as he tries to catch his breath.

“Just… dropped something,” he adds, instantly wincing at how wrecked he sounds.

"Alright,” you say. “Don't push yourself too hard."

He slumps against the tile, spent and suddenly exhausted. “Yeah. I won’t.”

He hasn't felt this way in... hell, he can't even remember how long. Not just the physical release, but the wanting. The needing. The way his thoughts constantly circle back to you.

He reaches for the soap. He needs to finish what he came in here to do. His movements are more clumsy than he wants them to be. Exhaustion weighs on him. He knows he shouldn’t have done what he just did, but he’s a selfish man, even when he’s the victim of his own circumstances.

He turns the tap off… and tries to lift his leg.

It hurts too much.

Fuck, he knew he overdid it. Getting in was a hell of a lot easier thanks to his cane and the towel rack, but now, the exhaustion weighs heavily on his already sore muscles.

He tries to move it again, and the pain shoots through his whole body. He can’t stifle the deep sound of pain that bellows from his mouth.

—-

Joel’s loud growl jolts you from your thoughts as you wait outside the bathroom. You heard the sounds earlier, your ear pressed against the door, trying to get closer to the muffled grunts. But this sound—it’s different.

"Joel?" you say, your hand on the doorknob. Your voice comes out higher than you wanted it to. “Are you okay?"

"Yeah,” he sighs.”I… hate to ask you this, but I need some help in here.”

“Now?”

“Y-yeah.”

“Are you… decent?”

“Yeah.”

You push the door open slowly, your heart hammering against your chest. The bathroom air is humid and thick, smelling of Joel’s soap. It’s already heady enough, and then, you look over at him.

You don’t think you’ve ever seen a sight more beautiful than Joel’s golden skin against the white tile of the shower. One of his large hands is braced against the wall, while the other clutches the gray towel that’s haphazardly wrapped around his waist. Water drips from his slicked-back hair, trails of it run down his broad shoulders and chest before disappearing beneath the towel. You wonder what one of those drops would taste like against your tongue. Your eyes stay focused on the hint of his thigh for a moment too long before you force your eyes to stay on his face.

You can feel your breathing quicken, your heart feels like it’s going to clatter out of your chest as you take each step closer to him.

"What do you need?" you ask, your voice husking at the end.

He shifts in the shower and winces slightly. "I can't lift my leg," he explains, gesturing awkwardly toward the tub edge.

"Okay," you say, handing him his cane. “Use this first, and we’ll get your good leg out.”

Clinical. You try to keep it clinical… but again, it feels different.

You stand outside the tub and wrap your hand around his waist. He’s so warm, so soft, so comfortable.

"On three," you instruct. "One, two..."

He leans his weight against you, heavier and more overwhelming. You brace yourself, supporting him as he lifts his good leg, grunting and groaning with each movement.

“I’ve got you, Joel, you’re doing good.”

Your shirt becomes wet where it presses against his damp skin. Water drips from his hair onto your shoulder, running down your neck.

You get him half out before you quickly drop down onto the floor, reaching for his leg still in the tub.

“I’ve got you,” you reassure. “Now, lift.”

You carefully guide his leg over the edge of the tub as he breathes through the pain. He settles, both hands bracing on the cane.

His towel has slipped low from his movements, you can just see the delicate trail of dark hair leading below his navel.

You’re still on your knees before him, you look up, your eyes meeting his, dark and intense as they look down at you.

“Thank you,” he says lowly.

“Of course, Joel,” you respond, standing up, his eyes watching your every move.

Your shirt clings to your skin, wet and transparent in patches. You catch Joel’s eyes sweeping down to your chest before he turns away.

Clinical. Keep it clinical.

"I'll let you get dressed," you say, attempting to cut through the tension.

He nods, still not looking at you. "Thanks," he says roughly.

The door closes behind you, you feel slightly dizzy at what just happened. Your skin feels too hot and sensitive where it touched his.

It's just the steam, just the exertion of helping him.

Lying to yourself is becoming harder by the day.

—-

Joel stares at the ceiling, listening as the rain clatters against the roof. He should be comfortable; he’s slept easily in his bed for the past couple of weeks since he made it up the stairs, and yet, tonight, he can’t find comfort. His mind won’t stop racing to allow him to sleep.

The more he tries to push away the thought of you, the more vivid it becomes. The way your hands felt against his bare skin. The subtle scent of vanilla that always surrounds you. How your shirt had gone nearly transparent when soaked, revealing the outline of your bra beneath.

"Christ," he mutters to himself, throwing an arm over his eyes.

It's been so long since he's wanted anyone this way. So long since he's allowed himself to feel this way. The years of survival had dulled those needs, buried them beneath more pressing concerns—staying alive, keeping Ellie safe, building something resembling security in Jackson.

But now, in the quiet of his healing, his needs have awakened again.

It’s all because of you.

You.

With your sweet smile, your understanding ways, your beautiful body, your gentle hands that know exactly how to heal him, inside and out.

He knows he shouldn't think of you this way, but he’s already too far gone. You're his doctor, his caretaker. You saved his life, you watch over him daily. This crosses a line he's not sure he has the right to cross, even in the privacy of his own mind.

And yet, the thoughts persist. He’s far beyond the line.

His cock begins to twitch beneath the sheets as he thinks about what you’d look like in the shower with him, how good you looked on your knees, how you stared into his eyes as he hovered above you when he fell on top of you.

He reaches down, brushing his hand against his cock that’s slowly growing hard.

And then, he hears the steps creak as you make your way up the stairs.

He hears you approach his door—the nightly check you always make before going to bed. He no longer needs your help to get ready for bed, but you still always make sure he’s comfortable and situated. Quickly, he adjusts the sheets, closes his eyes, and regulates his breathing to pretend he’s sleeping.

The door opens slightly. He can feel your eyes on him.

You softly pad over and stand near him, he hears you place a glass of water on his bedside table.

He keeps his breathing steady, fighting the urge to open his eyes, to see your face in the dim light from the hallway.

"Good night, Joel," you whisper finally before retreating.

He listens as your footsteps cross the hall to your room.

He exhales slowly, turning and opening his eyes to stare out the window, watching the raindrops fall as the moonlight shines in. He wonders what your bare skin would look like in the low light.

He stays there for a while, staring out the window as he tries to let sleep take him, but it eludes him, his mind too full of you, his body aching for more than just sleep and rest.

Thunder clatters outside occasionally. He closes his eyes, but then, he hears it—a soft, barely audible sound from across the hall. A sigh, perhaps. Or a moan

He goes completely still, his eyes widening, turning to lift his good ear as he strains to hear. There it is again, slightly louder this time. Definitely a moan.

The thought of what you could be doing in the private of your bedroom sends a flame up his spine, his cock throbs painfully, straining against his navy pajama pants. Before he can think better of it, he sits up and gets out of bed. Pain shoots through his injured leg as he stands, but he barely registers it.

He needs to be closer to the sound.

He opens his door slightly, and he can just make out the sound of your bed creaking and more muffled moans.

He grips the wall for support, limping silently across the hallway, still listening. He moves with the rumbling thunder outside.

Your door isn't completely closed. He stands outside, heart hammering in his chest, blood rushing in his ears.

He can see you in your bed, illuminated by the moonlight filtering in through the window. He was right, you look gorgeous under the light of the moon.

You’re sprawled on your stomach, face buried in your pillow, your hips raised. Your sleep shirt has ridden up your back, revealing the swell of your ass. God, you’re beautiful.

It’s so forbidden, but he can’t look away; your body is moving rhythmically against your hand, hidden beneath you.

He reminds himself to breathe quietly as he grips the doorframe. He knows he should turn away, he should give you privacy. But he can’t move.

Your back arches, and his hand drops to his crotch, palming himself through his pajama pants as he listens and watches.

He hasn’t seen anything like this in so long, his whole body thrums, he’s never felt more alive than now, he slips his hand underneath the waistband of his pants, and begins gently stroking himself.

He watches you like a goddamn voyeur.

He wonders if you can sense it.

—-

You’ve needed to do this for so long. Your body has been aching with this need for months. Every touch, every glance, every whispered word of gratitude from Joel has kindled the fire within you.

Your fingers easily glide through your slick, your thumb circling your clit as you bite into your pillow trying to muffle your moans. You can imagine his thick fingers as yours, his heavy body against your body, his low voice whispering in your ear. You’ve never wanted somebody so bad before.

You flip over, your eyes shut tight, your bottom lip caught between your teeth as you spread your legs wide and fuck yourself with two of your fingers as your other hand pets against your clit.

You’ve been denying your attraction to Joel for so long. Too long.

You remember how it felt to have his weight pressed against you on the landing, the way his arms caged you in, his dark brown eyes looking into yours, intense and searing. You think of how those same eyes would look now, hovering above you, his broad shoulders blocking out the moonlight shining in through your window. The way his jaw would clench, the sounds he’d make as he fucked you.

You begin circling your clit tighter, your fingers pumping in and out of you faster. You’re so close.

You’re so lost in your fantasy that you don’t notice the shadow at your door as you fantasize about his weight, his scent, the scratch of his beard against your thighs, the heat of his skin against yours.

“Joel,” you whisper into the darkness as you orgasm.

—-

He heard it.

His name was just on your lips. He almost falls at the realization.

He strokes his cock quicker and harder. The floorboard beneath him creaks loudly in the quiet house, and he freezes.

Joel doesn't wait to see if you've heard him. He quickly moves back to his room as silently as he can.

Back in bed, his heart is pounding against his chest. He pushes his pajama pants down his hips, taking himself in hand, he knows he’s not going to last long. The image of you touching yourself, the sound of his name on your lips, has already made precum pour out of him.

He spits in his hand and fucks himself urgently, almost desperately, his breath coming in harsh pants as he tries to stay quiet.

It doesn't take long. He cums all over himself with a low groan he loses the fight to stifle, spilling over his hand and stomach.

In the aftermath, a different kind of tension settles over him. What has he done? What line has he crossed? Is he really going to get off to the thought of you twice in a day?

And yet, he can't bring himself to regret it. Not when he heard you moan his name, not when he knows that whatever this is between you, isn't one-sided.

His leg throbs with dull pain, reminding him of his limitations, of the reason you're here in the first place.

He is still your patient.

You are still his doctor. 

—-

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