.𐙚ɞ

new york in the rain is always…something else entirely. after the break up with lucy, after everything, the summer comes with patchy spells of rain, like clockwork. manhattan’s large buildings cover him from most of the rain, but the road halfway to his office has been blocked since yesterday night, due to emergency works in the pipeline, and he has to walk the last half a mile. and anyway, he’s given this morning off to his driver. the cab driver’s dropped him off here, and now it’s just him and this stretch of road that he has to walk through, and flag another cab on the other side. 

he would obviously rather not do such a thing, because. well — his suit is silk and well tailored, and he wears freshly polished oxfords on his feet he’d rather not get scuffed. it’s almost 9, and he is so ridiculously far away from the financial district, it’s embarrassing. this was not a good time to be late for work, especially not late for work in drenched clothes and no umbrella. he had a reputation to uphold, in the office at least. 

the rain falls harder, and he starts walking faster, head hunched over his phone on the pavement, he needs to call his assistant, let her know that no he will not be showing up today, and yes he will be there for the meeting by 12. should be anyway. 

a splash, and he feels water coat his trousers. they’re grey, and anyone  can see the damn water stains on them now. it’s muddy water too, splotches against his calves and his ankles. he looks up from his screen, to see the offending person who’s splashed his $700 suit. 

to his surprise, it’s a child in a yellow raincoat. excited as she jumps up and down, her brown hair in plaits as she runs into puddles, a jump, a dart, and then she’s out again, stomping her feet onto every single divot where water has gathered.

he smiles at that, anger being washed away as the rain falls. 

and then his eyes land on you, running behind what could only be your daughter. you share the same eyes, the same face shape, you’ re basically mirroring every movement of hers, haphazardly. long hair tied into a bun, you look frazzled, exhausted. 

“maya!” you shout, chasing after your daughter with the umbrella in one hand; attempting to not have it blow away by the wind. the other hand reaches out for her, but not before she trips over his oxfords, scuffing them, tumbling into a puddle.

it’s right in front of him, and a child’s just fallen down, he doesn’t have any children, but he isn’t heartless. 

he stops his speed walking, and holds out his pointer finger for her to grab, and she does so with her tiny hands, wrapping around his finger, tugging at it. she stands up with a little “oof”, and he can see the scrape on her cheek from when she hit the floor, the muddy water on her face, leaving behind a grubby stain. suddenly, something overwhelms him, and he crouches down to her level, to wipe away a little of the grit that’s pressed against her cheek. 

“oh my god, i am so sorry about that!” you say, out of breath, as you catch up to the two of them. he looks at you, and then your daughter. it’s almost as if you’ve managed to copy and paste yourself, a smaller version of you with the same bright eyes, even if yours have been dulled by…well. he doesn’t know. life? 

“it’s no worries.” he smiles back, still not standing up, his hands linger over the child’s cheek, the scrape bleeding a little, “hey, is she okay?”

you scrub your face with your hands, and crouch down to your daughter, and he realises that you’re short, quite a bit shorter than him, anyway.

“maya, angel, are you okay?” you wipe the blood away off her skin, the red staining your thumb as your eyes mist up. you hate to see her in pain, that much is obvious. 

“otay.” she holds up her thumb in agreement, and nods. harry’s a little surprised kids can be like that, all soft one moment, all solid the next. she scrunches up her nose, and her fringe sticks to her forehead, she can’t be any more than three, a toddler running loose in new york on a wednesday morning. sure, that might as well happen, he think. 

“mumma’s still going to check, okay?” you kiss her cheek, and then straighten up, lifting her up in one swoop. he takes it as a cue to stand up too, shaking his arm, and picking up the umbrella you’ve dropped to pick your daughter up.

“your umbrella..?” is literally all he can manage, because his stomach is doing flip flops right now, looking at you. you, with the pretty eyes, fogged up glasses perched on your head. you’re wearing formal wear, a blouse and a floral skirt, and your daughter smiles looking at him holding out the umbrella.

“umbella.” her small hands try and grab it, but there’s no way she’ll be able to hold it, and so he keeps a grip on it, steady.

“i don’t think i have any room for it.” you huff, “you keep it mister!” you wave at him, with your left hand, “seems like you need it.”

no ring.

so why did he notice that?

you smile at him, and he smiles back, before you start walking towards the nearest open coffee shop.

and then he jogs up to them, “hey! miss!” what’s possessing him to do this? he’s fifty for god’s sake, and he sounds like a nineteen year old with a crush.

you turn back, and see him holding out the umbrella for you, “yeah..?”

“your daughter tripped over my shoes,” he sounds sheepish, “let me buy you a coffee, it’s the least i can do ma’am.”

you frown for a second, and then hear the thunderclap, look at the downpour. “okay…yeah, sure. okay, why not.”

maya curls around your neck at the sound of the thunderclap, and the sight squeezes something in his heart. you soothe her with a kiss to her forehead and a stroke on her hair.

“she can’t stand thunderstorms.” you say, nodding at her, “i’m trying to get her to nursery, but the subway wasn’t working? they’re saying the tracks got flooded?”

“they need to fix that, sooner or later.” but he hasn’t used the subway in years, his driver takes him everywhere. 

“mhm.” you agree, and the two of you step into the coffee shop, it’s upscale, the ones that sell the bags of their own brand, artisanal coffee in store too. 

your daughter — maya — with her brown plaits, blinks up when she smells coffee. and then snuggles back into you again. she’s so tiny, with her little hands playing with the loose strands of hair around your neck. is this what he’s missing out on?

“so, what do you want, anything, it’s on me.” he says, putting the umbrella back in it’s case, and putting it in the empty water bottle holder of your bag. 

you frown, and then look down at your daughter. “what do you want baby?” 

he didn’t expect you to ask her what she wanted, he just thought you’d get something expensive and leave, what with him inconveniencing you. instead you ask maya, and she murmurs something in your ear.

“have you been here before?” you ask, frowning as he reads the menu. 

“this is a chain, there’s one near my work place in the financial district.” he says, noncommittally, there’s no reason to tell her what he does, not yet. 

“oh okay,” you say, and then you whisper back to your daughter, “i think if you ask the nice man, he’ll know more than me, okay baby?”

she nods, and then peeks her head out of the crook of her mother’s neck. 

“hi.” she says, her voice oh so delicate.

“hi.” he says, a little awkwardly, he’s not great with kids. never has been, probably never will be. 

“what’s ‘our name.” she asks it so confidently, it throws him off. in the middle of the line for the counter. you laugh at that, and harry thinks he quite likes the sound of your laugh. 

“i’m harry castillo, but you can call me harry.” he holds out his finger again, and she shakes it with her little hand.

“go on, ask mr castillo the question.” you prompt her, gently.

“otay.” she frowns, like she’s remembering. “what’s really sweet here? mumma says i can’t have sweets at home. your teeth get holes. but what’s super sweet here?”

he laughs at that, and you shake your head, “maya! you don’t have to tell mr castillo about home baby.” but he wants to hear about home, he wants to hear about how silly it is raising a child, what your home is like, what maya is like, what you are like.

“it’s harry, and it’s fine, really.” home for him is a huge penthouse with nobody inside. so really, anything is interesting to him.

“otay. can ou tell me what’s sweet here?” she asks, more seriously.

he hums, looking at the menu. “maybe the caramel hot chocolate it’s caramel and chocolate.”

you smile at that and so does maya, matching smiles on your faces, why does it light up the room, why does that light up his morning.

you get to the counter quickly, and he tells the barista what to order, putting his card to the machine before you can even see that he’s picked out two pastries for you two too. is the total $28? yes, but that’s a small price to pay, for everything.

you sit at the couch with your daughter beside you, and the barista calls out “maya!” 

you watch as he picks up the plates and cup from the counter, and brings it to you. your daughters eyes widen, and she starts drinking from the cup with the straw.

“you don’t have to do this!” you push the cinnamon bun towards him, your daughter has unfortunately already got her hands on the glazed cherries, and has them in her fist right now, “please, let me pay you back.”

“no, it’s fine, really.” he still has that awkward smile, “i did trip your daughter up.”

“by accident, and it’s fine, kids fall over all the time.”

“but are you sure she seems okay?” he frowns, and he notices your eyes catch his hands. 

“she’s fine, i promise, it’s nothing more than a little graze, see?” you point to her cheek, and the scrape has scabbed over already. 

“and her head and everything…?” he says, and you smile again, more reassuringly.

“yes,” you take a sharp breath, “kids are meant to survive, i promise, she’s okay.”

“oh.” he says, quietly, “okay.”

“no worries mr castillo, thank you so much, maya will be raving about this for days now.” you smile at him, genuine gratitude, and it’s at this moment where he realises that he would spoil you and maya forever. if he could.

“i didn’t catch your name..?” he asks, gentle smile on his face.

“oh yeah, of course, it’s (y/n).” your focus is on your daughter now, who asks if you can cut up the cherry turnover into smaller pieces for her. it’s clear you have no idea who the hell he is, and he’d rather it stay the way.

it’s cute, how quickly maya smiles at him, how you smile at him. he walks up to the counter to get another paper straw as the one in maya’s cup starts to disintegrate, and the barista there smiles at him.

“lovely family you’ve got there.” she says, handing the straw over, “your daughter looks just like your wife, except she’s got your smile.”

those words make him freeze. daughter, wife. you just met them half an hour ago, and suddenly you do look like you and maya would suit his apartment better, suddenly it looks like maya’s little smile looks a little like his own. 

“oh that’s…” he trails off, just take the win man, you aren’t going to get a wife and child. not at your age, his mind thinks. “thank you.”

“no worries, have a nice day!”

and he walks back to the couch where the two of you sit, sitting across you again. 

“here’s the straw.” he hands it over, and you swap out the straw that’s broken for the other one. 

“thanks.” you smile, and nudge your daughter.

“tanks mr catillo.” she sniffles, and then sips the hot chocolate again.

“it’s harry, and it’s fine, really.”

is it? his heart is melting. 

“do you have anywhere to be later?” he asks, and your smile turns into a frown quickly. that was a silly question.

“yeah, work. maya can’t stay without me too long in weather like this, so i’m just taking her to work with me.” you sigh, “i mostly work from home, but the office says you need to come in on wednesdays.”

“oh, which way are you going?” he asks, and you shrug.

“midtown, i work at a tech company, but i doubt i’ll be anywhere at this time of day.”

he laughs at that, all rich like butter and biscuits. “yeah, fair enough, i’m trying to get to the financial district without looking like a wet rat.”

you smile at him, and he can feel your eyes ghost over his curls. “no, i don’t think you look like a wet rat mr castillo.”

“it’s harry.” he sighs, and leans over the table, maya mimicks him and does the same. they’re content in making silly faces at each other for a bit as you scroll through your inbox. 

“i’ve never seen her take to someone so quick.” there’s a smile on your face, proud. “she’s always very shy, but she loves jumping up in the rain.”

he hasn’t thought of lucy, or matchmaking, or anything right now. just the woman in front of him, with the child currently blowing a raspberry at him. 

“maybe i just have a trustworthy aura.” he smiles, all charm.

“or maybe it’s because you gave her three sources of sugar.” but there’s no bite to your words, not really, “thanks, i can’t wait for the sugar crash that’s going to come next.”

maya has a fringe that sticks to her face with the rain, and your glasses that are fogged up sit on your hair, and you smile at him like he’s the only man alive.

oh god. he’s sunk in so deep, it’s ridiculous.

and he doesn’t even know if you’re single, available, whatever. no ring doesn’t mean, no father.

“can’t you give her to her father?” he blurts out, and your vision darkens.

“no, um, maya’s dad died two months after she was born.” you shake your head. “daddy’s with the stars now, isn’t he?” you say, in hushed tones to your daughter, but it’s like you’re saying it for yourself.

“oh.” he gets quiet again, “sorry about that.” 

“no it’s fine, really.” you say, with some resolution in your voice. the sun is finally peeking out of the clouds, and this magical moment has to come to an end, soon anyway. 

maya burrows into your chest again as you coax her to stand up, she doesn’t want to walk any longer, and harry doesn’t know how long you’ve been walking for anyway. without a single thought, he picks up your daughter like she weighs nothing.

maya shrieks with laughter, this is higher up than she’s used to.

you just stare at him with narrowed eyes, but he just sort of stands there, six feet tall with a child perched in his arms, waiting for you to say something.

you huff, and then close your eyes, as if to say “i’m trusting you with this.” and then your eyes harden, “if you hurt her..”

his face blanches, but he still holds onto her like she’s precious, and she is precious, with freckles on her face and bright eyes like she’s the sun incarnate. 

she sits on his shoulders once you leave the coffee shop, the water is drying quickly and there aren’t too many people on the streets. your eyes still linger on your daughter, but also trail over his broad shoulders and broad back. 

tugging at his hair with her small hands, squishing his face, “don’t pull mr castillo’s hair.” you scold.

“it’s fine really.” 

“are you sure?” you ask, worried.

“i’m sure.” he nods, and maya is folding over his face now, dangling her face against his. 

“do ‘ou like cheese? stars make noises? can ‘ou read?” rapid fire questions that come out of her mouth. you smile as he painstakingly answers them “yes i like cheese, i don’t know about stars sorry, and yes i can read.”

she hums thoughtfully, and then sits back up, playing with his hair. the blocked off road is coming to an end now, and you reach at her feet, in little wellington booties. 

“cmon now, time to say goodbye to mr castillo.” he’s given up correcting you.

“arry.” she says, sadly, hand still in his hair.

“careful now maya-bear, mumma has to go to office, you need to come with me okay?” you reach out for her? and harry tries to pass her down, but her hands pull at his shirt.

“come on now.” you coax her again, “you can see mr castillo later on, okay?” and she clambers off him, and onto you. 

“thank you for that.” you whisper, gratefully. 

“no worries miss.” he smiles, a blush on his cheeks. god what he wouldn’t do to have a family like this, a wife and his own child, running around. then he wouldn’t even have to tell them to go. 

“it’s (y/n),” you clear your throat, “it’s fine, call me that and i’ll call you harry.”

“(y/n) it is then.”

“right—“ you put maya down, and let her walk beside you, holding onto your hand. “this is where we say goodbye, right?”

a feeling in his chest. would this be his last chance?

“are you free tomorrow evening?” he asks, far too quickly. 

“tomorrow..evening..?” you stutter, “um, maybe? i dunno, i’ll have to check, probably not though, mayasitting .”

“oh, i was just wondering if you wanted to get some dinner.”

“oh, OH.” you blush, “right, like. that. and this is dinner dinner, and not just, dinner.”

“…what?” he knits his brows.

“no, i mean, never mind.” you shake your head, maya pulling at your hand to turn right. “like, dinner as in. like feeling bad for a single mom sort of dinner or-“

“no, date dinner.” he likes when you stumble over your words, it’s cute.

“ah, date dinner.” you hum, “yeah okay, if you’re okay with maya coming.” a protective hand on her head. “i’m not going anywhere without her, or your house.”

“no, of course.” he glances down at maya, “of course she can come. there’s a nice pizza joint in downtown manhattan that you should come visit. it’s near my office.”

your lips quirk upwards, a ghost of a smile, “okay, yeah, sure, i’d like that. would you like it maya?”

maya grabs onto his trouser clad leg with her grabby little hands (sticky with sugar from the pastries) “PIZZA!”

“okay, so that’s decided then.” your mouth is dry as you watch him smile down at her and shake her hand again. he’s so good with your girl, it makes your heart thud, “can i get your number?”

he nods, and then passes over a business card, and you laugh as you read over it. “i meant maybe airdropping my contact over? but this works fine too.”

greying hair, wrinkles around his eyes, sure he’s not your usual type, a a bit older, but you haven’t dated since your husband died anyway. 

you ring the number you’ve just inputted, and his phone rings. “save me right now, so you can find me faster.”

“okay, okay.” he puts your name down, “see you six pm? i’ll send the location over?”

( maya doesn’t let go of his leg until she’s promised she’ll see him tomorrow, 200%, and somewhere in his shattered broken heart, a seed of hope grows. )

flying comes with its own can of worms, he’s convinced. the plane is a little too tiny for him, economy seat boxing him in just a little bit. he's not the frequent flier type. not anymore, after the incident with kingsman, he’s taken a grounded role in the business side of statesman. one that doesn’t have him flying around the world on a private jet with lethal weapons on him. he’s usually in the dallas office, pushing papers, but today he’s flying up to chicago for a merger. it’s mostly champ or tequila who deal with the out of state stuff, but champ has to take it easy after his surgery, and tequila’s sister had him as a groomsman for her wedding, and he’d said he was willing to help set up her flower arrangements. 

when he got to the gate, he’d been told it had been overbooked. his first class seat somehow given to the other person. he’s given a choice to stay and wait for the next plane out of dallas the next morning, or sit in the economy seat instead.

and so here he is now, settling into the economy seat the lady at the counter told him he’d be sitting in, no reason to overextend statesman resources and time after another year of being in the black, the distillery not doing as well this year. 32A. he’ll be fine, he tries to calm himself, it’s just six odd hours from dallas to chicago, and this plane is much safer than half of the ones he flew back in his agent days. he can handle sitting in an economy seat for those four hours, read a book, scroll on his phone. the usual.

32A is a window seat, and he’s one of the first few onto the plane. ginger always told him he’s got a classic case of ‘airport dad’, where he’s getting to the gate an hour before boarding even starts. that memory always makes him smile. it’s nice that she still stuck with him, even in the after. his small suitcase is locked away overhead, and he keeps his laptop bag in front of him, not that he’ll use it anyway. 

as the plane fills up, he notices that the seats next to him are suspiciously empty, and he puts the laptop bag in the middle seat (propping his stetson up on it). happy that there’s nobody sitting next to him for the next few hours. 

he straps into his seat, and mentally plans to lie down lengthways to get over how cramped it is in here. cabin crew call out for final boarding, and he’s putting on his headphones, listening to some johnny cash before the plane sets off.

a small hand taps on his shoulder all of a sudden, and he blinks open his eyes to see a small girl of about four, big glasses perched on her nose, with her hair tied in two bunches. 

“hi!” she says, all too bright for a flight at 6:20am, behind her glasses are some wide brown eyes, “you’re in my seat!”

she gives a small grin, and he can see one of her teeth are missing from the front. a stumble from behind her, but he looks at the boarding pass in his hands. 32A is a window seat.

“charlie!” you chastise behind her, and he sees the same hair as that of the girl beside him, tied into a low bun, escaping the scrunchie. you look just like her, obviously her mother, all frazzled and sleep deprived. dark circles under your eyes, the yellow summer dress you wear hangs by your ankles. too bright and sunny to match how tired you look. 

the girl pouts and sits back down on her seat with an angry huff. he sees you try to stuff the backpack up in the overhead compartment (it slips down and falls on you twice) before giving up and just putting it in the seat in front of your aisle one

“i’m so sorry sir,” you scrub your hands over your face with a sigh, hair coming loose from the bun it was held in, “charlotte knows better than to lie, doesn’t she?”

there’s still that smile on her face as she peers past him through the window, the plane hasn’t left the airport yet, hasn’t even started to move and yet all she wants to see is outside. 

“no it’s fine sugar.” he says after a moment, his voice is all gravelly and rough, and he tries to be as gentle as possible, but you look embarrassed, face pale, the nickname rolls off his tongue with ease. he used to call pretty women sugar all the time, back when he was an agent. 

“it was funny darlin’, really.” he waves a hand away, opening his phone to text ginger that his plane was leaving on time. the window seat is cramped, and the girl keeps scrambling on his arms to try and lean over him to look outside, pushing her face against his shoulder to push her glasses back up. 

and it is funny, really. he was a secret agent once, deadly with a gun and electric whips. and here he is now, worried that this tiny child would muddy his stetson that had fallen to the floor. how times have changed.

“charlie!” you pull her back, hands gripping her shoulders firmly. he doesn’t know much about kids, never had the chance to have a kid of his own. 

his son would have been in his teens now, he thinks, if he’d ended up surviving.

he doesn’t think about it, tries to put the grief behind. he’d been drowning in it for years before the incident, like a wound that healed wrong. the scar on the side of his head prickles, the one that he’d got after being shot. hidden by his curls, nobody else can see it, but he can feel it. in moments like these, when he remembers. at least he got help in the nebulous after, hours where he sat in the hospital room, with physical and emotional therapists. 

he doesn’t have any kids, but he knows how they are at this age. all questions with no patience to listen to the answer. he can’t help but laugh when he sees you try and wrestle your daughter into her seat, having to put her seatbelt in. it distracts him from the past. 

he’d never been on a plane at this age, but he guesses he would be as annoying as this kid, probably even worse. 

the cabin crew turn on the seatbelt sign, and the captain makes an announcement that they’ll be taking off soon. 

“please can we swap seats?” your daughter frowns, giving him the saddest brown eyes he’s ever seen in his life. all wide and big and teary, with her bottom lip wobbling. “pleaaaaseee?”

“why?” he asks, eyes flicking to her and then you, busy unpacking the bag full of food for her. fruit snacks, dried mango that actually looked good this early in the morning. you look like you aren’t listening, too exhausted to pay attention, he can see your fringe curling over your forehead, framing your face. 

she frowns, biting her lip nervously, “jus’ like looking at the clouds.” her voice is all high pitched and sweet, all too excited for 6:30 in the mornings, “i like the colours.” she adds, “like candy-floss and stuff.” 

it seems so mundane, ‘like candy-floss and stuff’. whatever that means. her glasses are the same colour of purple that the sky is. she doesn’t have any baggage to carry, no past weighing her down. just clouds that look like candy-floss.

“oh,” he manages a smile, he’s barely spoken to kids after his wife and son died. there wasn’t a reason to, it hurt too much, like he would carry the guilt of not interacting in them. carry the guilt that he lived and they didn’t. but it doesn’t feel guilty here, speaking to your daughter, charlie, he reminds himself.  “remind me never t’ play poker with you little birdie.” he laughs, and your ears burn with shame and embarrassment for your kid talking a mile a minute, and also at his laugh.

his laugh sounds nice. good natured enough to humour your daughter instead of putting on the headphones he had placed on his knee. 

charlotte frowns, and then digs her shoes into the back of the seats, you can almost see the cogs in her brain move “but i get sick in the middle seat, if i don’t look outside.”

“charlotte.” you say, sharply, hand stilling her knee. being sick or not, the window isn’t her seat, you can’t have her ousting the (admittedly very handsome) guy out of his seat. 

“i get very sick.” she says, oh so matter-of-factly, legs swinging on her seat and the guy seems to be listening, and throwing glances to the laptop bag and the cowboy hat on the floor.

he shoots a look at you, and you give a small smile, apologetic, but damn does your daughter run a good hustle. 

“she doesn’t.” you mouth, placing a stilling hand on your daughter’s shoulder again. “charlotte, please let that man just sit in the window seat in peace.”

she tries again, with her huge eyes, and he grimaces. 

“yeah kid, those puppy eyes are workin’ “ he sighs, and then unbuckles his seat, “we swappin’ seats or what ?” his voice is smooth, as it always is. he was a secret agent for the lord’s sake, and yet….you’re pretty. 

with your tired eyes and the homemade sandwiches you’ve packed for your daughter sitting in the bag on your lap. you’re not the bombshells he used to chase when he was an agent, pretty in the way that seemed real. which makes him a little flustered. “this window seat is a little too small for me anyway.”

“i didn’t want to say it, but it’s true.”  charlie nods solemnly, and you see the man put the hand over his heart, wounded.  

then his brown eyes meet yours again, and he jerks thumb to the side, “swapping okay?” 

you frown, and then realise he means the two of you, have your daughter move to the window seat, you move into the middle, and he has to do the awkward shuffle of going all the way to the aisle. 

before you can even process his words, your daughter is already clapping her hands and nodding. “yes! thank you mister!!!”

she’s already standing up on her seat and he stands up so he’s in the tiny space between the seat and the one in front of him. charlotte more or less just leaps into the seat, and you just stare at her with raised eyebrows.

“i’m so sorry sir, she isn’t like this usually.” you stifle a laugh, and then notice that he’s standing in front of you. tight jeans, a white tshirt that looks like it’s been ironed before he got here. the person in front of him pushes their seat back, and he’s pushed forwards with an “oof”, strong arm holding him upright, hand pressed against your seat’s headrest.

your faces are incredibly close, there’s no space on an aeroplane anyway. and he pulls back as soon as the person pulls their goddamn seat back. but it’s too late, he’s already seen the specks of gold in your eyes, felt your breath on his face. you smell of fresh flowers, you smell good. 

“that’s dandy.” he says, as nonchalantly as possible, he almost introduces himself as whiskey, all flashing grins and charm. he bends down to pick up the stetson off the ground, and places it in your lap as he hurriedly shuffles over to the aisle seat. “the name’s jack.” 

he’s pretty sure he got the window seat because the airline felt bad for messing up his first class ticket, but that kid looks so happy that he doesn’t bother bringing it up.

“now, want me to handle that for ya?” he picks your bag up from the aisle seat, and dangles it above you. you nod as you watch him put it up. embarrassed still but you’re. well. you’re. it’s. it’s a handsome stranger on a plane, a cliche and you’ve fallen right for it. with his tight white shirt that you could see his muscles flex through as he put the bag overhead.

“oh, my name is (y/n).” you hold out your hand for his, “and that one there is charlie. squirt’s four and acting up like this all her life.”

he takes it, his hand so much bigger than yours, warmer too, “good to know darlin’.” he grins, all teeth, you’re quite frankly overwhelmed by how flashy the smile is, “kid’s a spitfire alright.”

“she loves planes.” you say gently, a hand stroking her back as she keeps looking out of the plane, “always wanted to go on one, last time she was on one of these she was a toddler.

“peach wouldn’t remember a thing then, would she?” he tilts his head to see her, the seatbelt sign is back on again, and he sees her fumble with the belt before you stop to click it in. 

“she doesn’t” you turn back to him, with a sigh, “that’s why she’s super excited to fly this time…and wanted the window seat.”

“hustled me out of prime real estate that one.” he huffs, but his words aren’t sharp. not by the way there’s a smile tugging at his handsome lips, that your eyes keep being drawn to.

“yeah, she hustled a real life cowboy.” your eyes linger on the hat, the engines of the plane start growling, and your jaw tenses. it’s slight, but he’s a spy — was a spy.  had been taught how to read people. your daughter may be at home on this flight, but you were decidedly not. 

your hands grip the bag of food you have in your hands, knuckles clenching. he has half a mind to offer you his hand to squeeze, but he isn’t a secret agent charming ladies at the bar anymore. 

the plane takes off with a jolt, and you squeeze your eyes shut. your daughter’s face is plastered against the window, hands on both sides. he hears you muttering a little prayer, and you’re both thrown backwards in your seats when the plane leaves the ground.

you let out a sigh, and the relief softens your frame. “thanks again,” you rub your eyes, “she would have actually made the flight a living hell otherwise.”

“fair trade.” he gives you a small smile, “this way everyone’s happy, she gets the window, ya get some peace and quiet and i get a chance to stretch these legs before they cramp up.”

his voice is charming, you decide. all sweet, like honey. and he’s so kind, moving from his window seat that you’re sure he paid extra for. you blush, scrunching up your eyes, hiding your smile before your hands. the tote bag full of food is heavy on your lap, and you put your hand inside, bringing out a pack of dried mango. 

“here,” you pass the small pack to him, and he can smell sugary goodness in there, “a thank you.”

it’s strange, he thinks. he’s eaten at restaurants with michelin stars, and he’s eaten freeze dried rations and yet being handed this tiny bag shocks him. you’re too kind for him, he thinks, with the weight of the past that he carries. with the sparkles in your eyes, and the softness of your smile as you pass a bag of dried mango fruit snacks for him. obviously packed for your daughter. 

“you sure?” he asks, but you shrug and tilt your head to your daughter, stil staring at the clouds with that look on her face.

“she doesn’t even like mango, and i overpacked so much stuff, just in case.” you laugh, face flushed with embarrassment, “please take this as a thank you, i don’t think i’ll be able to tear her away from the window.”

you settle into a rhythm, feeding your daughter pieces of dried fruit when she finally pulls away from the window. you idly scroll through the books app on your phone, ill-prepared for this flight. saving money on subscriptions had you on a flight with nothing to do. 

except maybe look at the man next to you, same white t-shirt, stetson jacket over it, and the cowboy hat at his feet… and maybe laugh at the absurdity of it all. a handsome cowboy, wearing a $600 jacket, sitting next to you of all people. 

as the plane starts to rise, your daughter tugs your collar, and her mother – you – turn around, your eyes sparkling with the same softness, your phone is forgotten on your lap. he’s a spy (was a spy), he’s been taught to observe, and he observes the way you sit with your daughter, talking to her about all the things she can see down below. the large green fields, little cities with little buildings. the world looks like a miniature model below, and both your faces look with bright eyes and smiles. 

the warmth. the warmth that seeps through the little bubble, through to him. there is some warmth left to spare. and you pick up your phone again after a few minutes, when the green fields and red farmhouses turn into white fluffy clouds. your daughter is content in staring outside, out into the blue of the sky and the grey of the clouds.

he unlocks his phone too, not to scroll through some downloaded book like what you’re going through, he’s looking at distillery profits and losses, which drinks did what. flicking through powerpoint slides that people in his department made for the quarterly budget. finance things, stuff he’s been resigned to after champ gave him a second chance at life. he’s got glasses on his face, not the statesman ones he’s been used to for the past two decades, with cameras and microphones and the ability to join meetings, just normal ones with the same wire frame, helping him read better.

your eyes flick to his on your right, and you think he looks rather good, with his glasses. less of the cowboy, with what the hat that’s under his feet, and more of the charming man who her daughter convinced to let him swap seats with.

clearly there is a point in the fifteen minutes where your daughter stops caring about the outside, turning away from the window with a dramatic sigh, and back to you on your phone and him on his.

“are you a real life cowboy?” she asks, all inquisitive big brown eyes, her foot pressing against the seat in front of her, “i mean, because you got your boots and your hat?”

you look up from your book at that, and turn to him, and he can see two pairs of matching faces looking up to him, your daughter with curiosity, and you with a small smile on your face, as if you can feel him getting flustered by your gaze. 

he’s been a real life cowboy, several times. wore a stetson, boots with spurs, and he’s charmed a thousand women with his twang. lassoes and whips and the secret service. he had been a cowboy and lived a whole life before now.

the question throws him off kilter, so point blank it’s almost funny. “uh, i’m as real as a cowboy can be.”

charlie squints at him, as if she doesn’t believe him, but you judge her with an elbow, “we’re flying out of texas charlie, we’re bound to see a cowboy or two.”

“but wha’s the point of a cowboy.” she says it, all as one word, blending all the vowels together, and you pick up the bag by your feet to pull out a juice box for her, “we got the cars.”

you look at him from under your hair, strands falling over your face, “she makes a good point, cowboy jack,” the nickname makes him laugh, huffed out from behind his hand, “we do got the cars, no need to ride horses.”

“yeah,” they do have guns, but he still used electric lassoes, they do have shoes but he still wore cowboy boots, “this is just how we do it in kentucky, got more horses than cars.”

“mm.” she hums,  in that sharp, pitched way, like she still doesn’t believe him but she’s got no counter arguments, then she’s looking outside the window again, at the way the soft morning light hits the clouds, making it a rainbow.

“mom, can i have the phone?” she holds out a hand, and you double tap on the camera app before handing it to her. he was a spy, he can’t help but see what you were reading, and it’s a page from pride and prejudice. 

“hope she didn’t put you on the spot.” you sigh, watching her try and take a photo of the clouds, “she’s always a bit too chatty.”

“she’s fine, darlin.” he says the nickname before his brain realises, and you give another laugh, it’s rough from how early it is in the morning and so unlike the high pitched laughs he’d been hearing in bars all his life. 

“you really do have the southern charm,” you sigh again, before turning back to him, he can see your eyes with sleep still hanging in them, how frazzled you are from the way your makeup is fading and your hair is coming loose from the bun, “what’s a gentleman like you doing in economy?”

you’d noticed the jacket, and the hat, both stetsons.

“last minute mixup,i work in the financials of a local distillery, but mixup means i’m flying coach on this red eye.” keep it vague, he thinks, she doesn’t need to know about your past, he thinks. 

he tips an imaginary hat, like he’s used to doing it  “and now this cowboy is at your service.”

you nod back at him, and before you can make a witty quip with the handsome man, your daughter pipes up from her seat, without even looking, “i want juice.” 

“bubs, i just gave you juice.” you sigh, pushing the unopened juice box at her on the tray table.

“that’s apple juice, i hate apples.” she says, not even sparing you two a glance. you look at the juice box, and sigh.

“how can you hate apples? they’re such a normal fruit.” jack drawls, from the aisle seat, shocking you. that makes charlie turn around, and frown.

“jus’ dontlike ‘em.” she scrunched up her face, “only like orange juice.”

“i haven’t packed-“ you start, feeling your daughter’s tantrum coming along, but he’s already unbuckling his seatbelt, “i’ll get us some orange juice, three cups, unless you want something else?”

oh. your heart stutters, and your daughter gives a thumbs up, a stranger with a cowboy hat who moved for your daughter is now getting the three of you orange juice from the plane’s galley. 

you unbuckle your seatbelt too, desperate for a little walk around the plane, and your daughter hastily jumps out of her seat too. 

“charlie, you don’t have to walk if you don’t want to.” you bend down, murmuring in her ear with those soft tones, he doesn’t know how long you two have been walking for, 6am flights, two boarding passes stuffed into your passport holders. she holds up her hands for you, and you sweep her up easily, she curls around your neck, fitting on your hip.

“okay, let’s go bubs.” he leads the way to the galley, and you follow,  your daughter who can’t be any more than four chatters away, talking about the clouds and the sky.

“rainbows, they happen when a ray of sunlight goes through a prim-sm,” she babbles, tiredly “or raindrops, that’s why we can’t see any? because we’re above the clouds right now.”

it’s a small space, the small corridor where the two of you stand, with your daughter hanging off you. you can see him much better, he’s taller than you, but his eyes are so rich and brown it’s hard to tear yourself away. 

and you. you look like a woman he’d never think about. with a child, so much and yet so little like what he lost. a woman he wouldn’t dare to look at, reminding him of the son and the wife that never came back.

and then he remembers, nor did he.

“could i have three orange juices please ma’am?” he looks away from you, talking to the flight attendant, the blonde with wide blue eyes, her emerald ring sparkling on her finger, matching her earrings. a part of him pangs, asking you where your ring is, your finger bare and your ears with small purple butterfly studs in them, matching the flowers in your daughter’s ears.

“uh-“ you hold out your arm, “can I get a tea instead, orange juice is a bit too acidic for the mornings.” 

something so plain, so ridiculously, hopelessly, stupidly normal. no orange juice in the early mornings because of acid reflux, and the life you lead is so much less complicated than the one he had lived.

“tea for the lady then, ma’am.” he says, all southern charm and manners, and soon you have two cups of orange juice and a steaming cup of tea with a shot of milk for you. 

you start to put your daughter down, but she curls into your neck, “i don’t wanna get down.” her face is in a tiny frown, and jack hates to see that. he doesn’t have any kids (had, had one. almost had one.) but he isn’t cruel. 

“here, let me.” he offers his own hands, and if it wasn’t this early in the morning, you’d never let charlie out of your sight. but it’s 6:40am, you’re swaying on your feet, and with narrowed eyes, you hand your daughter to the cowboy in front of you.

you hold the three cups in your hands, and watch him walk to the seats, before gently placing your daughter into her seat with barely a snuffle. then he steps aside for you, and you open the tray tables for the cups. 

“can’t believe she asked for the juice and she fell asleep in th’first place.” he drawls, but you can’t stop replaying the wat he gently placed your daughter in her seat. so gentle. 

“have you done that before?” you blurt out, and he can say a thousand things. he can say the thing he’s told fifty women before you, at a bar. 

he tells the truth. 

“seventeen years ago, i was twenty, lived in the bad part of austin with my wife. painted the nursery blue and everything, practiced holding a baby f’ months. but then she stepped out for some things, eggs, i dunno. and the next thing i got was a phone call to identify the body.”

he keeps it short, clean. as if he didn’t suffer fifteen years of revenge and hatred after it. as if he didn’t die and kill for peace.

you frown, not a spy, not a woman at a fancy bar. your hair in a low bun, falling over your face as you try and brush it away from your eyes. so…not those women he’s seen, so much like the woman he saw eighteen years ago. when they were both twenty. 

you are frazzled, and harried, and not as polished as a spy would be. no facade to hide behind, you just look at him with sympathetic eyes, and a hand on his broad shoulder.

“i’m sorry.” you offer, swallowing thickly, you look at him with such clarity in your eyes. it’s almost laughable, how easy you are to see through, in another life he would have called you a bad asset. but in this one, he lets your hand linger on his shoulder.

“her dad too,” you close your eyes, leaning against the headrest, “he. it was a hit and run, he never saw it coming.” you shake your head, “i always said he was selfish for leaving me seven months pregnant with her.”

you blink your eyes open, like you’ve begged with fate to not tell this story a hundred times, and still you still told it to him. your loss cuts sharp, couldn’t be any more than five years old. he had fifteen years to stew, but you had four years of a daughter to raise.

“ ‘s life isn’t it, darlin?” he says, lazily, hiding behind bravado, but you take it anyway, wiping away the tears from your eyes with soft fingers.

“course, course, cowboy jack,” you sip your tea, and he takes a sip out of his orange juice, “you got a last name or will i have to call you that every time?”

there’ll be more times? the part of his brain that’s as eager as a dog almost wags its tail. but of course she doesn’t want someone as damaged as you, his rational mind supplies. a traitor. 

“daniels.” he musters.

“jack…daniels?” you frown, almost choking on your tea, “you’re a goddamn cowboy, from the south, called jack daniels?!”

“i can show you my id if you want,” and he pulls out his god honest drivers license. the one he never shows women at bars or at festivals or dates. this is him, without a cover. this is jack daniels not agent whiskey.

he won’t tell you about the agent whiskey thing either, that would just scare you off. but he knows you’d laugh, and he takes that imagined laugh, and keeps it close to his heart.

“huh…you weren’t lying.” you shake your head, “your parents weren’t joking when they named you?”

“no ma’am” he mock salutes, “daniels family for years, just liked the name jack, thought i looked like a bean.” that gets a laugh out of you, the simplicity of this moment not lost on you. 

“goin’ somewhere far?” he asks, and you can tell it’s probably because of the dark bags under your eyes. 

“uh yeah, seattle to sacramento, sacramento to dallas and then finally, dallas to chicago.” you sigh, scrubbing your eyes with the heels of your palms, “long travel journey.”

he knows it’s to cut costs, he doesn’t say it though.

“i’m travellin’ on business, not pleasure -” he blurts out, and you smile at that.

“when did i say you were?”

“i’m just sayin ma’am, travelling for business.” he nods.

“well, uh-” you smile again, “thanks for letting me know.” and it completely short circuits him, like you’re filing the information away for later, he’s desperate to see your smile again, over and over again. you wouldn’t have to do three flights to get from one place to another, if he spoiled you, he had a house in the suburbs that was too empty for him alone. 

after a few hours, the lights have dimmed, window shutters closed. the sun is up in the sky but half the people on the aircraft are exhausted, himself included. your daughter, charlie, charlotte, has exhausted herself from the window, from your phone, from talking to you and annoying him. she’s fast asleep by the window, small enough to curl up on the seat comfortably. her little toy bear is in her hands, clutched tight, he remembers she still grumbled for it before you pulled it out of your bag. 

she places her legs along her mothers lap, your lap. your hands stroke over her ankles with gentleness. still holding onto her, even as you sleep.

because you’ve fallen asleep too. somewhere over the second hour you’ve fallen fast asleep, eyes closing as you kept holding onto your daughter. you rested your head on the headrest, but your daughter kept squirming and you weren’t tall enough for the absurdly high headrest. 

he sees your head tip, and then feels your cheek press against his shoulder. it’s soft, you’re light against him, but he knows if he stays like this you’ll get a crick in your neck. he’s done this far too many times — and so he adjusts himself, pushes himself a little further down so that you can rest on his shoulder better.

he thinks you look nice like this, in your sleep, the lines on your face smooth out and he can see what your face would look like in peace. all soft, like his entire heart depends on it.

you’re out like a light, but all he can think of is you. jasmine shampoo in your hair, your cheek against his shoulder, you resting on his stetson jacket. it’s too much, it makes his fingers tingle in a way nothing quite has for seventeen years, as if you’re forcing life from you to him. 

the plane rocks gently, through some mild turbulence. not enough to wake you, but enough to shake you against him, and he holds out a steady arm to catch you if you fall.

you don’t, but you do list sideways, and he keeps you upright. it’s this sort of softness he hasn’t allowed himself to feel in years, doesn’t feel like he deserved to feel it in years. 

he doesn’t even hear the flight attendant walks up to your seats, the same one that the two of you  met in the galley, with the green stone in her ring and in her earrings.

she looks down at jack, and then at the empty cups, “i’ll take them.” and jack nods, finishing off charlie’s untouched juice that had turned lukewarm in the hours since. all three cups go in the trash, and then she turns to the three of them.

“would you like anything this morning?” she asks, all polite and proper, and he hums, “yeah, could I get some coffee?” 

she pulls out the coffee thermos, and pours into a cup, and hands it to him, “and anything for your wife and daughter?” she says, like it means nothing.

his breath catches against his chest, it doesn’t mean nothing. it means everything, like a life he didn’t believe he’d have. he should just correct the attendant, this is not my wife and that’s not my daughter, but then the attendant smiles all so sweet and adds, “she has your curls you know?” 

“oh i…” he doesn’t know how to continue, freezes in his seat. that’s the life he could have had, and his life feels like these two are what fills the holes in his heart. suddenly it does look like charlie’s curls are a bit like his, suddenly it does look terribly domestic with your head on his shoulder.

he doesn’t know what else to say, so he just says, “thank you.” and then swallows, “i’ll take a muffin for the kid if you have it.”

she passes him a sealed packet of a muffin, worse than what he gets in first class usually, and worse than the fruit snacks he knows that are in your bag, but still he takes it and places it on the tray table in front of you. 

he doesn’t know when he falls asleep, but he wakes up as soon as you stir on his shoulders. you pull your head away, and he sleepily blinks his eyes, clearly letting you have you space. 

“oh god, i’m so sorry…” you mumble, yawning, stretching your shoulders, “i didn’t realise-“ you yawn again.

“don’t worry,” he brushes down his hair, “things happen.”

let them happen. a small voice in his head says. let them happen. 

your daughter gasps next to you, as she grabs the muffin in the packet. “mom, they had muffins when we were asleep?”

“say thank you to mr daniels, okay?” you nudge your daughter, and she nods at him solemnly, before taking a huge bite out of the muffin. 

“m’ku m’th ‘aniels.” she sprays crumbs everywhere when she talks, but it makes him laugh, and it makes you flush. 

“charlotte, close your mouth when you eat.” you close her jaw with your hand, and then shake your head, as if to say children, am i right.

and jack would agree with you with whatever, he doesn’t have any children of his own. but your words are like gospel to him, and he’ll listen to anything you’ll say. 

the plane lands smoothly, and he’d say he’s lying if his brain wasn’t filled with you and charlie, munching away at a muffin. chicago is big and full of people. charlie looks at him like he hangs the moon and the stars, all so bright, with her brown eyes staring at him, talks to him like he’s a wonder. he’s given her his window seat, talked to her about being a cowboy, even told her if she asks nicely, him and you can go take her to see the pilot.

“can we really?!” she asks, wide eyed, grabbing onto your arms as she kicks her feet, “see where they drive the plane from!”

“it’s called a cockpit,” you softly correct her, she’s easily excitable, “but i have no idea you’re going to ask the cowboy here.”

he rolls his eyes, “it’s just jack, sugar.” and then whispers to your daughter — “but don’t you worry about that peach, we’ll show you the cockpit real soon, okay?”

the three of you wait until the plane is empty, and then she shrieks as she runs towards the front of the plane. jack’s pulled down your bag from the overhead cabin, as well as his little suitcase, and he’s dragging it down the aisle, trying to keep up with you two.

it’s terribly domestic, he thinks, but he doesn’t think he’d get much more than this. not in this life.

the co-pilot is in there, and he grins as charlie starts asking a hundred questions, like “what button makes the plane fly (that one) can you make the plane do a loop? (no) can i flick that switch (wait…yes okay, that’s the light switch.)

you blush behind your hands, your daughter too loud for a four year old. always has a head in a book about planes, and the pilot strolls into the cockpit, seeing the scene. jack, holding onto your daughter’s hand as he talks to the copilot, your daughter, yammering away about something planes do, and you, watching this all with a hand on jack’s suitcase and your backpack on your back and a little tote bag on your arm. 

“oh, how did you know we let the kids in the cockpit, barely anyone knows we do this.” he says.

“yeah um, jack said usually pilots did this, so we just came and tried our luck.” you almost stumble over the words. 

“lovely family you have there,” he mentions, offhandedly to you, and you freeze, inadvertently in the same position jack was two hours ago, “good to know your husband looks out for your daughter, she loves planes.”

and she did love planes. that wasn’t the point. but that was the point, because charlie loved planes and jack showed her the cockpit, instead of just glaring at her for ruining his day with her mouth than ran a mile a minute.

you bite your lip. “thanks…c’mon peanut, we gotta start walking now.” 

chicago is a big city, he worries about you getting lost in the crowd, worried about everything really. and so as you step off the plane, he holds out his hand for charlie to step over the steps easily, and to stomp onto the airbridge.

“charlie,” you gently say, kneeling down to her level, “peanut, we’re going to have to say goodbye to mr daniels now, okay? we need to get our bags and meet aunty ria, okay?”

her hands grip his tightly, and she pouts her lip, “but i want to stay with cowboy, he shows me planes!” 

“charlie-bee,” you say softly again, trying to untangle her hand from his, “we gotta go, aunty ria made you that cake, remember? coconut just like you like?”

a pause, and his heart thuds in his chest. there is nobody quite like you, is this his last chance for redemption?

“are you still in chicago thursday evening?” he blurts out, far too loud for his own good. but you pause, and frown.

“…yeah, why?” you frown, “not free though, i got charlie with me.”

“i was wondering if you wanted to grab some…coffee.” he frowns at his own words, he’s never sounded this keen before. 

he’s a older than you, not your usual type, with his crows feet and his greying hair, his soft arms and the cowboy tshirt. but have you even had a type every since your husband passed away? 

“coffee would be nice, okay.” you smile, “do you want my number?”

“i’ll…i’ll write mine down sweetheart—“ he says it earnestly, looking for a pen or a napkin to scrawl his number onto. very old fashioned, perhaps a decade older than you, but you just laugh as as you tap your phone with his to get your contacts to be shared between each other.

“that was quicker, wasn’t it?”

“full of tricks.” he grins, and it’s true, you have bewitched him. and he smiles as he waves at both you and your daughter, and walks out to chicago, finally feeling like a new man. 

taglist! for people who were interested...sorry this is 1 month and 3 days late...i blame [ gestures vaguely at everything but specifically the grandparents visit with no wifi and a 9 hour road trip and then a pile of undone physics worksheets ] i hope this taglist works. yayyyyy :

it’s as if the world fell to pieces yesterday, when had been a mess for years. you barely remember the before, before when the world was sunnier. 

there’s the guilt, guilt in carrying the life in your stomach. guilt that you’re bringing her into this world, full of hate and death. guilt you bring her into such a broken life, with the infected crawling outside jackson’s walls. but it takes a village — maria and tommy were always here to help, so was the rest of the townsfolk.

and there was joel, sweet sweet joel. your husband, the father of your child. he’d always place a hand over your swollen stomach, proud that he’d marked you as his. proud that you were carrying his baby, his very blood in you. he was so gentle with how he stroked your stomach, how he laid a big hand where you guided it, to feel your daughter kick.

you’re sitting next to him now, on his couch. he’s so warm, and in the last month of your pregnancy, you’ve been feeling all too cold. your hands feel frozen, and he holds them in his own big ones, rubbing them between his own, lacing fingers, pressing palms. it’s good, warm. it feels like life and sun, and not like the cold that you know lies behind jackson’s walls.

“joel?” you look up at him, and he can never refuse those big doe eyes of yours, so wide, looking at him like he hangs the moon and the stars. you’re younger than him, seen less violence than him, he’d been a raider, killed. and you…?

you haven’t. you’re like the sun, luminous. you shine brighter than anyone else in the room, shine even brighter with the glow pregnancy brought out in you. he likes that you’re heavy with his seed, likes that he’s claimed you and everyone in jackson can see that. his star, that he caught whilst hanging the moon. his star, he chose to keep for himself.

“mm?” he grunts back in a reply, his hand gently stroking your knuckles, he likes the dips of the skin there, from the days spent working in the farm. yet soft from all the creams he’d found for you on patrol. 

he’s handsome, the years haven’t been kind to the world, to him. but they’ve been kind to his face. his eyes are big and brown. and they look down at you with such care. 

“nevermind.” you blush, after a second, ducking your head, turning your face away so he can’t see the expression on your face. he loves it when you smile like that, it turns him into mush inside. all shy and ridiculous, like a startled deer.

“go on darlin’?” he asks, keeping his hand on yours, keeping his warmth with you. 

“it’s silly joel.” you sigh, before turning back to him, there’s a fondness in your eyes that he sees as they flick down to your stomach. you slip away a hand from him, and press it to your stomach.

“i just.” you pause, something lodged in your throat, “i just…”

he frowns, his hand covering yours on your stomach. fall is colder now, and you’re wearing a knit cardigan to keep you and the baby warm. she isn’t kicking or anything, but you seem so sad, his heart aches.

“you jus’ what, peach?” he asks, his voice all low and gravelly, dripping with worry, his eyes are wide as he looks into your face. he’s always scared with you, scared that something will happen, scared that he’ll loose you too. scared that you’ll slip away like tess did, like sarah did, like everything good was taken from him.

scared. scared that you would go, and so would his daughter with you. somewhere where he couldn’t find you, orpheus, he would make a deal with hades to bring you back. 

“you don’t…” you lick your lips, and take a deep breath. he’s worried, possessive, doesn’t let you out of the house in the last month. he has a hand hovering over you, your stomach, like he tethers you to earth. “don’t worry joel, nothing’s wrong with me.”

“or baby?” he asks, voice rough. of course nothing’s wrong with her, or you’d say something.

“or the baby.” you exhale, and he feels your cool breath on his fingers, comforting, you are alive. alive and in his arms. 

“then what is it, sweetheart.” he traces circles on your stomach, it’s an odd feeling, but you like it. “c’mon, you can tell me, promise, this old man won’t laugh.”  

“not that old.” you sigh, your hand finds his chin, and you rub the stubble lovingly. he needs to shave, and soon. “it’s just, i don’t even know if people do it that often these days, but god. i want my baby to listen to music, heard it helped with development and all that.”

he sees the tip of your nose twitch, and the tears mist your big eyes. the guilt, the guilt of bringing a child into a world like this.

“peach…” he sighs, and tucks a stray strand away from your face. “peach, you ain’t doing anything wrong by her, by bringing her here.”

“feels like i am.” you choke out, and she has a loving father and mother, a sister in ellie, an uncle, aunt. a village behind her. it takes a village. and yet. your heart halts, because she will never have the ordinary joys of what a baby would have had before. toys, stupid dancing fruits on the phone, cartoons. small things.

“how about i play some music, ‘kay?” he lets out a breath, and when he gets up, the chill seeps into your bones. the empty space beside you, once with his warmth, now with the cool pooling around you. 

he comes back a few seconds later, the guitar in his hands. he props up a little further away from you on the sofa, but close enough so that you and the baby can hear him well. 

he sets it up properly, tuning the strings with ear memory. each pluck of the string is gentle, like he is with you, his fingers big and thick and playing each note perfectly.

“you are my sunshine.” he starts, his fingers playing the chords perfectly, and you swear you’ll start crying this very second. the hormones, no, his love for you is choking you. 

the song is so sweet, wrapped up in his rough cadence, like he always has wrapped his love in. he plays it carefully, plays it without tearing up — failing that when he sees you cry. some words get caught in his throat as he continues singing. 

you can feel your daughter kick, and you rest your hand over your stomach as he plays, sunshine — you both are his sunshine. he hasn’t even seen her, and he knows that she’d be like the sun incarnate, just like you. his two stars that he will always orbit, always have their warmth light up their world.

“she kicked!” you call out to him, and he stops playing immediately to cover your stomach with his hand, feel the little feet kick against his hand. his heart thuds in his chest as he feels them, feels your hand grasp his. 

he’d never realised he could get something like this — deserved something like this. ever had the chance to get something like this, after everything, after the world falling to shit. 

you’re going to say something, but it gets caught in the kiss he gives you, all so soft and sweet, his chapped lips against your own soft ones. you’re heavy with his child, you’re completely his, and you love it so much. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he just needs you to be okay.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you, you. he needs you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“a okay?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

scares you and makes you love him even more.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“how do you know it’s a he.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

new york in the rain is always…something else entirely. after the break up with lucy, after everything, the summer comes with patchy spells of rain, like clockwork. manhattan’s large buildings cover him from most of the rain, but the road halfway to his office has been blocked since yesterday night, due to emergency works in the pipeline, and he has to walk the last half a mile. and anyway, he’s given this morning off to his driver. the cab driver’s dropped him off here, and now it’s just him and this stretch of road that he has to walk through, and flag another cab on the other side. 

he would obviously rather not do such a thing, because. well — his suit is silk and well tailored, and he wears freshly polished oxfords on his feet he’d rather not get scuffed. it’s almost 9, and he is so ridiculously far away from the financial district, it’s embarrassing. this was not a good time to be late for work, especially not late for work in drenched clothes and no umbrella. he had a reputation to uphold, in the office at least. 

the rain falls harder, and he starts walking faster, head hunched over his phone on the pavement, he needs to call his assistant, let her know that no he will not be showing up today, and yes he will be there for the meeting by 12. should be anyway. 

a splash, and he feels water coat his trousers. they’re grey, and anyone  can see the damn water stains on them now. it’s muddy water too, splotches against his calves and his ankles. he looks up from his screen, to see the offending person who’s splashed his $700 suit. 

to his surprise, it’s a child in a yellow raincoat. excited as she jumps up and down, her brown hair in plaits as she runs into puddles, a jump, a dart, and then she’s out again, stomping her feet onto every single divot where water has gathered.

he smiles at that, anger being washed away as the rain falls. 

and then his eyes land on you, running behind what could only be your daughter. you share the same eyes, the same face shape, you’ re basically mirroring every movement of hers, haphazardly. long hair tied into a bun, you look frazzled, exhausted. 

“maya!” you shout, chasing after your daughter with the umbrella in one hand; attempting to not have it blow away by the wind. the other hand reaches out for her, but not before she trips over his oxfords, scuffing them, tumbling into a puddle.

it’s right in front of him, and a child’s just fallen down, he doesn’t have any children, but he isn’t heartless. 

he stops his speed walking, and holds out his pointer finger for her to grab, and she does so with her tiny hands, wrapping around his finger, tugging at it. she stands up with a little “oof”, and he can see the scrape on her cheek from when she hit the floor, the muddy water on her face, leaving behind a grubby stain. suddenly, something overwhelms him, and he crouches down to her level, to wipe away a little of the grit that’s pressed against her cheek. 

“oh my god, i am so sorry about that!” you say, out of breath, as you catch up to the two of them. he looks at you, and then your daughter. it’s almost as if you’ve managed to copy and paste yourself, a smaller version of you with the same bright eyes, even if yours have been dulled by…well. he doesn’t know. life? 

“it’s no worries.” he smiles back, still not standing up, his hands linger over the child’s cheek, the scrape bleeding a little, “hey, is she okay?”

you scrub your face with your hands, and crouch down to your daughter, and he realises that you’re short, quite a bit shorter than him, anyway.

“maya, angel, are you okay?” you wipe the blood away off her skin, the red staining your thumb as your eyes mist up. you hate to see her in pain, that much is obvious. 

“otay.” she holds up her thumb in agreement, and nods. harry’s a little surprised kids can be like that, all soft one moment, all solid the next. she scrunches up her nose, and her fringe sticks to her forehead, she can’t be any more than three, a toddler running loose in new york on a wednesday morning. sure, that might as well happen, he think. 

“mumma’s still going to check, okay?” you kiss her cheek, and then straighten up, lifting her up in one swoop. he takes it as a cue to stand up too, shaking his arm, and picking up the umbrella you’ve dropped to pick your daughter up.

“your umbrella..?” is literally all he can manage, because his stomach is doing flip flops right now, looking at you. you, with the pretty eyes, fogged up glasses perched on your head. you’re wearing formal wear, a blouse and a floral skirt, and your daughter smiles looking at him holding out the umbrella.

“umbella.” her small hands try and grab it, but there’s no way she’ll be able to hold it, and so he keeps a grip on it, steady.

“i don’t think i have any room for it.” you huff, “you keep it mister!” you wave at him, with your left hand, “seems like you need it.”

no ring.

so why did he notice that?

you smile at him, and he smiles back, before you start walking towards the nearest open coffee shop.

and then he jogs up to them, “hey! miss!” what’s possessing him to do this? he’s fifty for god’s sake, and he sounds like a nineteen year old with a crush.

you turn back, and see him holding out the umbrella for you, “yeah..?”

“your daughter tripped over my shoes,” he sounds sheepish, “let me buy you a coffee, it’s the least i can do ma’am.”

you frown for a second, and then hear the thunderclap, look at the downpour. “okay…yeah, sure. okay, why not.”

maya curls around your neck at the sound of the thunderclap, and the sight squeezes something in his heart. you soothe her with a kiss to her forehead and a stroke on her hair.

“she can’t stand thunderstorms.” you say, nodding at her, “i’m trying to get her to nursery, but the subway wasn’t working? they’re saying the tracks got flooded?”

“they need to fix that, sooner or later.” but he hasn’t used the subway in years, his driver takes him everywhere. 

“mhm.” you agree, and the two of you step into the coffee shop, it’s upscale, the ones that sell the bags of their own brand, artisanal coffee in store too. 

your daughter — maya — with her brown plaits, blinks up when she smells coffee. and then snuggles back into you again. she’s so tiny, with her little hands playing with the loose strands of hair around your neck. is this what he’s missing out on?

“so, what do you want, anything, it’s on me.” he says, putting the umbrella back in it’s case, and putting it in the empty water bottle holder of your bag. 

you frown, and then look down at your daughter. “what do you want baby?” 

he didn’t expect you to ask her what she wanted, he just thought you’d get something expensive and leave, what with him inconveniencing you. instead you ask maya, and she murmurs something in your ear.

“have you been here before?” you ask, frowning as he reads the menu. 

“this is a chain, there’s one near my work place in the financial district.” he says, noncommittally, there’s no reason to tell her what he does, not yet. 

“oh okay,” you say, and then you whisper back to your daughter, “i think if you ask the nice man, he’ll know more than me, okay baby?”

she nods, and then peeks her head out of the crook of her mother’s neck. 

“hi.” she says, her voice oh so delicate.

“hi.” he says, a little awkwardly, he’s not great with kids. never has been, probably never will be. 

“what’s ‘our name.” she asks it so confidently, it throws him off. in the middle of the line for the counter. you laugh at that, and harry thinks he quite likes the sound of your laugh. 

“i’m harry castillo, but you can call me harry.” he holds out his finger again, and she shakes it with her little hand.

“go on, ask mr castillo the question.” you prompt her, gently.

“otay.” she frowns, like she’s remembering. “what’s really sweet here? mumma says i can’t have sweets at home. your teeth get holes. but what’s super sweet here?”

he laughs at that, and you shake your head, “maya! you don’t have to tell mr castillo about home baby.” but he wants to hear about home, he wants to hear about how silly it is raising a child, what your home is like, what maya is like, what you are like.

“it’s harry, and it’s fine, really.” home for him is a huge penthouse with nobody inside. so really, anything is interesting to him.

“otay. can ou tell me what’s sweet here?” she asks, more seriously.

he hums, looking at the menu. “maybe the caramel hot chocolate it’s caramel and chocolate.”

you smile at that and so does maya, matching smiles on your faces, why does it light up the room, why does that light up his morning.

you get to the counter quickly, and he tells the barista what to order, putting his card to the machine before you can even see that he’s picked out two pastries for you two too. is the total $28? yes, but that’s a small price to pay, for everything.

you sit at the couch with your daughter beside you, and the barista calls out “maya!” 

you watch as he picks up the plates and cup from the counter, and brings it to you. your daughters eyes widen, and she starts drinking from the cup with the straw.

“you don’t have to do this!” you push the cinnamon bun towards him, your daughter has unfortunately already got her hands on the glazed cherries, and has them in her fist right now, “please, let me pay you back.”

“no, it’s fine, really.” he still has that awkward smile, “i did trip your daughter up.”

“by accident, and it’s fine, kids fall over all the time.”

“but are you sure she seems okay?” he frowns, and he notices your eyes catch his hands. 

“she’s fine, i promise, it’s nothing more than a little graze, see?” you point to her cheek, and the scrape has scabbed over already. 

“and her head and everything…?” he says, and you smile again, more reassuringly.

“yes,” you take a sharp breath, “kids are meant to survive, i promise, she’s okay.”

“oh.” he says, quietly, “okay.”

“no worries mr castillo, thank you so much, maya will be raving about this for days now.” you smile at him, genuine gratitude, and it’s at this moment where he realises that he would spoil you and maya forever. if he could.

“i didn’t catch your name..?” he asks, gentle smile on his face.

“oh yeah, of course, it’s (y/n).” your focus is on your daughter now, who asks if you can cut up the cherry turnover into smaller pieces for her. it’s clear you have no idea who the hell he is, and he’d rather it stay the way.

it’s cute, how quickly maya smiles at him, how you smile at him. he walks up to the counter to get another paper straw as the one in maya’s cup starts to disintegrate, and the barista there smiles at him.

“lovely family you’ve got there.” she says, handing the straw over, “your daughter looks just like your wife, except she’s got your smile.”

those words make him freeze. daughter, wife. you just met them half an hour ago, and suddenly you do look like you and maya would suit his apartment better, suddenly it looks like maya’s little smile looks a little like his own. 

“oh that’s…” he trails off, just take the win man, you aren’t going to get a wife and child. not at your age, his mind thinks. “thank you.”

“no worries, have a nice day!”

and he walks back to the couch where the two of you sit, sitting across you again. 

“here’s the straw.” he hands it over, and you swap out the straw that’s broken for the other one. 

“thanks.” you smile, and nudge your daughter.

“tanks mr catillo.” she sniffles, and then sips the hot chocolate again.

“it’s harry, and it’s fine, really.”

is it? his heart is melting. 

“do you have anywhere to be later?” he asks, and your smile turns into a frown quickly. that was a silly question.

“yeah, work. maya can’t stay without me too long in weather like this, so i’m just taking her to work with me.” you sigh, “i mostly work from home, but the office says you need to come in on wednesdays.”

“oh, which way are you going?” he asks, and you shrug.

“midtown, i work at a tech company, but i doubt i’ll be anywhere at this time of day.”

he laughs at that, all rich like butter and biscuits. “yeah, fair enough, i’m trying to get to the financial district without looking like a wet rat.”

you smile at him, and he can feel your eyes ghost over his curls. “no, i don’t think you look like a wet rat mr castillo.”

“it’s harry.” he sighs, and leans over the table, maya mimicks him and does the same. they’re content in making silly faces at each other for a bit as you scroll through your inbox. 

“i’ve never seen her take to someone so quick.” there’s a smile on your face, proud. “she’s always very shy, but she loves jumping up in the rain.”

he hasn’t thought of lucy, or matchmaking, or anything right now. just the woman in front of him, with the child currently blowing a raspberry at him. 

“maybe i just have a trustworthy aura.” he smiles, all charm.

“or maybe it’s because you gave her three sources of sugar.” but there’s no bite to your words, not really, “thanks, i can’t wait for the sugar crash that’s going to come next.”

maya has a fringe that sticks to her face with the rain, and your glasses that are fogged up sit on your hair, and you smile at him like he’s the only man alive.

oh god. he’s sunk in so deep, it’s ridiculous.

and he doesn’t even know if you’re single, available, whatever. no ring doesn’t mean, no father.

“can’t you give her to her father?” he blurts out, and your vision darkens.

“no, um, maya’s dad died two months after she was born.” you shake your head. “daddy’s with the stars now, isn’t he?” you say, in hushed tones to your daughter, but it’s like you’re saying it for yourself.

“oh.” he gets quiet again, “sorry about that.” 

“no it’s fine, really.” you say, with some resolution in your voice. the sun is finally peeking out of the clouds, and this magical moment has to come to an end, soon anyway. 

maya burrows into your chest again as you coax her to stand up, she doesn’t want to walk any longer, and harry doesn’t know how long you’ve been walking for anyway. without a single thought, he picks up your daughter like she weighs nothing.

maya shrieks with laughter, this is higher up than she’s used to.

you just stare at him with narrowed eyes, but he just sort of stands there, six feet tall with a child perched in his arms, waiting for you to say something.

you huff, and then close your eyes, as if to say “i’m trusting you with this.” and then your eyes harden, “if you hurt her..”

his face blanches, but he still holds onto her like she’s precious, and she is precious, with freckles on her face and bright eyes like she’s the sun incarnate. 

she sits on his shoulders once you leave the coffee shop, the water is drying quickly and there aren’t too many people on the streets. your eyes still linger on your daughter, but also trail over his broad shoulders and broad back. 

tugging at his hair with her small hands, squishing his face, “don’t pull mr castillo’s hair.” you scold.

“it’s fine really.” 

“are you sure?” you ask, worried.

“i’m sure.” he nods, and maya is folding over his face now, dangling her face against his. 

“do ‘ou like cheese? stars make noises? can ‘ou read?” rapid fire questions that come out of her mouth. you smile as he painstakingly answers them “yes i like cheese, i don’t know about stars sorry, and yes i can read.”

she hums thoughtfully, and then sits back up, playing with his hair. the blocked off road is coming to an end now, and you reach at her feet, in little wellington booties. 

“cmon now, time to say goodbye to mr castillo.” he’s given up correcting you.

“arry.” she says, sadly, hand still in his hair.

“careful now maya-bear, mumma has to go to office, you need to come with me okay?” you reach out for her? and harry tries to pass her down, but her hands pull at his shirt.

“come on now.” you coax her again, “you can see mr castillo later on, okay?” and she clambers off him, and onto you. 

“thank you for that.” you whisper, gratefully. 

“no worries miss.” he smiles, a blush on his cheeks. god what he wouldn’t do to have a family like this, a wife and his own child, running around. then he wouldn’t even have to tell them to go. 

“it’s (y/n),” you clear your throat, “it’s fine, call me that and i’ll call you harry.”

“(y/n) it is then.”

“right—“ you put maya down, and let her walk beside you, holding onto your hand. “this is where we say goodbye, right?”

a feeling in his chest. would this be his last chance?

“are you free tomorrow evening?” he asks, far too quickly. 

“tomorrow..evening..?” you stutter, “um, maybe? i dunno, i’ll have to check, probably not though, mayasitting .”

“oh, i was just wondering if you wanted to get some dinner.”

“oh, OH.” you blush, “right, like. that. and this is dinner dinner, and not just, dinner.”

“…what?” he knits his brows.

“no, i mean, never mind.” you shake your head, maya pulling at your hand to turn right. “like, dinner as in. like feeling bad for a single mom sort of dinner or-“

“no, date dinner.” he likes when you stumble over your words, it’s cute.

“ah, date dinner.” you hum, “yeah okay, if you’re okay with maya coming.” a protective hand on her head. “i’m not going anywhere without her, or your house.”

“no, of course.” he glances down at maya, “of course she can come. there’s a nice pizza joint in downtown manhattan that you should come visit. it’s near my office.”

your lips quirk upwards, a ghost of a smile, “okay, yeah, sure, i’d like that. would you like it maya?”

maya grabs onto his trouser clad leg with her grabby little hands (sticky with sugar from the pastries) “PIZZA!”

“okay, so that’s decided then.” your mouth is dry as you watch him smile down at her and shake her hand again. he’s so good with your girl, it makes your heart thud, “can i get your number?”

he nods, and then passes over a business card, and you laugh as you read over it. “i meant maybe airdropping my contact over? but this works fine too.”

greying hair, wrinkles around his eyes, sure he’s not your usual type, a a bit older, but you haven’t dated since your husband died anyway. 

you ring the number you’ve just inputted, and his phone rings. “save me right now, so you can find me faster.”

“okay, okay.” he puts your name down, “see you six pm? i’ll send the location over?”

( maya doesn’t let go of his leg until she’s promised she’ll see him tomorrow, 200%, and somewhere in his shattered broken heart, a seed of hope grows. )

your eyelids are feeling hot, your head feels heavy on your neck. big, warm hands are massaging your hair, wiping a cool cloth to your forehead every few minutes. 

you sneeze into your tissue, your eyes bleary as you open them to the sound of his laughter. soft and rich, before he runs a hand through your hair again, fingers tangling in the knots. his hands help drive away the headache pounding into your skull, gentle. so gentle.

“only you could be sick in the summer.” he smiles, and you feel a kiss pressed to your forehead. your husband's lips are chapped, and you grumble as you feel them on your skin.

“mmm, chapstick.” you huff, raising your hand from the bed to stroke his stubble, feel the roughness on your palms. he just wets his lips with a sliver of his tongue, and then kisses your forehead again. then your eyes, and the tip of your nose.

“gonna get you,” you pause, to cough pitifully, close your eyes at how brightly the sun shines into the room through the windows, “sick.”

“baby, if i was going to get sick, i probably would have.” a hand comes out of your hair, and traces down your arm, his touch sending goosebumps down your body. “at this point i think i’m immune to whatever bug you have.”

you just sneeze again, looking a little betrayed that your husband wasn't suffering like you. but, as you feel him stroke your face, it’s better this way anyway. you like his touch, his soft soft touch on your skin. it’s nice, he always takes a day off work when any of his girls are off sick. but sarah’s in college now, which leaves you to take care of when you’re sick. stay at home wife not doing much when she’s coughing away with her eyes hot and her hands shaking.

he’s made you lemon and honey tea this morning, and it sits half full on your bedside table. advil eaten, and your head is still drumming against your pulse, too much – too much. 

“perks of running your own company.” he grins, as he notices your eyes turning to his phone, silencing another call from a client with a button. “tommy’ll handle it babe.” 

“you should.” you try and blink away the head cold from your brain, your eyes are heating up again, but it’s 12 in the afternoon. you should probably get out of bed. at least clean the room a little. “ ‘s miller brothers, not brother.”

he pushes you back down again, this time with a soft kiss on your lips. “and you’ll be fine, if you don’t push yourself.” 

and you had. you’d spent the all of thursday out in the rain, weathering the drizzles visiting garden centers and picking out plants. on a home improvement kick on the only week in august where it was pouring, with a chilly breeze.

and here you are, sneezing away on friday afternoon. 

ugh,” you sigh, all congested, feeling gross. “please tell me never to go into the garden again, i don’t even think i finished pulling out the weeds.” 

another sneeze, and you duck your head under the covers again, away from his hands. god you feel like shit, all sweaty and gross. hair sticking to your forehead, nose full of snot. “go away joel, i’m gross.” 

he stills next to you, and then the bed dips as he finally lies beside you. his nose brushing against yours, breath on your face. he smells of the chicken soup he fed you this morning, that he made with his own hands.

“miller style”, he says, and you know it’s just spices. but it’s warm and comforting. comforting when he feeds it to you with a gentle spoon, head pillowed on his chest. 

“you’re a little gross yeah.” he kisses you on the lips again, and you can feel the curl on his forehead against your own. you can feel his skin against yours, and he nuzzles into your warmth. “but your sneezes are so cute.”

“mmm” you hum, letting him press deeper, face against your chest, your hand lazily coming up to stroke his wavy curls. all circles and shapes, like he was with you. it’s nice. it’s nice holding your husband like this, close to you.

“you sneeze like an old man.” you tap him on the head, and laugh, coughing between some of them. he raises his head and scowls at you, but he doesn’t mean anything. you can see the love for you shine in his eyes, feel the love on you skin. “don’t see me commenting on that.”

he laughs into your neck, it’s so warm against your clammy skin, you ache for him. always ache for him, but here under this duvet it’s like you need him now. your head is pounding and you regret taking breathing easily quite for granted.

“i sneeze like a man, ‘cause i am one” he sighs into you, before he feels a sigh against his skin, “last i checked you liked that about me.”

another laugh, you smile at him through your headache, your nose scrunching up for another sneeze. the duvet around you soft, his snaking around your waist. he’s so warm, he’s so so so so so so warm, and you need all his warmth, he’s a furnace. a big broad furnace, and you shiver for him. 

“like you for more than that, miller.” you say softly, and you’d be content to lie there, next to him, like this. if your head wasn’t killing you, if the cold wasn’t eating away at your braincells. 

his hand snakes down lower, as if he can feel your need radiating off you, and his fingers can feel the wetness around your pussy. slick. “yeah yeah baby, i know.” his words. god his fucking voice, so low, so gravelly. you need him now, and you look up at him with wide eyes.

you tuck yourself into him closer, trying to leech his warmth into you. his hand strokes circles on your lower back, your hip. you shiver, but it’s not just the fever burning your veins, it’s how big he js, all big and may, and you shiver when he draws closer.

“your hands too, love it when you do woodworking..” you scrunch your nose at him, tilting your head as best as you can on the pillows. like you aren’t a pathetic dripping mess right now.

he pushes away your panties, damp. a laugh, “woodworking, ‘course babygirl.” you bite back a moan as he slides his index finger in, knows your body so well that he curls it and your legs shake already. 

“fuck, already so wet for me?”  he settles into a position that’s comfortable for him, and you nod, your eyes pricking with tears from his teasing. 

his fingers pump into you, touch always so soft as his thumb circles your clit. your headcold is forgotten now. a moan, silenced by his mouth on yours. 

“baby,” his voice is low and rough, in your ear, ““is this what you wanted?”

you whine into his shoulder, your fingers pressing against his broad back, feeling the muscles from picking up lumber flexing under your touch. 

wanted this, needed this. these past few days you’d just been caught up in a flurry of work. fighting weeds in the garden with a rake, running out to pull out laundry from the rain, stress had creeped up on you, and this stupid cold from the rain.

and it was good, god he was so good with his hands, you loved the stretch of his fingers as he worked you well, loved the way his thumb brought you closer and closer, loved the smell of pine and leather on him, clinging to his clothes.

your hips buck, and he pulls the duvet over the two of you tighter. he’s greedy, admiring your body whilst his hand works you slow, your nipples pebbled under his shirt you wear as a sleep shirt.

his other hand ghosts over your chest, then tweaks a nipple. a strangled moan, your nose buried into his skin, leather and pinewood and him and him and him. you feel like a fucking slob when you’re sick, all congested and gross, dark circles under your eyes and sneezes that plague your days. 

“j-joel.” you moan, wailing as he tugs again, curls his fingers again, does what he does to make you feel so good.

and he smells him on you, his shirt wrapping around you, something worn and old from both your pasts, graphics faded. 

“you look so hot like this.” he whispers into your ear, and that’s what does it for you. you whimper as you come on his fingers, all sticky and wet. “smelling like me.” but when he pulls his hands out you hate the emptiness that follows, “in my shirt.” 

the pleasure washes over you, your eyes roll back as you come on his fingers. your headache disappearing into whatever pit of hell it came

from, nerves twitching with your orgasm.

the haze of pleasure breaks, and you see him wipe you on himself, on his shirt.  

you smile at him, but you hate the cool when he pulls away. he always makes you feel so good, so loved. every time, however many times it’s been.

the duvet is still warm, and you reach out to him, trying to cuddle him. he stays, stretching out his arm with a click before wrapping it around your waist.

“headache over?” he asks, all soft and sweet, like he didn’t leave you twitching and desperate for more a minute ago. but your head isn’t hurting anymore.

“feels better already.” you murmur, nuzzling into him again. you tuck into him, your own furnace. 

“feel like you only want me for my hands and my warmth.” he chuckles into your hair, kissing the softness. 

“nah.” your voice in his chest, “i like your chicken soup too.” 

your ring presses against his broad torso, so much bigger and wider than you. you like him a lot, because of everything else too. he’ll make you another lemon and honey tea, feed you as much chicken soup, because he knows you’d do the same for him, and he knows his heart is full of love for you. 

it’s as if the world fell to pieces yesterday, when had been a mess for years. you barely remember the before, before when the world was sunnier. 

there’s the guilt, guilt in carrying the life in your stomach. guilt that you’re bringing her into this world, full of hate and death. guilt you bring her into such a broken life, with the infected crawling outside jackson’s walls. but it takes a village — maria and tommy were always here to help, so was the rest of the townsfolk.

and there was joel, sweet sweet joel. your husband, the father of your child. he’d always place a hand over your swollen stomach, proud that he’d marked you as his. proud that you were carrying his baby, his very blood in you. he was so gentle with how he stroked your stomach, how he laid a big hand where you guided it, to feel your daughter kick.

you’re sitting next to him now, on his couch. he’s so warm, and in the last month of your pregnancy, you’ve been feeling all too cold. your hands feel frozen, and he holds them in his own big ones, rubbing them between his own, lacing fingers, pressing palms. it’s good, warm. it feels like life and sun, and not like the cold that you know lies behind jackson’s walls.

“joel?” you look up at him, and he can never refuse those big doe eyes of yours, so wide, looking at him like he hangs the moon and the stars. you’re younger than him, seen less violence than him, he’d been a raider, killed. and you…?

you haven’t. you’re like the sun, luminous. you shine brighter than anyone else in the room, shine even brighter with the glow pregnancy brought out in you. he likes that you’re heavy with his seed, likes that he’s claimed you and everyone in jackson can see that. his star, that he caught whilst hanging the moon. his star, he chose to keep for himself.

“mm?” he grunts back in a reply, his hand gently stroking your knuckles, he likes the dips of the skin there, from the days spent working in the farm. yet soft from all the creams he’d found for you on patrol. 

he’s handsome, the years haven’t been kind to the world, to him. but they’ve been kind to his face. his eyes are big and brown. and they look down at you with such care. 

“nevermind.” you blush, after a second, ducking your head, turning your face away so he can’t see the expression on your face. he loves it when you smile like that, it turns him into mush inside. all shy and ridiculous, like a startled deer.

“go on darlin’?” he asks, keeping his hand on yours, keeping his warmth with you. 

“it’s silly joel.” you sigh, before turning back to him, there’s a fondness in your eyes that he sees as they flick down to your stomach. you slip away a hand from him, and press it to your stomach.

“i just.” you pause, something lodged in your throat, “i just…”

he frowns, his hand covering yours on your stomach. fall is colder now, and you’re wearing a knit cardigan to keep you and the baby warm. she isn’t kicking or anything, but you seem so sad, his heart aches.

“you jus’ what, peach?” he asks, his voice all low and gravelly, dripping with worry, his eyes are wide as he looks into your face. he’s always scared with you, scared that something will happen, scared that he’ll loose you too. scared that you’ll slip away like tess did, like sarah did, like everything good was taken from him.

scared. scared that you would go, and so would his daughter with you. somewhere where he couldn’t find you, orpheus, he would make a deal with hades to bring you back. 

“you don’t…” you lick your lips, and take a deep breath. he’s worried, possessive, doesn’t let you out of the house in the last month. he has a hand hovering over you, your stomach, like he tethers you to earth. “don’t worry joel, nothing’s wrong with me.”

“or baby?” he asks, voice rough. of course nothing’s wrong with her, or you’d say something.

“or the baby.” you exhale, and he feels your cool breath on his fingers, comforting, you are alive. alive and in his arms. 

“then what is it, sweetheart.” he traces circles on your stomach, it’s an odd feeling, but you like it. “c’mon, you can tell me, promise, this old man won’t laugh.”  

“not that old.” you sigh, your hand finds his chin, and you rub the stubble lovingly. he needs to shave, and soon. “it’s just, i don’t even know if people do it that often these days, but god. i want my baby to listen to music, heard it helped with development and all that.”

he sees the tip of your nose twitch, and the tears mist your big eyes. the guilt, the guilt of bringing a child into a world like this.

“peach…” he sighs, and tucks a stray strand away from your face. “peach, you ain’t doing anything wrong by her, by bringing her here.”

“feels like i am.” you choke out, and she has a loving father and mother, a sister in ellie, an uncle, aunt. a village behind her. it takes a village. and yet. your heart halts, because she will never have the ordinary joys of what a baby would have had before. toys, stupid dancing fruits on the phone, cartoons. small things.

“how about i play some music, ‘kay?” he lets out a breath, and when he gets up, the chill seeps into your bones. the empty space beside you, once with his warmth, now with the cool pooling around you. 

he comes back a few seconds later, the guitar in his hands. he props up a little further away from you on the sofa, but close enough so that you and the baby can hear him well. 

he sets it up properly, tuning the strings with ear memory. each pluck of the string is gentle, like he is with you, his fingers big and thick and playing each note perfectly.

“you are my sunshine.” he starts, his fingers playing the chords perfectly, and you swear you’ll start crying this very second. the hormones, no, his love for you is choking you. 

the song is so sweet, wrapped up in his rough cadence, like he always has wrapped his love in. he plays it carefully, plays it without tearing up — failing that when he sees you cry. some words get caught in his throat as he continues singing. 

you can feel your daughter kick, and you rest your hand over your stomach as he plays, sunshine — you both are his sunshine. he hasn’t even seen her, and he knows that she’d be like the sun incarnate, just like you. his two stars that he will always orbit, always have their warmth light up their world.

“she kicked!” you call out to him, and he stops playing immediately to cover your stomach with his hand, feel the little feet kick against his hand. his heart thuds in his chest as he feels them, feels your hand grasp his. 

he’d never realised he could get something like this — deserved something like this. ever had the chance to get something like this, after everything, after the world falling to shit. 

you’re going to say something, but it gets caught in the kiss he gives you, all so soft and sweet, his chapped lips against your own soft ones. you’re heavy with his child, you’re completely his, and you love it so much.