vy

"Yes." He gave you one of those beautiful smiles of his. "Just rehearsal."

You gave him the look.

"It was a long rehearsal," he admitted.

Not even five minutes later, he was pouting dramatically as you made him sit down on the couch.

"I'm fine, " he insisted.

"And yet you can't lift your own arm without making a face."

"I did not make a face."

"You absolutely did."

He muttered something under his breath as you disappeared into the bathroom, returning a moment later with a heating pad and your favorite lotion. The second you told him to lean forward, he obeyed without another argument.

"You're bossy," he mumbled.

"You love it."

"A lot."

Your fingers worked slowly across the tight muscles in his shoulders, careful but firm. He let out the quietest sigh, the kind he probably hadn't even realized he'd been holding in all day.

"Better?"

"Don't stop."

You laughed softly.

"I've heard that before."

"Don't bully me right now. I'm in pain."

By the time you were finished, he had practically melted against you—his head resting in your lap while the heating pad lay across his back. His eyes were closed, completely exhausted from spending the day rehearsing, chasing every tiny movement until his body had finally begged him to quit.

"You know," you murmured, running your fingers through his soft curls, "taking care of yourself is part of the job too."

"I know."

"Right."

"I do."

He stayed quiet for a moment before speaking again.

"Can you remind me tomorrow?"

"Always."

He smiled without opening his eyes and reached for your hand, intertwining your fingers with his.

Somewhere between the movie playing quietly in the background and the warmth of the heating pad, he fell asleep before either of you noticed—finally letting himself rest because, for once, someone else was taking care of him.

taglist: @judesboots @youluvyanni @winterosco @escapefromrealitylol @ruesredjacket @4ppl3h34d @tinydreamerpillar @delictezz @heartsforamari19 @sugarrushbell @bangchanunofficial @swavydadon @nayykura @plan3tch1ld @unseenleylinesecret @niyahctrl @animegamerfox @raefoxiegirl @applehead-luvr @a-motherfcking-fish @michaelsgirlie @sebbysbaby @helalokithor @poetsprey @60fspp @kryka83 @ilov3tosle3p @bladeeisjesus @umibug @erynnnn @lauren7050 @onegoodperson @trvpstarxvl @alexablanc @superlegend216 @gravenoirr @heyitsm4di @heartstofiiveunknownn @soimightlikeoldmen69 @cherrishkissed @kisscoqueen @aristoleyaferrarii @michaeljacksonlover25 @solelypyt @no1sdolli3 @blameditontheboogie @spiderhook @jaafarl

The scent of slow-simmering tomatoes, roasted garlic, and seasoned greens hit you the moment you stepped into the foyer. It was an unmistakable aroma, one that had anchored your Sundays for as long as you could remember. Growing up right around the corner, your family and theirs had been attached at the hip forever. You’d spent summers running around this house, watching studio sessions, and eating more meals at their long dining table than you could count.

You were family in every way that mattered. Which made the sudden, undeniable shift in the air over the last few months all the more electric.

“Well, look who finally decided to grace us with her presence!”

Jermajesty was the first to spot you from the hallway, leaning against the doorframe with a knowing, lopsided grin. Before you could even put your keys down, he was sauntering over to take the glass baking dish from your hands. “I know you didn’t keep us waiting an extra fifteen minutes just to bring peach cobbler.”

“I was making sure the crust was perfect,” you laughed, swatting his shoulder playfully as he took the warm dish. “Where’s your dad?”

“In the kitchen, actin’ like he’s the executive chef,” he teased, snickering as he led you down the grand hallway toward the back of the house.

The heart of the Jackson home was in its usual full, glorious swing. Old-school R&B hummed from the speakers overhead, pots clinked on the stove, and energetic banter bounced off the walls. Over by the main counter stood the patriarch of the family, Jermaine, meticulously seasoning a massive pot of gravy with the focused precision of a man conducting a symphony.

And right beside him, chopping vegetables at a pace that suggested he was trying very hard to look occupied, was Jaafar.

He wore a soft, cream-colored sweater with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, his skin glowing under the kitchen lighting. He was nodding along to whatever Randy Jr. was saying across the island, but the second your footsteps crossed the threshold, Jaafar’s head snapped up.

His dark eyes locked onto yours, and the easy, laid-back smile on his face instantly faltered into something softer, startled, and entirely unguarded.

“Hey,” he said softly, his deep, velvety voice cutting right through the kitchen noise. 

“Hey yourself,” you smiled, walking over. “Look at you actually helping out for once.”

“Hey, I’ve been in here working for two hours,” he protested gently, though a faint, telltale flush rose on his high cheekbones. He set the knife down, wiped his hands on a kitchen towel, and stepped forward to pull you into a greeting.

His hugs were always warm, but lately, they felt different. Where he used to wrap a quick, casual arm around your shoulders, now his hands lingered at the small of your back, his fingers gently pressing into your dress. He pulled you close, resting his chin briefly near your temple before pulling back—just a second too slowly.

“You look really good,” he murmured, his eyes dropping to your lips before darting quickly back up to your eyes.

“Thanks, J. You don’t look too bad yourself.”

“Oh, please!” Randy Jr. chimed in from across the island, leaning his elbows with a wicked grin. “Don’t feed his ego. He’s been pacing back and forth past the front windows for the last forty-five minutes asking if anyone heard a car pull up.” 

Jaafar stiffened instantly, turning a glare towards his brother. “I was looking for the mail, Randy.”

“At six-thirty on a Sunday?” Jermajesty called out from the panty, popping his head out with a bottle of red sparkling juice. “Mailman must be working overtime just for you, bro.”

A collective ripple of laughter ran through the kitchen. Jaafar cleared his throat, suddenly intensely fascinated by a bowl of diced onions.

From the stove, Jermaine adjusted the dial on the burner, turning around with a smooth, amused expression. He looked between you and his son, a knowing, paternal twinkle in his eye. “Leave your brother alone, boys,” he said, his smooth voice echoing with that unmistakable family cadence. Though he walked past Jaafar to grab a dish, he clapped a gentle hand on his shoulder and added quietly, “Even if he was standing by that window long enough to catch a draft.”

“Dad, not you too,” Jaafar groaned, burying his face in his hands while his ears burned bright red. 

You bit your lip to hide your laugh, your own cheeks heating up under the light teasing. This was the new normal. For years, you and Jaafar had been inseparable in a simple but effortless way. You knew his vocal warm-up routines by heart, you knew how he took his coffee, and you were the one person who could read his quietest moods. But lately, every time you stepped into the same room, Jaafar—usually so calm, composed, and effortlessly charming—seemed to lose his footing entirely.

“Alright, alright! Dinner is served, everybody sit!” Jermaine announced, waving a wooden spoon toward the dining room.

The long dining table was a vibrant, chaotic masterpiece. Plates of pot roast, greens, mac and cheese, and warm bread were passed back and forth amidst overlapping stories about past tours, studio memories, and family memories.

By complete non-accident on his family’s part, the only open chair left when you walked into the dining room was the one right next to Jaafar. 

“Here,” Jaafar said quickly, pulling the heavy chair out of you before you could even reach for the back of it.

“Thank you, gentleman,” you whispered, sliding into the seat. 

As he sat down next to you, his shoulder brushed yours. The table was tightly set, meaning your legs naturally rested close together beneath the tablecloth. Every time your knee tapped his as someone passed a heavy bowl down the line, Jaafar would freeze, his breath hitching subtly before he took a very slow, deliberate sip of his water.

“Jaafar, pass the cornbread down,” Jermaine requested from the head of the table. 

“Right, yeah, got it,” he said, reaching for the basket in the center. But as his arm extended across your plate, his wrist brushed against your forearm. His hand hovered over the bread basket for a beat too long, his fingers trembling ever so slightly.

Randy Jr., sitting directly across from you both, caught the tiny movement immediately. A slow, mischievous smile spread across his face. “You good over there, bro? You look like you’re handlin’ radioactive material, not a basket of rolls.”

“I’m fine,” Jaafar muttered, quickly grabbing the basket and passing it over. “Just… making sure I don’t drop it.”

“He’s real delicate today,” Jermajesty chimed in from further down the table, nudging the person next to him. “Got a lot on his mind. Or maybe just somebody sitting on his right.”

A chorus of soft, amused chuckles ripped down the table.

Jaafar’s hand searched blindly under the table for his napkin, but in his flustered state, his fingers brushed directly against your thigh instead. He froze instantly, his touch lingering for a fraction of a second before he snatched his hand back as if he’d touched a hot stove. His face flushed a deep, undeniable crimson.

“It’s… it’s just warm in here,” he stumbled out, his smooth, soulful voice jumping an octave higher than usual. “The… the stove was hot.”

Jermaine rested his fork on his plate, leaning back in his chair with a slow, fond smile as he watched his son struggle. “It’s definitely warm in here son,” he said smoothly, taking a sip of his drink. “Must be the heat from all those ‘unreleased tracks’ you’ve been workin’ on lately.”

Jaafar nearly choked on his food. “Dad—”

“What? I’m just saying,” Jermaine chuckled, looking over at you warmly. “He hasn’t let a single soul in this house listen to his new melodies for three months. But I hear music coming out of his studio space every single time you come over.”

“Smooth, J. Real smooth,” Randy Jr. shook his head with a grin.

Jaafar looked down at his plate, muttering something incomprehensible under his breath, though the corners of his lips twitched into a reluctant, hopelessly embarrassed smile. 

You looked over at him, watching the way his dark lashes cast long shadows over his cheekbones. Beneath the table, where nobody could see, you gently slid your foot over and nudged his shoe, offering him a silent olive branch of sympathy.

He looked up, his eyes meeting yours. The teasing faded into quiet background noise for a brief, electric second. The vulnerability in his gaze made your heart do a sudden, dramatic flip. He didn’t pull his foot away. Instead, he shifted his weight slightly, pressing his shoe gently back against yours under the table, anchoring himself to you.

By the time dinner wrapped up, the sun had fully set, painting the Los Angeles sky in deep shades of indigo and plum. The house was thick with the lazy, comfortable warmth of a Sunday night.

While Jermaine and the rest of the family lingered in the living room—Jermajesty was arguing with Randy Jr. over what record to put on the turntable—you decided to slip away to catch your breath from the relentless family teasing.

You pushed open the heavy glass doors and stepped out onto the wide, quiet stone patio overlooking the lush backyard and pool. The night air was cool and sweet, carrying the faint scent of pine. You walked over to the wooden bench near the garden edge, sitting down and pulling your knees toward your chest as you looked up at the stars.

The glass door slid open softly behind you.

You didn’t need to turn around. The soft weight of his footsteps gave him away instantly.

Jaafar stepped out onto the patio, carrying two small ceramic plates. On each was a warm slice of your peach cobbler, topped with a melting scoop of vanilla ice cream.

“Thought I’d rescue some for you before everybody cleans out the entire dish,” he said softly, his voice low and soothing in the quiet.

“You’re a lifesaver,” you smiled, reaching out to take a plate from him.

Jaafar didn’t sit on the chairs across from you. Instead, he hesitated for a brief second before sitting down right beside you on the bench. He sat close—close enough that you could feel the gentle heat radiating off of his sweater, his shoulder resting lightly against yours. 

For a few minutes, neither of you said anything. The silence between you wasn’t heavy or awkward; it was the easy, familiar comfort built over years of friendship. You ate in peace, listening to the muffled bassline of an old soul record hummed through the glass doors from the living room inside.

“I’m sorry about them tonight,” he murmured, breaking the quiet. He was looking down at his plate, tracing the rim with his thumb. 

“About who?” you asked innocently, nudging his shoulder with yours. “Your family? J, they’ve been teasing us since we were kids.”

“Yeah, but… it was different tonight,” he admitted softly. He swallowed, his throat moving as he looked out over the dark pool water. “They were pushing it. My dad, my brothers, my cousins… I didn’t want them to make you uncomfortable.”

“They didn’t make me uncomfortable,” you said gently, turning your body slightly on the bench to face him. “A little flustered, maybe. But never uncomfortable.”

He slowly turned his head to look at you. In the dim, ambient patio light, his dark eyes were wide and strikingly bright. He looked nervous—far more nervous than he ever looked stepping up to a microphone.

“My dad wasn’t wrong though,” he whispered.

You blinked, caught off guard by the quiet intensity in his voice. “About what?”

“About why I play my songs for you first,” Jaafar said. He set his empty plate down on the small table beside the bench, his movements slow and deliberate. “It’s not just because you have good taste. Though you do.” He offered a small, shy smile that made your stomach flutter. “It’s because… whenever I’m in that studio, whenever I’m trying to write a melody about… about wanting to be close to somebody… you’re the only person I’m picturing.”

The patio seemed to grow completely still. The distant sound of the record inside, the rustle of the palm trees in the breeze—it all faded into silence.

Your breath held in your chest. Jaafar took a slow, steadying breath, gathering his courage. He reached out, his hand hesitating for a fraction of a second before his fingers gently brushed against the side of your face, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear. His touch was warm, so unbelievably tender it sent a shivered pulse straight down your spine.

“Jaafar…” your voice came out barely a whisper.

“I know we’ve known each other forever,” he continued, his voice thick with an emotion he’d clearly been holding back for months. “I know my brothers and cousins treat you like family, and my dad treats you like one of his own. But…you’re not my sister. You never have been. And every time you walk into a room, every time you sit next to me, I… I lose my head a little bit. I couldn’t even pass a basket of bread tonight without my hands shaking because you were sitting right there.”

A soft, breathless laugh escaped your lips, warm and fond. “Is that really why your hands were shaking?”

He let out a quiet, self-deprecating laugh of his own, his cheeks coloring again, but he didn’t pull his hand away. Instead, his thumb slid down to rest gently against the soft curve of your jawline.

“I dropped my dignity at the table an hour ago,” he teased softly, his eyes searching your face with quiet desperation. “I just… I needed you to know. My family sees it because I’m terrible at hiding it. I’ve been falling in love with you for a long time, and I don’t think I can go back to pretending I’m just a guy from down the street.”

Your heart was hammering against your ribs, a sweet, soaring rhythm. You reached up, placing your hand directly over his where it rested against your cheek, feeling the steady heat of his palm. 

“You really are terrible at hiding it,” you murmured softly, a bright, genuine smile breaking across your face. “Jermajesty told me two weeks ago that you were hopeless.” 

Jaafar gasped softly, a look of mock betrayal crossing his face before it melted into sheer, breathless relief. “He did?”

“He did,” you nodded, your eyes crinkling. “And for the record… I didn’t tell him he was wrong.”

He froze, his eyes widening as the meaning of your words washed over him. “You… you didn’t?”

“No,” you whispered, leaning in just an inch closer to him on the bench. “Because I haven’t been looking at you like just the guy from down the street for a really long time either.”

The relief that washed over Jaafar was instant and breathtaking. His shoulders dropped their tension, and a radiant, beautiful smile spread across his face—that unmistakable, warm Jackson smile. 

Without another word, he leaned forward. His movement was gentle and unhurried, giving you every second to pull back if you wanted to. But you didn’t. You closed your eyes as his lips found yours in a kiss that was soft, sweet, and lingering, tasting faintly of sugar and cinnamon. It carried the warmth of years of shared history, the safety of home, and the overwhelming promise of something brand new.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested gently against yours. His breath was warm against your lips, his hands now resting comfortably around your waist, holding you close. 

“So,” he murmured, his voice rich with happiness, his thumb tracing small circles against your hip. “Next Sunday… when my dad asks why you’re sitting next to me…”

“We can tell him he was right,” you smiled, resting your hands against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart under his sweater.

From inside the house, another loud burst of laughter erupted from the living room as Randy Jr. and Jermajesty started singing along to an old classic track. But out on the patio, wrapped up in the cool evening air and the warmth of Jaafar’s arms, the rest of the world felt miles away.

Jaafar leaned down, pressing one more soft, lingering kiss to the corner of your smile. “Good,” he whispered softly against your skin. “Because I really don’t think I could have survived another Sunday pretending.”

Your fiancé was away from the house for hours on end.

Practicing to fill the shoes of his uncle wasn’t an easy job. It required his full focus and dedication, which also means limiting his time with you.

You didn’t mind. You knew how dedicated he was to this role, wanting everything to turn out perfect.

It didn’t matter if he was gone from early mornings till late evenings. At the end of the day, you were the one he came home to.

You were standing at the kitchen counter when you heard the door open, keys dropping onto the side table and thud on the floor.

Before Jaafar got home, you decided to make milkshakes for you and him. You had went out earlier to do a little grocery shopping for the needed items.

You gathered vanilla ice cream, milk, vanilla extract, along with whipped cream, syrup, and cherries for the toppings.

You had started making the milkshakes about an hour ago and were finishing the toppings on yours.

“baby? I’m home.”

“In the kitchen!”

You could hear Jaafar’s footsteps coming towards you as you plopped one last cherry onto your shake before turning around, meeting jaafar’s eyes.

“mm, what ya makin pretty?”

You slid your hands around his neck as you felt his hands settle at your waist, “some milkshakes..wanted to maybe watch a movie and talk about your day while we drink ‘em.”

“sounds perfect.”

Jaafar plants a kiss on your forehead before patting your hips and letting go, “i’ll go freshen up and change, then i’m all yours.”

“don’t make me wait too long!”

“never!”

Ი︵𐑼

You and Jaafar were finally settled on the couch. He had changed into some grey sweats and a white tank top.

You both decided on watching some new romance movie that had just come out, forbidden love or whatever it was about.

Right now, you truly just missed your fiancé and wanted to be in arms as he talked your ears off.

He told you about the dance instructors he met, the songs he rehearsed, anything he could remember he told you.

You didn’t say much in response, just nodding your head with a few nosies of agreement from time to time.

It’s not like you weren’t listening, he knew you were. He just also knew that you missed him and would prefer hearing his voice rather than your own.

“Oh! my favorite song we rehearsed today had to be human nature, it’s such a beautiful song and his vocals are amazing in it.”

“mhm..”

You had finished your milkshake a few minutes ago. Your head now just resting on Jaafar’s chest as he continued to ramble.

Eventually, the movie started to get a little boring, and you could feel your eyes growing heavy. You tried your best to stay awake, not wanting to fall asleep while Jaafar was still talking, but you couldn’t fight it. Your eyes slowly closed as you felt sleep take over.

Jaafar continued talking until he noticed you had stopped responding to him, along with your slow breaths.

He looked down at your face, realizing you had fallen asleep on him.

He smiled to himself before grabbing the remote and turning off the TV. He, slowly, slipped himself from underneath you to put your glasses in the sink, deciding to worry about dishes later.

He then hooked his arms under the back of your knees and his other placed on your back as he picked you up, carrying you to your shared bedroom.

He placed you in bed carefully, making sure he didn’t disturb your sleep, before walking over to turn off the overhead light.

Slipping in bed next to you, he pulled the covers up and wrapped his arms around your waist before pressing a soft kiss to your temple.

“Goodnight, pretty girl.”

a/n: my husband, also part 1 will be my next post and if it’s not…dw

he’s always stealing candid pics of you when you’re not looking. you’re half asleep on the plane with your mouth slightly open? click. you’re staring out the window at the sunset with that soft little smile? click. you’re struggling to open a snack bag like it personally offended you? click.

every trip has an official 'photo diary'. he’ll sit on the hotel balcony at 2am editing the day’s pics while you’re curled up in bed and he keeps whispering 'babe look at this one' every five seconds. you pretend to be annoyed but you love seeing how he sees you

jaafar is BIG on the 'stop, you gotta stand right here' moments. you’ll be walking through some pretty european street and suddenly he’s grabbing your hand, spinning you around, and positioning you in the golden hour light like you’re his personal muse. “just trust me, baby” — sir i’ve been standing here posing for ten minutes my legs are tired

he has an entire section on his camera roll labeled 'you + the world' and it’s the softest shit ever. pictures of your hands intertwined with different city backgrounds, your silhouette against mountains, you laughing while feeding street cats in italy…he prints some of them and puts them in a little travel journal he keeps

lowkey protective of his camera but will let you use it without hesitation. the one time you accidentally changed a setting and took blurry pics he just laughed, kissed your forehead, and said 'we’ll call these abstract art'

nighttime balcony shoots are a THING. after a long day exploring he’ll set up his camera for long exposure shots of the city lights and make you model in his hoodie or his jacket. half the time it turns into a full-on makeout session and the pics come out all blurry and dreamy and he still keeps them because 'they feel like us'

he gets this really focused look when he’s taking pictures of you and it makes you shy every single time. like the way his eyes soften behind the lens? lethal. you once asked him why he takes so many and he just shrugged and said 'i never wanna forget how you look when you’re happy with me'

surprise photo dumps on his close friends story that are literally just 47 pics of you. his friends are in the group chat like 'jaafar we get it' and he replies with more pics 💀

whenever you’re feeling insecure or having a bad travel day he pulls up the camera and starts hyping you up through the lens until you’re giggling and posing. it’s his love language at this point

by the end of every trip your suitcase has a new stack of printed polaroids or film scans that he secretly got developed. he labels them with dates and little notes like 'first time you tried real gelato' or 'the day you stole my heart in santorini again'

he’s not just documenting the places you go, he’s documenting the love story in real time and it’s the most jaafar thing ever 🥹

When you’d made it, you titled it ‘dancing in the kitchen’ and cringed slightly to yourself as you did, embarrassed at your own yearning for something that had felt so far out of reach. Now, though, it just makes you smile, that simple dream that had felt lightyears beyond reality was your everyday life. 

As you bend to take your shoes off, your back aches in protest, and you stand with a grimace. It seems like every day for the last few weeks had been a constant flurry of motion. There was always something for you to do, somewhere for you to go, someone for you to meet. It was always fun, that liveliness that summer brought no matter how old you got. Now, though, after weeks of going nonstop, you needed a break.

All you craved, with your whole body and soul, was a quiet night in. And, like Jaafar could read your mind, it seemed like that was exactly what was in store for you.

There’s something simmering on the stove, and when you stand in the doorway of the kitchen, you have the perfect view of Jaafar bent over the cutting board. The music is louder in here, still quiet enough to fade into the background but loud enough to cover the sounds of you coming home, especially with how focused Jaafar seems.

You take in the shape of him, the t-shirt stretched across his back and the sight of his arms as he chops something, head dipped down. As much as you enjoy watching him from a distance, you crave his contact and cross the space to reach him. Featherlight, you skate your hands along his ribs, wrapping your arms around his waist and feeling him jump at the contact as you rest your head against his back.

“I didn’t hear you come in,” he says, setting the knife down to twist in your hold, desperate to see you. The two of you have both been so busy, it seems like the only time you get to spend together is while you’re both asleep. As silly and dramatic as it sounds, he’s missed seeing you, feeling you like this.

In response, you just hum, a relaxed state of being taking over your body and making it nearly impossible for you to form a full sentence.

“You’re lucky I didn’t stab myself with that knife,” he continues, and you laugh, a sound that never fails to warm his heart. You push yourself upwards, and Jaafar bends down to kiss you softly.

“You’re dramatic,” you counter, speaking into the fraction of space between you before kissing him again. You’d be perfectly content to stay like this forever, but your jeans are digging into your hips and dinner is only halfway finished, so you pull yourself away.

By the time you return, jeans swapped for clothes better suited to a night of doing nothing, Jaafar’s made his way back to the stove, stirring something in a saucepan that continues to sizzle.

“Smells nice,” you say, leaning yourself back against the countertop and taking in the scene in front of you. Jaafar turns to smile at you over his shoulder, shaking his head when he realizes you were already looking. The music playing softly from the speakers fills the room, interspersed with the sounds coming from the stovetop.

The song ends, the beginning notes of the next one making a smile come to your face before you even realize it. It’s a song that had played on one of your first dates with Jaafar, and you’d gone home and added it to the playlist as you laid in bed, replaying your time with him over and over again in your head. 

Hearing it now makes you feel all sappy, and you’re considering if it would be too distracting if you went over to Jaafar and wrapped your arms around him again.

Before you can move, though, Jaafar is sliding the pan off the burner and turning towards you, hands reaching for you across the small space. You meet him in the middle of the kitchen, looping your hands around his neck as his find your waist. The two of you start to sway in time with the music, neither of you saying a word.

You’re simply enjoying being in each other’s company, cherishing the little moments of being together that have seemed few and far between in recent weeks. It’s a double-edged sword, having so many exciting things going on, especially when they pull the two of you in opposite directions.

Now, though, none of the matters, and it’s like the universe shrinks down to a pinhead. All that exists is you and Jaafar, dancing together in the kitchen, bathed in golden light as the sun begins to set over the skyline.

“Haven’t heard this song in forever,” Jaafar says quietly, looking down at you with an expression so full of love it makes your teeth ache.

“That’s what happens when a playlist is twelve hours long,” you joke, wrinkling your nose when Jaafar sticks his tongue out at you, the mood shifting towards something sweet and playful as the exhaustion of the week starts to evaporate, simply from being together. 

There’s always music playing in your apartment, sometimes its sweet and slow like this and other days, it’s the opposite end of the spectrum. In your weeks and months and years spent together, you and Jaafar have found a rhythm that’s wholly your own, filling the space you share with the things most important to you, like love and laughter and warm memories and always, always music.

The beat picks up, growing as the song progresses, and Jaafar shifts his hold, gently pulling your hands free to grab one in his own. He spins you outwards as the music swells and then tugs you back in, the both of you grinning and breathless with laughter by the time the song ends. It fades into something else, but the two of you keep swaying together. 

For a while, dinner sits forgotten on the stove as the two of you dance to the music that fills the kitchen, jazz fading into classical fading into something else entirely. The two of you are too wrapped up in each other to really notice, the music fading to the background like something in a movie.

After what felt like weeks without spending any real time together, the closeness of your bodies is like a balm to your exhaustion. The feeling of his heart beating in his chest, his pulse thrumming in his throat, relaxes you like nothing else. You feel his breathing, his lungs expanding and deflating beneath your palms as you settle your hands on his ribs, your hips moving together to the beat.

You feel his warm skin beneath your hands, exploring the map of his body like its uncharted territory. It very well could be, for all that you’ve been able to spend time like this lately. There’s something sensual about it, perhaps, but none of it is sexual. You both just want to be as close as possible, want to share the same air and time your breathing together the way you’ve synched your movements to the music.

Eventually, you’ll have to return to reality, eat and wash the dishes and complete whatever other household tasks have been neglected due to your hectic schedules. But you’ll do it all together, brimming with joy and trading kisses and laughter as the music floats through your apartment for the rest of the night, having become such a fixture of the evening you forget to turn it off before tumbling into bed.

this was so sweet omggg thank you for the request!! love me some good domestic fluff <3 please don't hesitate to send in an ask with any sort of request, i love hearing from you guys!! hope you enjoy this <3

2023 los angeles

if someone would've told you that during your acting class you would've fallen in love, you would've called them crazy. you hadn't walked into that classroom looking for anything other than becoming a better actor. romance wasn't part of the plan, and neither was finding someone who would slowly become your favorite part of every week. somehow, though, love had a way of slipping through the cracks when you weren't paying attention.

jaafar was different. he was kind, soft-spoken, endlessly patient, and so genuinely sweet that it caught you off guard. there was never any need for him to be the loudest person in the room or the center of attention. instead, he had this quiet warmth about him that naturally drew people in, and before long, you realized it had drawn you in too.

your teachers quickly noticed how well the two of you worked together and started pairing you for scene work whenever they could, always commenting on the "natural chemistry" between you. you didn't mind in the slightest. jaafar was an incredible actor, completely committed to every scene, and working opposite him always made you feel like a better performer yourself.

somewhere along the way, though, those scenes stopped feeling like just assignments.

every time the class was given a romantic monologue or an intimate scene, jaafar would look at you with such unwavering focus that the rest of the room seemed to disappear. he always held your gaze just a heartbeat longer than necessary, his eyes carrying a softness that wasn't written anywhere in the script. it was enough to make your pulse stumble, enough that more than once you nearly forgot your next line because all you could think about was how convincingly he looked at you.

the acting coaches praised the authenticity between you two, and neither of you had the heart to admit it was becoming less and less like acting.

then came the dates.

about a month into the class, jaafar had asked if you'd wanted to grab coffee before rehearsal one morning. the invitation had been casual enough that it didn't make your heart race until after you'd already said yes. the two of you exchanged numbers, met at a small coffee shop before class, and somehow spent nearly three hours talking.

he told you stories about his family. funny moments growing up, memories with his parents, stories about his siblings, aunts, and uncles that always made him smile while he told them. you noticed he never actually said anyone's name, but you hadn't thought much of it. everyone shared things differently, and if he wasn't ready to introduce names into those stories, you weren't going to pry.

instead, you found yourself wanting to know more about him.

he asked about your childhood, where you grew up, what first made you fall in love with acting, your favorite films, the places you wanted to travel, the dreams you hoped acting would someday make possible. every answer only led to another question, and before either of you realized it, you were laughing so much that you nearly forgot you had class to get to.

after that, the dates became a weekly tradition; sometimes it was coffee before class, other times it was dinner afterward. sometimes you'd wander around a bookstore for an hour, recommending your favorite novels to each other. other times you'd see a movie together, only to spend the drive home happily picking apart every performance like the acting students you were.

being together felt easy.

your first kiss happened after one of those dates, ironically, it was because of the michael movie. you had been scrolling through your phone when an article caught your attention, mentioning that the upcoming michael jackson biopic was still holding auditions as the filmmakers searched for the right actor to portray michael.

you turned your phone toward jaafar.

“you should audition for this,” you told him, having no idea that the very role you were showing him was the reason he was in your acting class to begin with.

jaafar looked down at the article before letting out a quiet chuckle to himself. there was something almost surreal about the moment. nobody in the class knew why he was really there. to everyone else, he was just another actor trying to sharpen his craft, another student chasing auditions and hoping for a big break.

if only you knew.

“i think you'd be really good for it. you're naturally soft-spoken like michael was, and really cute like michael,” you say without even thinking about it.

“oh, so you think i'm cute?” jaafar latched onto the one part of your sentence that made your composure immediately crumble.

you bit down on your lip as warmth rushed to your cheeks, silently cursing yourself for letting that one slip.

“yeah, yeah, you are... but seriously, i know taking on the king of pop would be a lot, but i think you can do it,” you said, trying to steer the conversation back to the movie.

jaafar's smile softened instantly. you had no idea how much those words meant to him. you didn't know he'd already been cast and the entire reason he'd spent the last several months in acting class was because he was preparing to become michael.

you didn't know the countless hours he'd spent questioning whether he was good enough, whether he could carry the weight of portraying not just a global icon, but his own uncle.

yet somehow, without knowing any of it, you looked at him and saw exactly what the filmmakers had seen. you believed he could do it before you even knew there was something to believe in.

he wished, more than anything, that he could've told you the truth right then and there.

“only if you audition for ola ray,” he said instead, teasing you about being his love interest in thriller. you giggled, your cheeks somehow growing even warmer as you rolled your eyes, unable to stop smiling.

“if they do a part two, i'll wait and audition for iman for remember the time, michael's first on screen kiss in all of his short films,” you said with a teasing smile.

jaafar raised an eyebrow. “oh, yeah? if you wanted to kiss me, you could just ask.” for a split second, your brain completely short-circuited. you stared at him, trying to decide if he'd actually just said that or if your imagination had gotten the better of you.

“hmm, you're so confident you're gonna get the role?” you teased, finally finding your footing again.

he laughed, shaking his head. “no, so if i don't, i'll have to watch you kiss someone else.”

your smile only widened. “now who wants to kiss who so bad?” you teased, thoroughly enjoying the way his cheeks immediately turned a deep shade of red.

it was impossible not to smile triumphantly at finally making him just as flustered as he'd made you, but your teasing only lasted for a moment. almost without thinking, you found yourself leaning a little closer across the table and jaafar noticed.

his smile softened again, his expression losing every ounce of playful confidence as something quieter settled over him. he lifted one hand slowly, giving you every opportunity to pull away, before gently cupping your jaw. his thumb rested lightly against your cheek, his touch careful and warm, as if he was still making sure this was really happening.

you both leaned in at the same time, closing the last few inches between you until your lips met in the middle in a soft, lingering kiss, right there in the middle of the coffee shop. it was gentle and tentative in all the best ways, like two people who had spent months dancing around their feelings had finally allowed themselves to stop pretending they weren't there.

when you finally pulled back, neither of you could stop smiling.

acting class had changed after that.

not because you and jaafar started acting any differently, but because now that your feelings were out in the open, neither of you were particularly good at hiding them anymore. there was still a level of professionalism the two of you maintained during class, always committed to your scenes and giving each other honest notes afterward, but the little things had become impossible for everyone else to miss.

the way he'd instinctively save the seat beside him before every class started, how the two of you were always the last to leave because one conversation somehow turned into five, or the soft smiles that would spread across both of your faces whenever your teachers announced you were paired together again. it didn't take long before everyone in the class realized there was clearly something more going on between the two of you.

for months, your lives settled into a routine that felt so natural it was hard to remember what acting class had been like before jaafar walked into it. the two of you continued performing together and keeping things mostly professional while you were there, but the moment class was over, he was yours.

some nights he took you out to dinner, while other nights you cooked together in your apartment, laughing every time one of you inevitably made a mess in the kitchen. movie nights became a weekly tradition, usually ending with your dog atlas insisting on curling up across both of your legs at the foot of your bed, refusing to move no matter how many times either of you tried.

sleepovers became so common that waking up beside jaafar started feeling as ordinary as waking up alone once had, and somewhere over the course of those months, he realized he didn't want to keep calling you the girl he was dating. he wanted you to be his girlfriend.

then came the day.

the moment graham king walked into your acting class, every conversation in the room came to an abrupt stop. nobody expected one of hollywood's biggest producers to casually walk into an acting studio, and judging by the confused looks everyone exchanged, no one had the slightest idea why he was there.

after introducing himself, he began talking about the michael biopic, explaining that after an extensive search, they had finally found the actor who would portray michael jackson.

sitting beside jaafar, you leaned over with a grin and gently nudged his arm. “did you audition like i told you to?” you tease.

jaafar let out a small laugh, but it did little to settle the nerves that had been building in his stomach since the moment he'd walked into class that morning.

you had noticed something was off almost immediately. he had been quieter than usual, smiling whenever you looked at him but seeming distracted, as though something was constantly pulling at the back of his mind. you'd assumed he was nervous about an audition or maybe something going on with his family, never imagining that the reason for his anxiety was sitting only a few feet away from him.

because jaafar already knew exactly why graham was there.

he knew that within the next few minutes, everyone in the room would learn who he really was, and as excited as he was for the announcement itself, all he could think about was you.

for weeks he'd been carrying around a completely different plan for today. after class, he was going to take you to dinner at one of your favorite restaurants before finally asking you to be his girlfriend. he'd thought about what he wanted to say more times than he could count, wanting the moment to be perfect because that's what you deserved.

now, he wasn't sure if he'd even get the chance.

he'd never wanted to keep something this big from you. graham had made it clear from the beginning that nobody in the acting class was to know he was jermaine jackson's son or michael's nephew. the entire point of sending him there was so he'd be treated like every other aspiring actor, not like someone with one of the most recognizable last names in the world. he needed to learn, to struggle, and to grow without anyone treating him differently because of who his family was.

still, that didn't stop the guilt that had quietly settled in his chest over the months he'd spent getting closer to you.

he'd told you stories about growing up, about his parents, his siblings, his aunts and uncles, carefully dancing around names every single time. there had been so many moments he'd wanted to tell you the truth, especially as your relationship became more serious, but every time he thought about it, he remembered the promise he'd made and convinced himself he'd explain everything once he was finally allowed to.

he just hadn't wanted you to find out like this.

“and we're excited to announce the lead for the michael movie is... jaafar jackson,” graham said. your entire body seemed to freeze.

you watched as jaafar slowly stood from his seat, an almost shy smile spreading across his face before he walked over to graham and accepted a congratulatory hug. for a moment, you couldn't hear anything except the pounding of your own heartbeat, your brain struggling to catch up with what had just been said before the room suddenly erupted into applause, cheers, and countless voices talking over one another in complete disbelief.

“this is jaafar's first acting role, so we sent him here to get some acting lessons and told him not to tell anyone his surname or that he's michael's nephew or that this class was to help him prepare for the role, so jaafar didn't lie to you all, we did,” graham explained, almost as though he knew exactly what everyone in the room was thinking.

while your classmates crowded around jaafar with congratulations and endless questions, his attention never left you. through the sea of people between you, his eyes searched your face, desperately trying to read an expression he suddenly couldn't understand.

you looked completely stunned.

your eyes were wide as you sat quietly in your seat, your hands folded together in your lap while everything you'd learned about jaafar over the last year replayed in your mind. all those stories about his family where he had never once said a name. the countless conversations you'd had about auditions and acting. every date, every night he'd spent at your apartment, every moment you'd shared together. for months, you'd fallen in love with a man who had kept something so unimaginably huge from you.

but even through the shock, graham's words echoed in your mind. jaafar didn't lie to you all, we did. he hadn't been allowed to tell you.

that realization didn't erase your surprise, but it kept your heart from immediately assuming the worst because, knowing jaafar the way you did, you couldn't imagine him willingly keeping something like this from you unless he truly had no choice.

your acting teacher eventually dismissed class early, knowing nobody was going to be focusing on scene work after an announcement like that.

the second you stood from your chair, jaafar felt his stomach drop, you were the first person to walk out of the room.

his smile faded almost instantly as panic settled over him. after quickly excusing himself from graham and apologizing to the classmates still trying to congratulate him, he hurried after you, his only thought being that he couldn't let you leave believing he'd intentionally kept this from you.

“baby,” he gently grabbed your wrist once you were both outside and turned you around. you didn't pull back from him, but you also didn't know what to say. t

here were so many thoughts racing through your mind that you couldn't seem to grab onto just one long enough to put it into words, and judging by the nervousness written all over jaafar's face, he was terrified of what you were about to say.

“this whole time?” you finally asked, your voice quieter than you'd intended and jaafar's heart sank.

“i wasn't trying to be malicious, or trick you, or intentionally lie to you, i promise,” jaafar says, his voice soft and full of sincerity. you nodded.

“i know but i just... i mean i get it, but... we've been going on dates for nearly a year, i've told you things i've never told anyone... i invited you into my home, my bed... i let you meet my dog, i don't let anybody meet atlas, because he usually hates everyone,” you say, and hearing yourself say it out loud makes you realize how ridiculous that last part sounds. despite everything weighing on your heart, you couldn't help letting out a small laugh. “but he really loves you,” you say, and jaafar can't help laughing too.

“i really love atlas too. i wanted to tell you, so many times, i did,” he says and you frown, because that was the other thing that held jaafar back from asking you to be his girlfriend.

he didn't want to enter a serious relationship with you if you didn't know the truth. every time he'd thought about asking you, the excitement of finally making things official had been followed by the same nagging feeling in the back of his mind.

if you found out afterward, would you think he'd built your relationship on a lie? would you feel betrayed that something so significant had been kept from you for so long? he wanted the two of you to start that next chapter with complete honesty between you, but every time he'd come close to telling you himself, he remembered the promise he'd made to graham.

he'd convinced himself that once the announcement was public, he'd finally be able to explain everything to you, answer every question you had, and then ask you to be his girlfriend knowing there would be no more secrets between you.

“did you not trust me? i wouldn't have said anything to anyone,” you say and jaafar immediately shakes his head.

“i know, baby... i know you wouldn't. i should've told you, i should've never let it be an ambush like that in class,” he says, guilt evident in his voice. “i hated watching you find out like that.”

you slowly ran your fingers back through your hair, trying to make sense of the last several months before your eyes suddenly widened.

“so months ago during one of our early dates when i told you that you should audition for the movie because you'd probably be good for it...” you trail off and he nods.

“yeah...” he says. you let out a disbelieving laugh, still trying to wrap your head around it.

“and all the stories about when your uncle would take you, your siblings, and your cousins to the amusement park and to the zoo, you really meant—” he gently cuts you off.

“family days at neverland ranch,” he says as he bites down on his lip to suppress a smile.

the words hung in the air between you, and suddenly every conversation you'd ever had with him replayed differently in your mind. all those stories he'd told you over coffee, during late-night drives home, or while the two of you were curled up watching movies suddenly had names attached to them.

he hadn't been vague because he didn't want to share his life with you. he'd been vague because he was trying to share as much of it as he could without breaking the promise he'd made.

“wow... wow,” you say, because you're not sure what else to say. “so michael is really your uncle?” you ask and jaafar nods.

“yeah.”

“so who's your dad?” you ask.

“you can't tell?” he asks with a teasing smile.

you roll your eyes, but you find yourself studying his face again, this time with completely different eyes than before. you'd spent nearly a year memorizing every feature of his face without ever thinking about who he resembled, but now that you knew the family he came from, the resemblance became impossible to ignore.

recognition washed over you almost immediately, followed by a laugh as you realized you'd noticed it before and convinced yourself you were imagining things.

“i always thought you looked like jermaine, but thought i was crazy for thinking that,” you say, and jaafar laughs while shaking his head.

“well you'd be right, jermaine is my dad,” he says.

you nodded slowly, and the silence that settled between you felt different this time. the brief moment of teasing had faded as the reality of everything finally settled over you. for nearly a year, you'd been falling in love with someone from one of the most well-known families in music, and you'd had absolutely no idea.

somehow, despite everything that had just changed, when you looked at jaafar, you still saw the same man you'd shared countless dinners with, the same man atlas adored for reasons neither of you could explain, the same man who held your hand during movies and kissed you goodbye after every date. he didn't suddenly feel like someone else.

he still felt like jaafar.

“i should probably... go now,” you say, needing a little time to process everything you'd just learned. jaafar's heart immediately dropped.

“wait, before you do... can i tell you what i wanted to tell you today?” he asks, and you raise an eyebrow, surprised that after everything that had just happened, there could possibly be something else he wanted to say.

“you had something to follow up being told you're michael jackson's freaking nephew?” you ask, and a soft chuckle escapes him.

“i had a whole plan for today, for after class. i was going to ask you to get dinner with me again, and i had this whole speech prepared,” jaafar says.

you raise an eyebrow. “a speech?”

“a big one,” he says, the nervous smile on his face making it obvious he'd probably rehearsed it over and over in his head.

despite everything still swirling around in your mind, the image of jaafar standing in front of his bathroom mirror practicing a speech made the corners of your mouth lift into the first genuine smile you'd had since graham's announcement. seeing that smile appear on your face seemed to let him breathe for the first time all afternoon, and you realized he wasn't worried about whether you knew he was a jackson anymore.

he was worried about whether you still wanted whatever the two of you had been building toward for the last year. you walked over to the bench nearby before sitting down, then looked up at him and nodded toward the empty spot beside you.

“okay, i'll hear your speech,” you say.

jaafar lets out a quiet laugh, relief softening every bit of tension in his face as he realizes you're giving him exactly what he'd hoped for.

a chance.

“during this dinner, i wanted to tell you that i’ve never met anyone like you. i had come to this acting class to learn, before taking on the weight of a global icon, i expected to go through monologues, learn techniques, learn what it means to be an actor, but i hadn’t expected you,” jaafar says.

your smile immediately softens, warmth blooming in your chest despite everything that had happened over the last hour. he was standing there in front of you, clearly nervous, pouring his heart out exactly the way he'd planned to before his entire world had been turned upside down. as sweet as it was, though, you couldn't resist teasing him just a little.

“is the whole speech this corny?” you ask. jaafar lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he looks down at the ground for a second before looking back at you.

“that right there, is one of the things i love most about you, because i'm in love with you... and i was scared that if you knew who i really was that maybe you'd end up only seeing the jackson name. you made me feel normal, where i didn't have to be the man who came from a famous family, i could just be jaafar, a first time actor trying to learn what the hell to do,” he says.

you let out a soft laugh at the end of his sentence, but it was quickly overtaken by the sting behind your eyes.

he loved you. he hadn't stumbled over the words or said them by accident. he'd said them with complete certainty, like he'd been carrying them around for months, just waiting for the right moment to finally let you hear them.

suddenly, the shock of everything you'd learned that afternoon became so much smaller than the man standing in front of you. the famous last name, the movie, the pressure that was about to consume his life, none of it seemed nearly as important as the vulnerability in his eyes as he waited for you to hear him out.

“jaafar…” you say.

he gently shakes his head with a small smile, he's not done.

“i love our movie nights. i love when atlas lays on our legs and i can't move because it means i get to have you closer. i love when you dance while cooking when you think no one's watching you. i love how you yell at characters in movies for making dumb choices. i love you, baby, and i'm sorry i didn't tell you who i was sooner and you had to find out with everyone else, but i would love for you to be my girlfriend, if you'll still have me,” jaafar says.

your eyes widened as the last of his words settled over you, and before you could stop them, tears spilled down your cheeks. every little thing he'd listed wasn't some grand romantic gesture, they were the ordinary moments, the quiet moments, the ones that happened when nobody else was around.

he hadn't fallen in love with some perfect version of you, it made your heart ache in the most beautiful way.

jaafar finally let out the breath he'd been holding before walking over and sitting down beside you on the bench. the adrenaline that had been carrying him through his confession suddenly disappeared, leaving him feeling almost lightheaded as he took a slow, steadying breath. he'd finally said everything he'd spent weeks rehearsing.

now all that was left was your answer.

“i love you too, jaafar... it hit me so hard it scared me, but seeing you curled up asleep in my bed, i just thought to myself... i always want to wake up like this, next to him. i don't care what your last name is. i don't care if you came from the richest family or the poorest. i love you, and i would love to be your girlfriend,” you say.

the moment the words left your mouth, the nervousness he'd been carrying all day completely melted away. without wasting another second, jaafar reached up and gently cupped your face before pulling you toward him, kissing you with everything he'd been holding back for the last hour.

you melted into him just like you always did whenever he kissed you, your arms naturally wrapping around his neck as your fingers found the curls resting against the nape of his neck, gently playing with them the way you knew he loved. the kiss was slow and unhurried, filled with every emotion the two of you had struggled to put into words that afternoon.

when you finally pulled apart, neither of you moved very far away. your foreheads nearly touched, your noses brushing as you both smiled through damp eyes, completely content just to exist in the quiet moment the two of you had fought so hard to get back.

“the next few years... however long it takes to make this movie... it's going to be a lot,” he whispers to you.

you nodded before answering just as quietly. “i know.” there wasn't any fear in your voice, only understanding.

you'd watched how dedicated he'd been to acting over the last year, and if portraying michael required even more of him than acting class had, then you already knew the road ahead wasn't going to be easy. you weren't walking into this relationship expecting all of his time or attention. you knew this role meant something bigger than either of you.

“between rehearsals and filming, i don't know what my schedule will always look like, but i promise... i will always prioritize our weekly dates,” jaafar says.

you smiled and nodded.

you'd already anticipated that the movie was going to consume most of his life for a while. it was the opportunity of a lifetime, one he'd worked unbelievably hard for, and you would never ask him to choose between you and the dream he'd sacrificed so much to achieve.

instead, you reached over and intertwined your fingers with his.

“i'll be here every step of the way,” you promise.

the conviction in your voice made something soften behind his eyes. through everything that had happened that day, through the fear that you'd walk away after learning who he really was, the only thing he'd wanted was for you to still choose him, and you had.

“i love you,” he says.

the words still felt new.

hearing them sent warmth flooding through your chest all over again, and you couldn't stop the smile that spread across your face. you weren't used to hearing someone say them to you like that, with such certainty and tenderness, but you already knew you could spend the rest of your life listening to him.

“i love you too,” you whisper back.

his smile only grew before he leaned in and kissed you again.

He spends a lot of time on his phone these days. Scrolling through his camera roll and letting the corner of his lips twitch in amusement at the numerous photos he keeps of Tanner and Penny, flicking through social media and slowly feeling his brain rot away, whatever it takes to keep his mind busy and away from his situation.

Tonight, he lays on the couch, Petunia tucked into the crook between his outstretched legs despite how large she has gotten in the past year. The weight of her against his body is reassuring – a reminder that he’s still loved despite it all, even if it was mainly by his spur-of-the-moment dog. One hand drags a soothing line along the crease between her eyes while the other scrolls through social media, half-lidded in that weird liminal space between boredom and mildly entertained.

Just as he’s about to finally set the device down and let his brain wash away with Survivor re-runs, his phone buzzes with a singular text, peaking his interest again. The name on the message is what has him sitting up so fast that it startles the golden retriever on his lap.

If he looked back on any time in his past, Frank would find you. He had been great friends with your older brother, especially since your family had lived next door for as long as he could remember. He had spent a lot of time at your house or at social mixers that your parents tended to throw for the neighborhood, smiling at the side of your brother as you had bickered as siblings do.

It wasn’t like you had spent a lot of alone time together. A quick conversation in the kitchen as he came down for a snack, a playful taunt from his lips when you had tried a new outfit or hairstyle, splashing you with the hose when you were just watching them gallivant outside during the hot summers.

One of the last times Frank saw you, you were still a teenager. Wide-eyed and yet still believing that the entire world was against you, friendship bracelets littering your wrists and a streak of red in your hair from when your mother had finally allowed you to add just one color.

You had sat behind the shoulder of your brother, arms crossed over your chest as both of your families and numerous friends from the neighborhood crooned their sadness that he was leaving for college. The entire day of his going away party, you had stayed quiet and compliant, although you had never attempted to leave.

That night, as the crowd dwindled and everyone started cleaning up, you had curled one arm around his waist like you were afraid to touch him and murmured an “i’ll miss you” into his ribcage. He had simply pulled you closer until you were forced to add your other arm around him, squeezing you closer and whispering the secret right back into your hair. You’ve talked every now and then since he left. Your parents are still close to his own, which means he tends to see you every time he visits his family, although the two of you never mention the night he left. Sometimes, you’ll send him a quick text asking a medical question. 

How do you know if your sunburn is sun poisoning? 

What’s an emergency-room level fever? 

My finger is swollen but I can move it. Is it broken?

He always entertained the small bits of conversation he could grab from you, even when he had been with Abby. When she had asked about you, he had just called you his childhood friend’s younger sister, even if it made something churn in his stomach.

And now, after a few months of no medical inquiries hitting his inbox, there you are.

YOU: i have a question FRANK: you always do YOU: this isn’t about my health FRANK: didn’t know you could ask questions that weren’t about your health YOU: ha ha YOU: listen YOU: hold on. can i call you?

Frank sits up a little taller, passing an apologetic glance towards Petunia when she lets out an annoyed groan at how much he’s fidgeting. He looks around his apartment like you’re going to be able to see his cluttered living room through the phone before responding with the most nonchalant yes he can muster.

His phone rings only a few moments later, a young photo of you filling his screen from your contact. He answers after letting it vibrate once against his palm, clearing his throat before the microphone turns on. “Hello?”

“Frank!” His name comes out in a squeak. “Uh, hey. How are you?”

He can’t help the small smile that blooms, looking around his empty apartment. You weren’t filled in on his divorce yet, he assumed. “Peachy,” he lies easily. “What’s up?”

There’s rustling on your side of the line before a heavy sigh. “Hey, I need to ask you a favor. It’s big, and it’s okay if you don’t have an answer right now, but I just… I don’t know.” Your words are rushed, nervousness seeping through every word.

“Hey,” he coos calmly. “Stop freaking out or you’re gonna make me think you need help hiding a body.”

“Ha-ha.” A sarcastic response just like the one you had texted him. He grins again at the thought. “Okay. I’ll cut to it.”

Another heavy sigh seeps through the speaker, crackling in his ear. “Is there any way I can stay with you for a week? I know that you have Tanner and Penny, plus I don’t know how Abby will feel about it, but I’m waiting for my new place in Pittsburgh to open up, but my new job needs me to start this week and it won’t be available until Tuesday at the latest and I don’t really know how many nights at a hotel I can afford or mentally stand.”

Frank’s eyebrows raise so high on his forehead that he’s sure they’ve integrated themself into his hairline. His lips part, then close, then part again as he runs your rushed words through his head over and over. Then, he swallows, shaking his head. “You’re moving to Pittsburgh? I thought you were living with a boyfriend or something, a few minutes from home.”

“Uh, yeah.” You laugh, although it sounds strained. He can imagine you now, twirling a strand of hair around your pointer finger as you paced. He saw it a lot during the teenage years, watching you try to convince your parents through the phone that you really wanted to go to a friend’s sleepover, even though you were actually trying to sneak out to some house party. “No boyfriend anymore. No boyfriend, no home. Bye-bye. To Pittsburgh, I go, seeking employment opportunities.”

He’s quiet again for another moment, mulling it over. His thoughts run so fast that he finally peels himself off of his couch, taking a page out of your book and pacing along the line of his rug. 

He must’ve been quiet for way too long, because you speak again. “You can take your time to give me an answer. I’ll drive down there at the end of this weekend, so there’s a few days to think it over. I just wanted to ask in advance rather than show up on your doorstep.”

And thank God you didn’t. You’d find your way to “his” house and be greeted by his ex-wife, who still says his name with a slice of distaste. You’d find out from her about everything that’s happened in the past two years of his life – drug addiction, rehab, divorce, custody agreements, consistent loneliness minus man’s best friend, Petunia.

“Uh,” he says stupidly.

Everything he could say turns into dust on his tongue, unable to get out a single word. How does he explain all of this? That the charming teenager you once knew, who was consistently surrounded by good friends that were always willing to celebrate him, had lost his college sweetheart in a messy divorce after throwing his back out, getting addicted to benzos and almost losing his job?

Lord knows Frank has lost all of his ego at this point in his life, other than his promise of being a good doctor, but he can almost ensure that you liked who he was as a teenager. His childhood and teenage years were filled with your wide eyes, asking him to open jars for you or to drive you to some friend’s house. When your first boyfriend had broken up with you, he had been the one who had picked you up from his house, ignoring the squeeze in his chest at the sight of your red eyes as he promised not to tell your brother.

“Can we talk about it? When you come in on Sunday?” He asks. 

Three days. Three days is all he has to figure out what exactly he’s going to tell you. Three days to come to terms with the fact that you may never see him the same ever again.

He isn’t sure why he cares so much. His parents knew of his divorce, of his ten-month stint in rehab. It’d been hard enough to tell them, and he had survived, but telling you feels like an entire weight sitting on his chest.

Your next words come out too hopeful. “Yeah! Okay!” Then, with a grin so wide he can hear it without seeing your face, you make a last minute addition. “At least I get to see you once, even if Abby ends up saying no to me staying.”

Abby, Abby, Abby. Why did you feel the incessant need to bring her up? Even if he was still married to her, he had known you way before she had even existed, had had numerous conversations about topics that didn’t include her.

Instead of being annoyed about it, he chooses to instead stick to the happy feelings that you being excited to see him gave him. “Yeah. It’ll be good to hang out again,” he responds. “Can update me on what Adrian did to have you runnin’ from him.”

“Adam,” you correct. He knew that, of course, but he feels warm at the laugh that shortly follows. “I’ll happily get into that. My brother doesn’t allow me to talk about him much anymore, so I have a lifetime worth of bad stories and ruined memories and icks to rant about.”

Now, it’s Frank’s turn to laugh. “Noted. I will happily listen.”

“I know you will. You always did.” Your voice gets softer as you trail off. 

Warning bells go off in his head at the first fluttering beat of his heart. Oh, this is wrong. So, so wrong. 

Before you can say anything else and mess with his head more, he lets out a heavy sigh. “Alrighty, sunshine, I have to get to bed so I can get to my shift in time tomorrow. Text me on Saturday and we can figure out a place to meet, okay?”

You let out a soft groan into the phone, probably evidence of a late-night stretch. “Okay, Frank. Talk to you Saturday.”

“See you Sunday,” he responds in a murmur.

He’s not the one that hangs up.

For all of Friday, your name does not grace his phone. He checks every free moment that he gets during his shift, but each time he is met with a blank notification screen.  If it wasn’t for the fact that you sat at the top of his messages and call log, he’d be able to convince himself that he made the whole situation up. You weren’t moving to Pittsburgh, you weren’t asking to stay at his apartment, he didn’t have to finally owe up to all of his transgressions.

Every time Frank reminds himself of the fact, an uncomfortable feeling crawls up his spine until it settles in his chest, pressing down on his lungs until he is aware of every heartbeat. He feels foolish for the way he digs the heel of his palm into his sternum, pressing his eyes closed and trying to will his body to stop punishing him for his brain’s doing.

He’s never been good at being vulnerable. As a child, he’d split his knee open falling off of his bike just to get up a moment later, laughing until he wheezed despite the dull ache in his leg and the blood trickling down his calf. As a teenager, he’d met heartbreak and hard times with a persistent need to show how well he was doing despite it all, even if he was just proving it to himself.

And now, as an adult, he goes the route of just ignoring it. Letting himself indulge in the things that he knows he shouldn’t, not allowing anyone to see past the mirage he has set up. He’s Frank Langdon, MD, an excellent emergency medicine resident with a confidence big enough to outweigh any Olympic athlete.

Unfortunately, with you, he cannot act like everything is okay. He knows that the second he looks into your wide eyes, staring into a memory of what he used to have and what he used to be, everything will fizzle up like the spark at the end of a detonating cord. You’ve always brought out his honesty, a personal truth serum in the form of billowy hair and flavored lipgloss.

Saturday morning, it rains in Pittsburgh. He doesn’t get to see it much due to being in the hospital all day, but the smell of petrichor seeps in the ambulance bay and water droplets cling to the hair of everyone who comes through the doors. Whenever he gets a free chance, he sits in the bay, listening to the rain hit the concrete and letting his mind dull for a moment.

It’s late, moonlight filtering through dark clouds to barely illuminate the flooded street. The thunderstorm that’s been threatening to arrive all week has finally decided to make its dramatic entrance, just in time to add upon Frank’s soured mood.

His mother would throw a fit if she saw what he was doing now. Clothes soaked and stuck to his skin, his hoodie doing absolutely nothing to keep the cold out, perched on his family’s roof. It’d been too easy to climb out of the window in his bedroom, especially with everything in his head screaming at him to just get out of the house.

Now, he sits in the rain, arms wrapped around his knees as he watches the raindrops glide down the shingles and into the gutter. All the collected water pours out into his yard, creating a larger and larger puddle as the night goes on.

He’s not sure how long he’s been out here, listening to the soft patter of the rain and the frequent booms of thunder. His mind has been more occupied by other things, such as the heavy scolding he had gotten from his coach after tonight’s game, or the passive-aggressive brush-off he had gotten from his girlfriend when he had tried to invite her out to the diner afterwards.

It was stupid, how much the sport controlled every aspect of his life. He had no intention of becoming a D1 athlete, and the only reason he had committed to the team in the first place was due to the need for a social life and perhaps the chance at a scholarship. Instead, it had affected everything else in his life. His classmates and teachers opinion of him, his father’s pride, his schedule, his own self-esteem.

“You’re gonna catch a cold! Or get struck by lightning!”

Frank barely hears the yell over the downpour, head turning and eyes squinting to try and look through the mist. Your bedroom light sticks out like a lighthouse on the shore, backlighting your silhouette from where you lean out your window.

His brow furrows. “It is way past your bedtime!” he calls back. It’s all an assumption. He has absolutely no idea what time it is.

Rather than respond, you disappear away from the window. He’s just about to turn around and pretend you had never been there when your outline appears again, now in a thick coat. Before he can even think about what you may be doing, your foot peeks out of your window, finding the thick branch of the tree that stretches between your houses.

“Hey! No!” He scolds. Either his voice is carried away by the storm or you choose to ignore him, because a few minutes later, your boot-covered feet are atop his roof.

As soon as you find solid footing, you unfurl an umbrella that he hadn’t been able to see before. You clutch something to your chest as you slide over to where he sits, thigh pressing against his as you settle.

“Here,” you say. “I brought you a new sweatshirt so you don’t turn into an ice cube. It’s one of my brother’s, I think.”

You hold the umbrella up and pass the hoodie over to him. He palms it for a moment, stealing the warmth before glancing at you in his peripheral. “How am I supposed to change into this?”

“I won’t look, if that’s what you’re worried about. But, just a fair warning, I’ve already seen your bare torso plenty of times in the last years we’ve known each other.” The remark is deadpan, but even in the dark, he can see the amusement in your eyes.

He rolls his eyes, reaching over to gently nudge you in the side. Without another word, he reaches down to pull off his drenched hoodie, setting it beside him. His chest is bare for just a moment before he tugs the new hoodie on, arranging his body so that he doesn’t accidentally stick his now-dry sleeve back into the rain.

After he has it situated, Frank turns back to you. “Thank you,” he murmurs.

You squirm to make sure the both of you fit comfortably beneath the umbrella, pressing closer to Frank. If you notice the way you’re practically tucked into his side, you don’t give any inclination, and he’s not exactly itching to bring it up. 

“Don’t mention it,” you reply sheepishly. “You look sad enough without the wet dog look.”

A cold wind breezes over the two of you, a shudder wracking your body. Without thinking about it too hard, he raises his arm to drape it over your shoulders, fingers pressing into your bicep as he rubs up and down to create friction. Rather than fight, you sink into the touch, relaxing beneath his touch.

This was fine. This is what friends did, he lies.

“Why are you choosing to torture yourself with this weather?” You ask, forehead leaning against his chest. “We could be cozy in bed right now.”

You pause, then quickly add, “Our own beds. In our separate houses.”

He laughs, giving you a soft squeeze. The sound fades out slowly as he thinks more about your question, eyes looking out upon the neighborhood again. “Had a hard day.”

A knowing hum is your answer, plucking at the ends of your sleeves to keep your hands busy. “Because of the game?” You guess.

Now that you’re not shivering anymore, he drops his arm, palm flattening on the roof behind your hips. He’s not exactly ready to uncurl himself from you, but there had to be a bit of distance, for his sake. “Something like that.”

Your lips twitch in dissatisfaction at the answer, brow furrowing as you look up at him. As soon as he finally catches your eye, your palm covers his knee, ignoring the way his jeans stick to his skin. “You can talk about it if you want, Frank. Or even if you don’t want to and it’s just that it’ll help.”

A smile unfurls on his lips before he can stop it, a fond look eclipsing over his face. He wraps his arm around your waist, pulling you in for a hug and letting out a relieved sigh when you prop your chin on his shoulder. “I don’t need to but thank you, sunshine. I‘m glad you came out here.”

Your nose presses into his skin, breath brushing against the side of his neck. “Of course. Couldn’t let you catch a cold all on your own, you’d get lonely.”

After a moment, you finally pull back, lips spreading into a grin. “Wanna come over? We can watch a movie if you’re still not able to sleep.”

“I am not climbing across a tree into your room,” he immediately responds. Your face falls and he scrambles to add, “but you can come over to mine?”

Immediately, that grin is back, making him laugh. He pats at your arm playfully before grabbing the umbrella from you, gesturing towards his window. “Go ahead. I’ll keep you dry.”

Frank’s interrupted from his reminiscing by a few buzzes in his pocket, pulling out his phone with a hefty sigh. Almost like he’s summoned you, his screen is littered with multiple texts from you.

YOU: it is saturday YOU: we need to plan a place to meet tomorrow YOU: and by we, i mean you. i don’t live there YOU: what do you suggest?

He responds quickly with the location of some diner he used to frequent when he just got out of rehab, his second text a simple thumb’s up emoji and a question mark. The less words he used, the better, especially with the way all of his emotions tend to go on overdrive talking to you.

You respond quickly. It’s simple, an agreement and a note about how you were excited to see him, but it still makes his chest tighten.

That night, alone in his apartment yet again, Frank sits down on his couch with a journal on his lap. It’s still wrapped in the plastic, purchased brand new on his way home from work alongside the pack of pens resting next to his thigh. He glances down at Petunia, who’s draped herself over his feet in the exhaustion lingering from her nap, chewing on the inside of his cheek in thought.

Finally, he presses his thumbnail into the plastic until it gives way, ripping the rest of it off soon after. He cracks open the pens next, curling his fingers around one and leaving the rest in the package.

He had journaled a lot during his time in rehab. His therapist had brought it up after he’d stonewalled her during his first few appointments, retreating into an invisible shell as he went through withdrawal and felt the dull pain in his back for the first time in what felt like ages. She’d ran the pad of her finger over the outside of the journal as she explained to him that it’d be good for him to get all of his feelings out, even if he continued to ignore her in person.

At first, he thought it was stupid. Writing until his hand cramped wouldn’t take back the fact that he was an addict, or that he craved these stupid pills that he thought he was only taking for a persistent pinched nerve, or that his wife had looked at him like some kind of criminal as she tucked a crying Tanner behind her back when he said goodbye. The cramps wouldn’t cover up the persistent ache in his chest that everything he had ever worked so hard to have and to keep had been wiped away by a stupid mistake, something that he could’ve controlled if he was even an ounce of a better man.

It started as letters to Abby. She never answered the ones that he actually sent, so he decided to stop embarrassing or restraining himself. He filled up page after page with his crimes and confessions, writing about their good memories in hopes of trying to push away the present. At the end of each letter, he’d tally up how many times he had written out an apology and try to push to add more the next time he wrote, as if any condolences would be enough to cover up what he had done.

Then, he branched out. He wrote to Dana and Robby and his parents, keeping all of the words hidden and safe and locked in his journal. Within the pages he could confirm that none of his words would be twisted by those who already thought negatively of him. He could just be the Frank Langdon he knew himself to be, even if his opinion got a bit shaky sometimes.

He wrote to you. After he had scrawled your name on the page in his doctor handwriting, he stared at it for a while, wondering what had possessed him to think of you in a time like this. Admittedly, he hadn’t remembered the last time you had crossed his mind and it wasn’t because you had shown up at a family event with a new boyfriend and a new hair color.

Rather than stop himself, he let himself write whatever came to mind. He wrote about all the times he had helped you out and you had said “I’m sorry,” until he pinky-promised you that he didn’t mind. A subconscious smile pulled at his lips when he wrote about the time his father had burnt the hot dogs on his grill for the fourth of July and you had still eaten the entire thing, even if he could see the grimace on your face with every bite. 

He talked about how it was now his turn to apologize to you. For not thinking of you as often now that he had moved away and gotten out of medical school. For all the times he had secretly judged you for all of your vices, such as your need for constant change or your inability to find your boyfriends interesting after a few months. For not being the perfect guy you always saw him as.

Frank’s newly eighteen. He sits on his roof, the same spot he’s gone to every single time he finds his mind to become a bit too much. It’s become a sanctuary without walls since that night you had crawled out here and sat with him, even if it ended in the both of you waking up with a cold when the morning light came in. Some nights, you still come out and join him, limbs pressed together as you both acted like they weren’t.

Like clockwork, you join him about ten minutes after he’s settled onto the shingles. You don’t even grace him with a greeting. You just sit down, pulling your knees to your chest and trying to find what his eyes have decided to focus on.

“The cardinal over there?” You guess.

He nods without looking at you. He doesn’t need to look at you, not when the wind brings your perfume to him like an offering and your body heat seeps through his clothes despite how cold your hands always tend to be. 

The both of you are quiet for a moment, listening to the sounds of the cars driving through the neighborhood or the planes flying overhead. Every once in a while, he catches you trying to find what he’s looking at, like a curious child.

You break the silence with a heavy sigh, head turning to look at him. He finally allows himself the grace to look at you, giving you a soft smile to show that he’s okay. 

“I’m going to miss you,” you confess. “While you’re away at school.”

Frank nods again, even though it’s not really a rebuttal to what you had said. Realizing his lack of response, he reaches out to wrap his fingers around your forearm, giving it a soft reassuring squeeze. “I’ll come back,” he promises. “I’m not gonna leave this place in the rearview mirror.”

Now it’s your turn to smile, eyes following his hand as he returns it back to his lap. “Good,” you reply. “Who else is gonna pick me up from bad dates and sneak me cigarettes?” That mischievous grin that you wear like a second skin, or like an armor depending on the conversation, pops up. 

“Some other sucker,” he retorts. 

That silence returns when your giggle ends, hanging over the both of you. Unable to sit in the silence, you break it with another confession.

“I always thought you were too cool for anything when I first met you.” Your thumb brushes over your kneecap, wrinkling and smoothening the fabric of your jeans. “Even as young as we were, you seemed like you didn’t want to hear anything from anyone. Always your way or the highway. And then you became friends with my brother and you were everywhere and you were such a nerd.”

You laugh at his eye roll, passing him a look that tells him to wait for your point and not say anything. “I realized you weren’t too cool very quickly. Your limbs were too lanky and you fumbled over your words and you overcompensated by holding onto that same oozing confidence I had seen the minute we had moved in.”

Your teeth dig into your bottom lip for a moment before you continue. “But even if you’re not as untouchable as I thought you once were, I still think you’re perfect, Frank.” Despite the raw way the words come out, you say them louder than your murmured confessions, sporting a wide grin. “I hope you remember that when you’re becoming a big hotshot doctor.”

Frank sighs as he runs his fingers over the fresh pages of his brand new notebook, listening to the sound of paper fluttering. He grips the pen in his hand tighter, finally cracking the spine of the journal as he peels it open on his lap.

For the first time since he left rehab, he writes.

On Sunday morning, Frank arrives at the diner half an hour early. As he settles into the booth, his fingers tighten around the bag he carries, glancing around like you’d pop up out of nowhere.

While he waits, regretting his decision to have come in early in order to avoid the awkwardness of an introduction, he finishes two glasses of water and asks for another refill. His body feels unbelievably hot and he feels fidgety, adjusting his position in his seat multiple times and squirming at the crack of leather that follows every time he moves.

Five minutes after the time the both of you had agreed upon, the bell above the door chimes. His head turns so fast that a tendon pops, eyes landing upon you.

He wasn’t expecting you to look the same. Every time he sees you, no matter how long or short your time apart has been, there’s something different about you. A new color added to your hair or a complete change, a new style of outfits, another decorative piercing. A new tattoo if you were feeling extra adventurous in some foreign country.

Even knowing that, his breath catches at the sight of you. His blue eyes are wide when you finally look at him, your face brightening while he looks like a deer in headlights. He tries to match your smile, but it’s very obviously shaky.

When you get closer, he finally stands up, hand propped on the back of the booth as he greets you. “Hey, stranger.”

He can not find a single trace of anxiety on your features as you grin, reaching out to jab your finger into his chest. “Says you,” you tease. You slip into the opposite side of the booth, palms flattening on the table. “You’re the one who’s too busy to come home these days. It’s been, what, two years or so?”

Frank’s chest tightens again. He sits down to hide the tremble in his knees, exhaling so hard that a napkin flutters. “It’s been, uh, a busy two years,” he responds. “Would’ve come out if I could.”

You grab a menu, already feeling at home in this diner you’ve never been to. “With what? Saving lives? Or is Abby keeping you busy?”

There’s her name again, falling off her lips as if you get a dollar for every time that she’s mentioned. He grabs his own menu to try and hide the shaking of his hands, holding it up to hide his face.

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.

“Abby and I aren’t together anymore,” he admits. He lets the words drop off of his tongue rather than trying to say them gently. He had tried the gentle approach with everyone else he has told and it had only ended up one of two ways – they either pitied him until he couldn’t take it anymore or felt disgusted by the fact that he let himself cave into his addiction.

He spares a glance at you again once there’s enough quiet to suffocate him. You stare at him, your menu now laying flat on the table, and he decides to just keep going while you’re stunned already to rip off the bandaid. “We divorced after I went to rehab.”

You physically recoil in surprise, blinking your eyes as you try to put together all of the information. “Okay.” You draw out the word, trying to fill the space as if you were afraid he’d suddenly drop another bomb. “That’s not what I was expecting out of this catch-up. I thought you were just going to tell me fun stories about working in an emergency room.”

To his surprise, you thread your fingers together, resting both of your elbows on the table and holding his eyes. “Do you want to explain, or leave it at that?”

Frank’s shoulders lower more and more as he spills it all. Now that the harsh facts are out there, it’s easier for him to let everything else spill out. The back injury, the benzos addiction, the fallout at work, the rehab and the divorce. He tries not to let the emotions of them seep through, tries to stick to just the facts, but there’s a few things that slip through the cracks.

It’s easy to spill his guts to you. His own personal truth serum.

When he finishes, he clears his throat, suddenly bashful. “And there’s one more thing.”

He finally reaches into the bag he brought along, fingers closing around the journals inside and pulling them out. Before he can second guess it, he slides them across the table, watching as your hands move to keep them from falling off. 

“Diaries?” you guess lightheartedly.

“Kind of.” Frank chuckles, reaching up to scratch at the back of his neck. “I wrote a lot in rehab. My therapist recommended it. There’s a, uh, letter in there. For you. It’s where the tab is.” 

His fingers flick at the sticky note that’s just peeking out from the pages, glancing up at you through his eyelashes. “I trust that you won’t dig through the entire thing, but it’s okay if you do. Just know you’ll probably know more about me than you want to.”

You beam up at him before rifling quickly through the pages, taking brief glances at the scrawlings on the pages before letting it shut again. “Are you sure, Frank? This seems really personal.” 

He shrugs, leaning back in the booth and crossing his arms over his chest. “Well, you’re about to stay with me, aren’t you? You’ll see enough of my bad moments this week, so we might as well start now.”

His flaws are completely forgotten as you lean forward, somehow brightening more. The glow of the sunlight through the window is nothing compared to the way you look right now. “Really? You’ll let me stay with you.”

A laugh bubbles out of him before he can stop it, shaking his head. “You’ve bugged me for most of my life, we can’t ruin the tradition now.”

With a huff, you grab the wadded up piece of paper from his straw before tossing it at his forehead, grinning like a madwoman. “Jerk.”

For the rest of the day, Frank helps you move whatever you need into the spare bedroom of his apartment. The both of you pick up where you left off the last time he saw you, bickering over who gets to pick up the larger items and bigger boxes – you because of Frank’s bad back or Frank because he wants to be a gentleman.

After a shared dinner of takeout and him watching you coo over Petunia for half an hour, he finally admits to you that he needs to sleep for work the next day and retreats to his bedroom. With a pep in his step from finally spending a night socializing instead of staring at meaningless social media posts, he showers and gets ready for bed, forcing his dog to roll over onto her side of the bed before settling beneath the duvet.

He’s halfway asleep when there’s a couple knocks at his door. Fatherly instincts have him immediately shooting up, startling Petunia awake. “Yeah?” He calls out tiredly as he runs his fingers through the dog’s fur, soothing her back to sleep.

The door opens to reveal you, donned in soft pajamas and hair pulled up out of your face. The sight of his journal in your hands has him leaning over to click on his bedside lamp, illuminating his room and you in a warm glow. “What’s wrong?”

You hover in the doorway for a moment, lips parted when no words come out. Your mouth closes as you step closer, sitting down on the edge of his bed near his legs. He doesn’t move.

“You didn’t need to apologize,” you finally say. “For all of it.”

Frank runs a hand through his hair, the other still petting Petunia to try and calm the heavy beating of his heart. “I felt… feel like I needed to,” he admits sheepishly.

You prop one knee up on the mattress, somehow getting even closer to him. He tries not to squirm at the familiarity of it all. “None of what you’ve gone through the last couple of years has been your fault, Frank,” you murmur. “Addiction is a disease, not something someone willingly puts themselves through. You did the work through rehab and therapy, which is an apology enough for me.”

Your fingers brush against his duvet, tracing shapes next to his covered knee. “Your letter was sweet.” You continue, watching your fingers. “I’d forgotten about a couple of those things. It was nice to be reminded. I’m surprised you remembered.”

“I’ve been known to have a freakishly good memory,” he muses awkwardly.

That makes you finally look at him, giving him a soft grin. Your hand moves to curve over his knee, a shiver moving down his spine at the contact. “Imagine my surprise when I get to the end, my eyes hurting from squinting at your doctor handwriting, and I find out that –”

“ – that I wanted to kiss you.” He finishes the sentence before you can say the words. “The night of my going away party, when you told me that you were going to miss me again. I wanted to kiss you, because most people hadn’t even told me once and you had told me three times. I wanted to kiss you that night because I had wanted to kiss you many nights before that and never had.”

Frank sits up, hand finally leaving Petunia to grab yours and pull it away from his knee. His other hand moves to cup your cheek, giving a small smile when you lean into his palm. Your cheeks are warm beneath his touch, like only your hands are destined to be cold. Maybe it’s because they’re meant to be held by him, he thinks.

He leans forward until his nose brushes against your cheek. “No boyfriend?” He whispers against your skin. Just checking.

“No boyfriend,” you breathe out.

As soon as the last syllable leaves your tongue, he kisses you, seizing the opportunity of your lips still being parted. He kisses you like he’s trying to steal the air from your lungs, hand curling around the back of your neck to pull your lips closer.

He only pulls away when Petunia nudges at his elbow, jealous of the attention not being on her anymore, laughing breathlessly. He presses his forehead against yours. “You’re wrong to say that I didn’t need to apologize. I have to apologize for not kissing you sooner.”

You copy his breathless laugh, leaning back to breathe some of your own air. “I’ll take that apology,” you respond. You press your lips together to try and hide your giddy smile, staring at him for just a moment.

This is everything he’s ever wanted, he thinks. You’re beautiful like this, freshly kissed by him and euphoric, bathed in the aureate light of his lamp. Being here with you won’t fix any problem that he’s created, but it is the first thing that’s felt right in a very long time.

Then, in the blink of an eye, you stand, still clutching his journal in your hand. “Okay. I’m going to bed.”

Frank scrambles at your sudden pull away, sitting up further, much to the chagrin of the dog laying her head on his thigh. “You’re going to bed? Your bed?”

You stop at the doorway, turning to grin at him. “I’ve bugged you all of your life. We can’t ruin the tradition now,” you mock. 

With that, you give him a small wave, closing his bedroom door behind you.

He lets out an amused scoff at the click of his door, staring at it for a few moments to make sure you were serious and not just pulling his leg. When he faintly hears the sound of your bedroom door shutting, he groans, falling back onto his pillow and letting Petunia drape herself back over his torso. Then, he laughs, raising his hand to pinch at the bridge of his nose.

2019

The air in the living room of the Hayvenhurst estate always smelled faintly of old wood polish, jasmine, and the heavy, lingering scent of whatever cologne Jaafar’s uncles had left behind after their Sunday visits. It was August 2019. The California heat outside was brutal, baking the asphalt of the driveway, but inside, the air conditioning hummed a low, steady note that kept the house cool enough to require a sweater if you sat still for too long.

You weren’t sitting still. You were perched on the edge of the piano bench in the alcove just off the main living area, your fingers tracing the smooth, familiar grain of the mahogany wood. You knew this piano better than your own. You knew the exact key—three octaves above middle C—that had a slight, almost imperceptible click if you pressed it too hard, a remnant of a rainy Tuesday seven years ago when Jaafar had spilled a bottle of cream soda during a particularly heated debate over a Stevie Wonder chord progression.

Beside you, Jaafar was hunched over the keys, his large, slender hands hovering just above the ivory. In public—like at the family dinner two nights ago where some executives from a streaming platform had dropped by—he was a ghost. He had spent the evening with his shoulders slightly rounded, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, offering nothing more than polite, soft-spoken murmurs and that small, practiced nod that made him look like he wanted to dissolve into the wallpaper. People called him mysterious. They called him timid, the quiet Jackson who carried the weight of a dynasty on his back without saying a word.

But here, three inches away from you, he was loud. Not in volume, but in presence.

"Look, if you don't use the major seventh here," Jaafar muttered, his voice dropping into that rhythmic, animated cadence he only used when his chest wasn't tight with anxiety, "the whole bridge sounds like a cheap commercial. It’s tacky. Tell me it’s tacky."

"It's not tacky, Jaafar, it's just standard pop," you said, leaning your shoulder against his arm, feeling the solid, familiar warmth of him through his white t-shirt. "Not everything has to be a masterclass in jazz fusion."

"Standard pop is lazy," he shot back, a bright, genuine grin breaking across his face as he turned his head to look at you. His dark eyes were wide, dancing with that sharp, competitive energy that the cameras never caught. He leaned in closer, his elbow nudging yours off the bench. "And you love jazz fusion. Don't lie to me. I remember your middle-school playlist. It was embarrassing."

"We swore never to speak of 2011" you warned, a small laugh slipping from your throat before you could catch it, your hand coming up to swat at his chest.

Jaafar caught your wrist mid-air. His grip wasn't tight, just steady, his thumb resting against the inside of your wrist where your pulse was ticking a little too fast. For a second, the laughter died down between you, leaving only the low hum of the house and the weight of his stare. He didn't let go immediately. He just looked at you, his thumb shifting in a tiny, absentminded circle against your skin, his expression softening into something raw, something that felt too heavy for a Tuesday afternoon in August.

Then, the heavy front door clicked open.

The sound resonated through the hallway, sharp and demanding, and the shift in Jaafar was instantaneous. It was like watching a curtain fall. His grip on your wrist vanished, his hands dropping back to his lap, his shoulders instantly squaring as that familiar, guarded reserve settled back over his features. The animated boy who had been teasing you a second ago was gone, replaced by the quiet young man who didn't want to trouble anyone.

"Jaafar? Honey, are you in there?"

Yashi’s voice carried from the foyer, followed by the soft, rhythmic click of heels on the hardwood. But there was another pair of footsteps behind hers—lighter, unfamiliar, and hesitant.

You stood up from the bench before you could think about why you were doing it, your fingers instinctively smoothing down the fabric of your jeans. Your chest felt tight, a dull, familiar ache beginning to bloom behind your ribs because you already knew who it was. The family had been whispering about her for three weeks. The new girl. The one he had met at a gallery opening in downtown LA, the one who didn't know how he looked when he was five years old and crying over a skinned knee on the gravel behind the studio—a detail she’d never see unless she sat through the old, grainy VHS tapes his mom used to pull out on rainy afternoons.

"In the living room, Aunt Yashi” Jaafar called out, his voice dropping back into that polite, muted tone. He didn't look at you as he stood up, his eyes fixed on the arched doorway.

When they walked in, the room felt smaller. The girl—Meredyth—was beautiful in a way that felt entirely intentional. Her hair was perfectly straight, her linen dress immaculate despite the valley heat, and she held herself with a cautious, quiet dignity that matched Jaafar’s public persona perfectly. She looked like the kind of girl who belonged in a frame, not someone who would sit on the floor of a messy rehearsal room eating lukewarm takeout at two in the morning.

"There you are" Yashi said, smiling warmly as she stepped into the room, her eyes darting from Jaafar to you, then back again. There was a brief, flicker of something careful in Yashi’s expression—a look you had seen his mother and his aunts give you both for years, a silent observation of the space between you. "Meredyth wanted to see the piano. I told her you two were probably hiding out here."

"We weren't hiding" Jaafar said softly, offering Meredyth a small, gentle smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. He stepped forward, his movements formal, almost stiff, as he reached out to take her hand. "Hey."

"Hey," Meredyth replied, her voice low and sweet. She looked over his shoulder, her eyes landing on you, and the polite smile she offered was polite, but empty. The kind of smile reserved for a piece of furniture or an old family acquaintance who came with the house. "You must be the best friend."

The word felt like a physical weight in your mouth. Best friend. Ten years of late-night voice notes, shared secrets, and the specific way he took his coffee when he was too tired to function, reduced to a label that felt like a polite exclusion.

"Yeah" you said, keeping your voice steady, your hands sliding into the back pockets of your jeans so no one could see them shaking. "Yeah, I am. Just helping him with some arrangements."

"She’s the only reason the bridge doesn't sound like a cheap commercial," Jaafar spoke up suddenly.

The defense was quick, quicker than usual for him in front of strangers, and when you looked at him, his eyes were fixed on you, sharp and intense, as if he were trying to signal something across a crowded room. But the subtext was too heavy, the tension in the air turning into something sharp and suffocating, and you couldn't breathe under it. Not with Meredyth’s hand now resting casually on his forearm, her fingers neat and polished against his skin.

"Actually, I should get going," you said, the lie tasting like copper on your tongue. "I told my mom I'd help her with some things at the house before dinner."

"You're not staying for dinner?" Yashi asked, her eyebrows furrowing as she stepped closer. She reached out, her hand resting on your shoulder with a familiarity that made your throat tighten. "TJ and the boys are coming over. Katherine asked about you this morning."

"No, I... I can't tonight, Yashi. Sorry," you murmured, keeping your eyes on the older woman because looking at Jaafar felt like staring directly into the sun. "Tell Miss Katherine I'll stop by later this week."

You didn't wait for Jaafar to say anything. You didn't want to hear his polite, quiet "bye" in front of her. You walked past them, the scent of Meredyth’s expensive, floral perfume mixing with the old mahogany of the room, and you didn't look back until you were in your car, the engine turning over with a loud, solitary rumble that felt far too loud for the quiet driveway of Hayvenhurst.

Two weeks later, the space between you had grown into an ocean.

It wasn't a sudden break; it was a slow, deliberate erosion. You stopped answering his texts within five minutes. When he called at midnight, asking if you wanted to come over and listen to a rough mix of a new track, you told him you were already in bed, even as you sat on your own bedroom floor, staring at the ceiling with your knees pulled to your chest. You didn't sign up for the Sunday dinners anymore. When Taj or Taryll texted the group chat about a barbecue, you were suddenly too busy with work, too tired, too far away.

You were erasing yourself from the narrative before someone else could do it for you.

The confrontation didn't happen at the house. It happened on a Thursday evening at the old community center three miles away, the place where the two of you had taken those lessons on the upright piano with the chipped keys when you were fourteen. You had gone back there under the pretense of picking up an old notebook you’d left in the storage locker, thinking the building would be empty by seven.

The main hall was dark, the only light coming from the amber streetlamps outside filtering through the high, dusty windows. But as you approached the small practice room at the end of the hall, you heard it.

A singular, repeated chord progression. It wasn't perfect. It was hesitant, the timing slightly off, followed by a sharp, frustrated sigh that you would recognize anywhere.

You stopped at the threshold of the door.

Jaafar was sitting at the piano, his head buried in his hands, his long fingers tangled in his dark curls. He looked exhausted. The denim jacket he wore looked too heavy for his frame, and the quiet of the room seemed to press down on him in a way that made him look younger, smaller, like the boy who used to hide behind the equipment boxes during his family's rehearsals.

"You're rushing the transition," you said quietly from the doorway.

Jaafar’s head snapped up. The defensive, guarded expression he usually wore in public started to form, but the moment his eyes landed on you, it crumbled entirely. His shoulders slouched, his hands falling heavily onto his lap, and the look he gave you was so full of raw, unfiltered hurt that it made you want to step backward.

"You're avoiding me," he said.

There was no preamble. No polite small talk. His voice was rough, the words coming out flat and heavy into the empty room. He didn't move from the bench, but his eyes locked onto yours with a desperate, demanding intensity that you hadn't seen in weeks.

"I've been busy, Jaafar" you lied, stepping into the room but keeping your distance, your back resting against the cold metal of the filing cabinet by the door. "Work has been—"

"Don't do that" he interrupted, his voice rising, the sharp, outgoing edge of his private self cutting through the quiet. He stood up from the bench, his movements sudden, his keys rattling in his pocket as he took two long strides toward you before stopping himself, as if remembering the invisible boundary you had drawn between you. "Don't give me the PR answer. I know your schedule. I know when you're working, and I know when you're just... not here."

"Jaafar—"

"My mom asked where you were on Sunday" he said, his voice dropping into something quieter, something that sounded dangerously close to a plea. "TJ asked. Siggy asked. Everyone is asking me why you aren't around anymore, and I don't... I don't know what to tell them because you won't even look at me when we're in the same room."

"You have a girlfriend, Jaafar" you said, the words coming out sharper than you intended, the truth finally spilling out into the space between you like shattered glass. You looked down at your shoes, unable to hold his gaze anymore. "Things change. You have Meredyth now. You don't need your childhood friend sitting on your piano bench every afternoon. It’s weird. It’s not fair to her."

"Meredyth has nothing to do with this," he spat, his frustration bubbling over. He took another step forward, and this time he didn't stop until he was standing right in front of you, so close you could smell the faint scent of the mints he always chewed when he was nervous. "She doesn't know anything about the music. She doesn't know why I don't like playing that specific chord, and she doesn't... she doesn't make me feel like I can actually breathe when the room gets too loud."

"Then why are you with her?" you whispered, your voice breaking as you finally looked up at him, the tears you had been holding back for weeks finally pooling in your eyes, heavy and hot. "If she doesn't know you, Jaafar, why are you holding her hand in front of everybody? Why are you leaving me in the corner?"

Jaafar froze. His mouth parted slightly, his breath catching in his throat as he looked down at your face, watching the first tear slip down your cheek. The anger vanished from his expression, replaced by a sudden, terrifying vulnerability that made his hands tremble slightly where they hung at his sides. He reached out, his long fingers hovering just an inch away from your face, wanting to wipe the tear away but stopping, his thumb twitching in the empty air between you.

"Because it's safe" he whispered, his voice cracking, the confession sounding like it was tearing its way out of his chest. "With her... it doesn't matter if I'm just the quiet one. She likes the quiet one. But with you..." He let out a ragged breath, his eyes dropping to your lips before rushing back to yours, full of a terrifying, hidden truth. "With you, I have to be real. And being real scares the hell out of me."

Before you could answer, before you could decipher the heavy subtext hanging in the dark room, the sound of a car horn honked from the street outside—short, polite, and familiar. Meredyth was waiting for him.

you've been having a rough shift, rougher than usual. the atmosphere at PTMC felt strange and the patients you've dealt with today were crazier than usual. you could've sworn it was just sleep deprivation that made you feel like that, until javadi leaned against the desk you were currently sitting at.

"am i the only one who feels like everyone has gone crazy?"

you looked up from your screen, where you were actively charting about a patient that had shot a nail through their left hand with a nail gun. that alone felt like the appropriate response to javadi's question.

"you're not alone," you sighed, typing out a few more words into the chart. your hands felt like they were only seconds away from cramping.

"oh, thank god." she sighed out of relief. "i genuinely thought i might be having some sort of weird stroke."

"nope. but the er might be," you stated. that was your weak attempt at being humorous.

javadi's mouth twitched into a position that could almost mirror a smile if she wasn't absolutely exhausted. "you can say that again."

"just a few hours left. we can do this," you tried cheering her up, knowing that you didn't even believe in that statement yourself. five more minutes and you might just collapse on the floor.

right then, the overly enthusiastic version of frank langdon, that you rarely saw ever, appeared next to the both of you. "if you keep chit-chatting like this, robby might just kill you."

"hello to you too," you said, your entire body fighting a battle against sleep.

"jesus. you look like the epitome of death," he declared when he saw just how terrible you looked at the moment. you could've sworn you saw concern appear on his face. but again, that could've just been sleep deprivation tricking your mind into believing something that wasn't true at all.

"how are you so… energetic right now?" javadi asked the question both of you were wondering.

"what? this shift has been great!"

"of course you'd think that," you commented, forcing a sarcastic smile on your face.

he stared at you like what you just said was utterly ridiculous and ultimately crazy. "what?"

"nothing," you rolled your eyes. or at least you think you did. your body was starting to become so numb to the point that you weren't even sure if your body was operating properly.

"hey, if you have that much energy, you can always just take my patients," javadi said to him.

just as langdon was about to utter a sarcastic response, dana rushed over to the three of you, all gathered around the same desk.

"langdon, mel's looking for you. she's in central nine."

"oh, okay. i'll be there," he said again with way too much enthusiastic energy for both you and javadi.

dana's eyes wandered from your face to javadi's. "you two don't get paid for sitting around and talking shit, now do you?" she said. you'd almost think she was being judgemental if you didn't know better.

"yes, ma'am," you responded, sarcasm slipping into your tone. your gaze fell on langdon who was still leaning against the desk, rocking on his heels.

"you can go, you know."

"and leave you here? c'mon, aren't you fascinated to know what case mel needs help with?" he was now the one trying to cheer you up. javadi's whole presence shifted at his words, from exhaustion to curiosity.

"not really."

"you're so boring."

"mhm," you hummed. "now scram, boy."

he just huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. he did end up departing, but not without giving you a playful pat on the shoulder. you fought the smile that tried to appear on your face at that, but you could feel just how your heart slightly fluttered.

"now what was that?" javadi said, her eyebrows raised. her whole exhausted demeanour was now completely gone. the tea was apparently more important.

"what?" you feigned.

"i mean, he clearly wanted you to come with him."

"nope," you physically forced yourself to look back at the chart, only to notice that the screen had already returned back to the original desktop.

"yes!" she insisted.

you just ignored her words, signing back into the computer. you could hear her sigh, but she took that as a sign that you weren't willing to talk about it.

the shift was coming to an end, you only had one patient to treat before you could hand out all of your responsibilities to the night shift.

you were currently picking out a specific syringe from the supply room, having to lean on your tippy toes as you tried to reach for it from the top shelf.

that was when langdon opened the door with too much force which startled you to the point that you could've sworn you were having a heart attack. "jesus fucking christ!" you almost lost your balance, having to grab the shelf in front of you.

"sorry! sorry- i didn't know anyone was here," he immediately apologized, lowering his voice.

"you're fine, just… christ." you placed your hand on your chest, feeling your fastened heartbeat. the door closed behind him and the air started to feel warmer from both of your bodies being cramped in the same room.

you tried to reach for the syringe, cursing to yourself. i mean, god, why would they put such an important item so high up? what was the logic behind that exactly? to have every nurse and doctor in the world struggling, apparently.

"you need help with that?" he asked. he tried to bit back the teasing smile that was fighting to emerge on his lips.

you would've loved to refuse the offer, but you seriously needed the syringe, it was your one way ticket home. so, you let out a sigh loud enough to make sure he heard your frustration and muttered, "fine."

then he leaned closer than you expected him to, reaching out for the syringe. his scrub top was itching way too high that you could see the waistband of his boxers. you had to physically force yourself to look away.

after he also struggled to reach the item, he finally caught it with his fingertips. "yes, baby!" he cheered to himself.

with your already red cheeks, the smile that had been forced on your face from his cheer was making you look way too smitten. you bit your cheek to try to suppress it before he could notice.

he handed you the syringe, grinning like a man who've just won the olympics. "see? i've still got it."

you tried to hide your flustered expression with sarcasm, something that came easy to you. "what a gentleman."

"uh huh, you're welcome."

"now, what did you need?"

"well," he cleared his throat. "you remember when i said that i didn't know you were here?"

"yeah?"

"well, that was a lie. i knew you were here. i specifically came here looking for you." he scratched the back of his neck, trying to hide his embarrassment.

"oh," you uttered, your eyebrows now raised. "what for?"

"i know you're exhausted," he started.

"you can say that again," you joked. though, your body had already forgotten sleep ever since his shirt just happened to ride up right in front of you.

"-but i have a very good case for you!" he said with too much enthusiasm.

"no," you immediately shut him down. "i'm so close to finishing my shift."

"please." he held his hands against each other, practically pleading. "it'd be a great teaching case. this is still a teaching hospital, right?"

god, why was he being so persistent? and why was it making your cheeks warmer than they already were?

"i promise it won't take long."

"if i say yes, you owe me," you pointed at his chest with your index finger.

"yes, anything!" he released his hands from each other, now holding them in the air.

"fine," you surrendered. "but- i need to go see my patient first."

"yes, of course. it's not critical or anything."

"okay…"

the both of you continued to stand there for a second too long. "i'll just-" he moved to the door.

"yup."

"come find me in north 2," he said, opening the door.

"okay." and that was when he slipped out of the room, letting the door close behind him.

you let out a deep breath out, one you didn't even know you were holding in the first place. what the fuck was going on today?

you did go see langdon's patient, which happened to not be an actual teaching case, but an adult dressed as a disney princess for a kid's birthday party. langdon found it hilarious enough for him to show it to you and you would've called it a waste of time if you also didn't find it sort of funny. and it's not like you'd complain about getting to spend more time with him.

but now you were once again charting, the endless cycle of being a resident. but it was your last patient's chart and then you were officially free from the ED, so you pushed through it.

"oh my god, when is he going to stop staring at you?" you heard trinity say under her breath.

when you raised your eyes from the computer screen to trinity, she was already staring at you.

"what?"

"langdon," she pointed with her chin to the right.

when your eyes drifted to the direction she was pointing to, your eyes locked with the exact suspect.

you quickly averted your gaze back to your computer screen, feeling your cheeks once again getting warmer for what was probably the tenth time today.

"i don't know why he's doing that."

you could hear trinity groan. you were sure if you looked at her right now, she'd also be rolling her eyes. "yes you do."

you shut the chart you were actively working on and swiftly moved closer to trinity, leaning against her desk. "i swear to god, he's been acting so weird today."

"today?" she mocked.

you ignored her comment and kept explaining yourself, "yeah, like… he keeps asking for me to come work with him on cases and-"

trinity cut you off with your name. "you seriously haven't noticed?"

"what?"

"oh my god," she said, clearly irritated by how oblivious you could be sometimes. well, more often than just sometimes.

"you haven't noticed how everytime you walk into a room he crosses his arms, just to show off? or- or how he always gives you space when working on a patient, like he's memorizing where you like to stand.

she started to list the idiotic things langdon does for you, something she found very aggravating. "he's also always wherever you are. i mean, god, he's practically like a dog when it comes to you."

with each thing she let roll from the tip of her tongue, you started to realize exactly what trinity meant. like finding a key to a locked door. you finally started to uncover just what was behind it.

"ask him for your coffee order and he probably has it memorized!"

you let your gaze wander back to him while listening to trinity's words. he was at the exact spot your eyes had found him in before and, of course, his eyes were still on you.

"told you," she just retorted, giving you a disbelieving side eye and turned back to her screen.

but you couldn't help the smile that was now so clear on your face. because she was right. and hearing those words from trinity might've just been the best thing ever.