That F1 Gurl

Macklin Celebrini

The silence in the living room is thick and heavy after your argument, each word you both threw at eachother still hanging in the air. Macklin is standing by the window, his back to you, running a hand through his already messy hair.

His shoulders are slumped, the usual confident energy completely gone, replaced by a defeated posture that makes your chest ache despite your anger. You turn away from him, your movements stiff as you walk to the spare closet and pull out a blanket and a pillow.

"What are you doing?" he asks, his voice small and unsure, cracking slightly on the last word.

You don't look at him as you arrange the items on the couch, plumping the pillow with more force than necessary. "I'm sleeping out here tonight."

The words land like a physical blow and you hear his sharp intake of breath. When you risk a glance at him, his face has completely crumpled. The fight drains out of him instantly, replaced by a raw, wounded look that makes him look years younger.

"No. Please, don't." He crosses the room in three quick strides, his hand gently but insistently catching your arm. "Don't sleep on the couch. Please." His eyes are wide and glassy, filled with a desperate, panicked plea.

"I know I was an idiot. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry." He pulls you into a hug, burying his face in your hair and you can feel the tremor running through his body. "I can't... I can't sleep without you. The bed will be so cold and empty. I'll just lay there for hours thinking about how I made you mad enough to leave our bed, how I fucked up." He's practically vibrating with distress, his voice thick with unshed tears.

"Please come back to bed. We don't have to talk, you don't even have to look at me. Just... please don't leave me alone out here. I hate this. I hate that I made you feel like you needed to get away from me."

Connor Bedard

You're in the middle of the bedroom, yanking a pair of sweats out of a drawer, when Connor speaks from the doorway. He's been watching you, his expression unreadable and carefully blank, a stark contrast to the heated words exchanged moments ago.

"Where are you going?"

"The couch," you say, your voice clipped and sharp as you pull on the sweatpants. "I need some space."

He flinches like you've slapped him. He just stands there for a moment, looking utterly lost, his usual awkwardness amplified by the emotional weight of the moment.

"The couch?" he repeats softly, his voice barely a whisper. "But... why?" He takes a hesitant step into the room, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. "Is it... is it because of what I said? I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. Not like that."

He looks down at his feet, then back up at you, his blue eyes filled with a painful vulnerability that's impossible to ignore. "I don't want you to sleep on the couch. It feels... final. Like you're giving up on me. On us."

He swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. "Can't we just... can't we just lie down? I'll be quiet. I won't touch you if you don't want me to. I just... I can't stand the thought of you out there alone while I'm in here. It feels wrong. It feels like I'm being punished and I know I deserve it, but I don't want you to be uncomfortable."

He looks so genuinely heartbroken and out of his depth that your resolve wavers. "Please," he adds, so quietly you almost miss it. "Stay with me. We'll figure it out in the morning. Just... don't go."

Quinn Hughes

The argument hangs in the air, sharp and unresolved, the echoes of your raised voices seeming to bounce off the walls. You turn your back on Quinn, who's standing rigidly by the window, his knuckles white where he grips the frame.

You head for the door, your movements stiff with unresolved anger. "I'm sleeping on the couch," you announce, your voice cold and final.

He doesn't move. He doesn't say anything for a long, tense moment. He just stares out the window into the darkness, his jaw clenched tight. The silence is more unnerving than any further argument would be. When he finally speaks, his voice is low and flat, devoid of emotion. "Don't."

You stop, your hand on the doorknob. "Don't what?"

"Don't sleep on the couch," he says, finally turning to face you. His eyes are dark, stormy, and filled with a deep, simmering pain that's more unsettling than any outburst would be.

"We're not doing that. We don't run away from problems in this house." He walks toward you slowly, his movements slow and heavy. "I'm angry. You're angry. Fine. But we go to bed angry. Together."

He stops in front of you, his gaze intense and unwavering. "I'm not letting you hide from me. And I'm not letting myself hide from you. We're a team. We face this, even if it's uncomfortable. Even if we're just lying there, not speaking. We're doing it in our bed."

It's not a request, it's a quiet command, born from a place of deep-seated fear that this distance between you will become permanent. "Come to bed," he says, his voice softening just a fraction, the first crack in his armor. "Please. Don't let this fight be bigger than us."

Fraser Minten

Tears are stinging your eyes, blurring your vision as you angrily grab a pillow from the bed. Fraser is sitting on the edge of the mattress, his head in his hands. He looks up when he hears you moving, his expression a mixture of hurt, confusion and dawning horror.

"What are you doing?" he asks softly.

"Sleeping on the couch," you mumble, not wanting to meet his gaze, ashamed that you've both let it get this far.

He's on his feet in an instant, crossing the room to you in a few long strides. He doesn't try to stop you with angry words or demands. Instead, he gently takes the pillow from your hands and sets it back on the bed. He takes your hands in his, his touch warm and careful, grounding you.

"Hey," he says quietly, his voice gentle and full of sorrow. "Look at me."

When you finally lift your head, his eyes are full of regret. "I'm so sorry. I hate that we fought. I hate that I hurt you. I hate seeing you cry, especially knowing I'm the cause." He brings one of your hands to his lips, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your knuckles.

"Please don't sleep on the couch. The thought of you out there, alone and upset because of me... it's breaking my heart." He pulls you into a gentle hug, his chin resting on top of your head as he strokes your back. "I know you're mad and you have every right to be. But can we please just go back to bed? I promise I'll give you all the space you need. I'll sleep on the floor if that's what you want. I just need to know you're okay. I need to know you're with me."

He holds you tighter, his voice a fragile whisper against your hair. "I love you. Please don't leave me. We can fix this."

Will Smith

The argument ends with you throwing your hands up in frustration, a final, angry "Fine!" hanging in the air. "That's it, I'm done," you declare, your voice trembling slightly as you turn and storm out of the bedroom. You head straight for the couch, grabbing a throw pillow and hugging it to your chest as you sit down, your back to the rest of the room.

The silence that follows is heavy, broken only by the sound of his quiet footsteps. You expect him to say something, to argue more, but he doesn't. He just stands there for a moment and you can feel his eyes on you. When he finally speaks, his voice is soft and thick with an emotion you can't quite place.

"Don't go."

You don't turn around. "I'm not going anywhere, Will. I'm just sleeping out here tonight."

"Out here isn't our bed," he says, his voice barely a whisper. He takes a hesitant step closer. "Please... just come back to bed. We don't have to talk. I just... I can't sleep without you there. It feels wrong."

His quiet vulnerability makes your chest ache, but the anger is still too fresh. "I can't be in there right now."

He's quiet again and you hear the rustle of fabric as he sits down on the edge of the armchair nearby. "Okay," he says, his voice cracking slightly. "Okay. But... don't sleep on the couch." He takes a shaky breath. "You take the bed. I'll sleep out here. It's fine. I'd rather it be me out here than you. I don't want you to be uncomfortable. I don't... I don't want you to leave."

You finally turn to look at him and the sight of him makes your breath catch. He's sitting on the very edge of the armchair, his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands. He looks completely broken, his broad shoulders slumped in defeat. When he lifts his head, his eyes are red-rimmed and filled with a raw, pleading sorrow.

"I was an asshole," he says, his voice thick with unshed tears. "I'm so sorry. The thought of you out here alone because of something I said... it's killing me. Please, just... let me be the one on the couch. Let me be the one who's uncomfortable. I deserve it. Just... don't leave our bed. Don't leave me."

"Morning" He said as he stared at your sleepy face and messy hair. "There's coffee, milk in the fridge and you can make yourself some eggs if you wanna."

You nodded and poured yourself some black coffee, no sugar or milk, he raised his eyebrows in surprise.

"You're a big girl, huh?" He teased you and nodded approvingly. He didn't catch the way your face almost turned into a tomato when he said that.

"I just prefer it this way" You said and sat down at the table with him. He finished drinking his coffee and looked at you.

"You want my eggs? I couldn't finish them." You looked up from your mug and nodded quickly, he slid the plate towards you before standing up and turning his back to you to wash the dishes.

"What are your plans for today?" He asked, trying to make some conversation, you ignored the question and asked one instead.

"Where did you get the deer's head? It looks real" He turned his head and huffed, smirking at you.

"It looks real because it is, sweetheart. I killed it. I thought you knew I hunt."

"Oh...wow" He analyzed your reaction, not knowing if it was good or bad.

"You don't like them? Hunters?" He asked with a casual tone, but he wasn't washing dishes anymore, now he leaned against the counter staring at you with his arms crossed over his chest.

"Um...I don't know, I don't think I care so much..." You shrugged and he nodded.

"That's good, this world is way too sensitive about this shit. It's just hunting, a sport, you know."

You nodded, though you couldn't say you completely agreed with him.

"You know, just a couple miles away there's this lake, if you wanna go, it's safe and it might help you relax a little bit. You look tense."

"I don't wanna get lost—" You started but he cut you off.

"I'll make you a map, sweetheart."

Now you were in your room deciding which bikini to wear, you didn't want to go, not entirely, it almost seemed like he wanted you out of the house.

You ended up picking a baby blue bikini, you put it on and slid your shorts and shirt over it.

Downstairs, Shane was already ready with your map.

"You look good...." You heard him say as you stepped into the main area, feeling the weight of his gaze on your body, it didn't make you uncomfortable, not the way you expected, and it made you feel weird about yourself.

"Here you go, sweetheart." He handed you the map and you grabbed it, inspecting it.

"Thanks." You mumbled and rolled it.

"I'm gonna be hunting...so if when you come back I'm not here, you already know." He winked at you and headed to his room.

He was already all dressed with his camouflage clothing and heavy boots.

You left quickly after he gave you the map.

𐂂

You felt proud of yourself by the fact you didn't get lost, the lake was pretty nice, the wind was fresh and the sun warm enough, there was a small dock and no one seemed to be around, which made you feel a little more relaxed.

You sat down on the edge of the dock and dipped your feet in the water, swinging them softly as you laid down to stare at the blue sky, unlike yesterday's gloomy weather, today was really sunny.

After a few minutes you decided to get in, you slipped off your shorts and shirt, standing at the dock with your bikini, you looked around one more time, making sure no one was around and slowly moved your hands to your back to untie your bikini top, you let it fall by your other clothes and then slipped your bikini bottom down before getting in the water, it was super cold but slowly you got used to it.

You were swimming on your back, staring at the bright sun, this was the most relaxed you've felt after your dad said you were going to live with Shane. You were so distracted and relaxed that you didn't hear the movement around you.

Shane was a few feet away from the creek, aiming his rifle at prey he'd been chasing. It was something small, a rabbit, but rabbit meat still sold for a good price, and he had already hunted a few, so why not one more?

It was as if he had "forgotten" that he had sent you to the creek and was simply passing by.

While he was trying to adjust the rifle's magnification ring, his attention was stolen by your silhouette swimming in the river; by that moment the rabbit was no longer important.

He squinted to get a better look at your body, and his eyes widened when he realized you were naked; something uncomfortable formed in his chest, and not only there.

He remembered last night when he thought standing in front of your room listening to you play guitar was creepy; it was ironic compared to what he was doing now.

He couldn't take his eyes off your delicate silhouette swimming slowly, watching the way you moved your arms and legs.

He didn't think much before doing it, he simply approached slowly. He needed to look at you more closely, but he didn't want to seem weird and perverted. So he used his binoculars. As if that were any less creepy.

The feeling in his chest faded and was replaced by the feeling of his pants tightening.

His hand went down until it reached his bulge, he massaged it aggressively, his eyes still glued to the binoculars as he watched you come out of the water and quickly put on your bikini, like you knew someone was watching, he felt frustrated at having arrived so late and not being able to do anything more since you were already leaving.

At that moment his mind was too clouded to think about how wrong all of it was, all he could think about was your body, how soft it looked, how innocent you looked even though you were doing that. He knew it wasn't your intention and it only made him feel worse.

On his way back to the cabin he was thinking about how he was going to face you after what he did.

𐂂

You stepped out of your room, your hair was damp from the shower you just took, Shane was sitting on the couch drinking a beer as he watched TV.

You stood by the hallway looking at him, he seemed lost in thought, not really watching whatever show was playing on TV.

You slowly approached and sat down at the other end of the sofa, he turned his head towards you and smiled.

"How was your day, sweetheart? Had fun?" He asked, pretending he didn't have the image of your naked body engraved in his mind, he drowned the image taking a fat sip of his beer.

"It was fun, you were right. It helps you relax." You said while smiling a little and fidgeting with a loose strand thread of the couch.

"Hmmm, see? Shane's always right, sweet girl." He said, his tone was almost condescending, somehow.

You looked flustered and he noticed, but didn't mention, he couldn't mention that, nor the way he was already getting hard in his jeans just by seeing your little smile vanish and your cheeks turn red because of the nickname.

"I guess..." That's all that came out from your mouth. He stayed silent for a moment.

"You drink?" He said and leaned the bottle towards.

"I...I don't—i mean, never had the opportunity." You stammered a little, you didn't want him to see you as immature or something.

"Oh? So you don't go to parties with friends or anything?"

You shook your head, no longer looking at him.

"You're a good girl, right?"

You head snapped up at that, and his eyes widened with a drunken amusement, his sly grin just widened as he barked out a laugh that slowly vanished but his amusement was still there.

"Maybe this could be the first time you try some alcohol, even if it's just beer." He shrugged and looked at you with his drunken, glassy eyes.

You hesitated a little, but nodded anyway, he handed you the bottle and you scooted closer to him.

"Take a big one, sweetheart."

You did as he said and took a big sip making the beer accidentally slip past your lips, dripping over your chin and before you could wipe it off, his hand was already there, using his thumb to clean it.

"Messy girl." He commented and you giggled.

"Sorry."

He chuckled and shook his head, you noticed the way his thumb didn't pull away instantly after cleaning you, but it lingered there, almost like a caress.

You smiled and without thinking much, you took another big sip, this one bigger than the last one, almost finishing the bottle.

"Hey—woah, sweetheart. Calm down, there's a lot more in the fridge."

He nodded towards the fridge and looked back at you with a smirk.

"You don't need to prove you're a big girl, I know you are..."

You looked at him, your eyes were already a little bit unfocused and he noticed almost instantly, he stared at them for a long time, they were wide and glassy, you looked like the deer he killed.

"You're lightweight, huh?" He commented, you tilted your head confused and he laughed.

"Cute...." He mumbled and then sighed heavily, his hand moved to the front of his jeans to adjust himself, trying not to make so obvious the hard-on he had in that moment.

"You should go to sleep—" He was going to say more but he was cut off by your whine.

"I'm not tired yet...." You whined, it wasn't a bratty whine, it was something more shy, almost pleading. He stared at you for a moment, he was definitely not expecting that from you.

"Hey—look at me. You need to go to bed, alright? You look tired, and now you're drunk because you drank half of a bottle of beer..."

He said cooing, that last part made him smile a little, it was funny how you actually seemed like you've never drank any alcohol, he lifted his hand and brushed the hair on your forehead away, you closed your eyes for a moment, you weren't that drunk, not really, but you felt strangely needy. It was so embarrassing.

"Enough. Go to bed."

He suddenly said, his tone was commanding, you opened your eyes and stared at him like he just killed your whole family and he had to bite his lower lip to suppress a smile, you looked so cute and funny.

"You understand English, right sweetheart? Go to bed, c'mon."

He patted your thigh, signaling you to get up and leave. You left, barely though.

He was definitely going to have a hard time to get rid off that hard-on without feeling like a fucking creep.

It's been hours.

Maybe days.

Frank isn't entirely sure.

Hospitals exist outside of time.

Everything here is fluorescent lights and bad coffee and the steady mechanical rhythm of machines keeping people tethered to the earth. Nurses change shifts. Doctors rotate in and out. The sky beyond the waiting room windows goes black, then gray, then black again.

Frank never leaves that goddamn waiting room seat.

Not really.

Matt forces him to eat once. A protein bar shoved into his hand with enough irritation to qualify as violence.

“You passing out in the ICU waiting room isn’t gonna help her,” Matt mutters. Frank eats because you’d be pissed if he didn’t. That thought almost kills him. He sits in the same hard plastic chair outside your room for so long his back locks up. Doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except the rise and fall of your chest beyond the glass.

For the first few hours, the ventilator breathes for you.

Frank hates that fucking sound.

Every hiss of it crawls under his skin.

He stares through the ICU window like if he looks away for one second something catastrophic will happen. You look impossibly small in that bed. Bruises blooming beneath your skin. Bandages wrapped around your head. Tubes everywhere. Too still.

You’re never still.

Even asleep you usually curl toward him instinctively. One hand searching across the mattress until you find him. Now your hands just lie there. Motionless. Frank thinks that might be the worst part.

Three hours after that, the doctors have removed the ventilator, and say you're due to wake up any minute. Frank has never felt more melded to a seat than the one in that stupid fucking waiting room.

Hospitals rot time from the inside out.

Every minute stretches wrong.

The coffee tastes burnt. The lights are too bright. Somewhere down the hall a monitor keeps beeping in uneven intervals that are slowly driving him insane. Frank sits hunched forward in the plastic chair outside your ICU room, elbows on his knees, hands clasped so tightly his knuckles ache. Matt sits across from him. Neither of them say much anymore.

Frank hasn’t slept. Hasn’t changed. There’s still dried blood under his fingernails that isn’t his. And every few minutes his brain replays it again—

Then leave.

Get the fuck out.

He thinks it might haunt him for the rest of his life.

The ICU doors finally swing open. A nurse steps out quickly, scanning the waiting room. Both men are on their feet instantly.

“She’s awake.” Matt moves immediately. Frank’s body follows on instinct, boots carrying him down the hall before his brain catches up. His pulse slams violently against his ribs the closer he gets to your room.

Alive.

You’re awake.

Alive.

Matt reaches the bed first.

“Oh thank God,” he breathes, rushing to your side. His hand grabs yours instantly, relief cracking straight through his composure. “Hey. Hey, sweetheart, you’re okay.” Frank stops cold near the doorway. And finally sees you fully awake for the first time. The bruising along your cheekbone. The stitches near your hairline. The angry purple marks spreading beneath pale skin. The cuts. The swelling.

His stomach turns so hard he almost doubles over.

This is what he did. Maybe not with his hands. But still. You look so small in that hospital bed that something inside him caves in completely. Matt’s talking softly to you, voice shaking with relief as he runs his fingers through your hair, but Frank can barely hear any of it over the roar in his ears.

Because all he can think is: She got in that car because of me.

Shame hits him so violently he physically steps backward. Then again. He can’t do this. Can’t stand beside your bed pretending he deserves to be there after the things he said. Frank lowers his head and turns slightly toward the door. Ready to leave before you have to look at him.Then—

“…Frank.” His name barely exists. Just a rasp. Small and wrecked and exhausted. But it stops him dead. The entire room goes quiet. Matt looks up immediately. Frank freezes with his back half-turned to the room, chest tightening so painfully he can’t breathe. Slowly, he looks over his shoulder. Your eyes are barely open. Heavy with pain medication.But they’re searching for him.

Not angry.

Not afraid.

Just searching.

Frank looks devastated instantly. Matt watches the realization hit him in real time: After everything— You still wanted him there.

“Frank,” you whisper again, weaker this time. That does it. He crosses the room immediately. Fast. Desperate. Like something inside him snapped loose. By the time he reaches your bedside his hands are shaking so badly he can barely touch you. He looks terrified to even put his hands on you now.

“Hey,” he says roughly. "Hey, baby." His voice breaks on the single syllable. You look up at him slowly, eyes glassy with pain and exhaustion. Frank sees the bruises up close and nearly loses his footing.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispers. His fingers hover near your face but don’t quite touch. Like he doesn’t think he’s earned the right anymore. Matt quietly steps back, giving him space without a word. Frank swallows hard.

“I’m here,” he says quickly, almost frantic now. “I’m right here, baby.” Your hand twitches weakly against the blanket. Frank grabs it instantly with both of his. Careful. So fucking careful. Like you might disappear. The second your fingers curl faintly around his, Frank bows his head hard enough his forehead nearly hits the mattress. And suddenly his shoulders shake once. A single sharp crack in his composure.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers raggedly. “Fuck— sweetheart, I’m so sorry.” Your brows pinch faintly. Confused through the medication. His hand lifts yours and presses your knuckles to his lips, shaky breaths leaving his chest so loudly he barely registers Matt leaving the room. Your throat hurts too much to talk properly. Everything hurts. Your ribs ache every time you breathe too deep. Your head feels packed with concrete. There’s a steady beep somewhere to your left that keeps dragging you back whenever your eyes try to close again. But Frank’s here. You can feel him. Warm hands wrapped around yours so carefully it almost breaks your heart.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, quieter this time. Like the words are being torn out of him piece by piece. “Jesus Christ, baby, I’m so sorry.” You blink slowly up at him. Frank looks wrecked. Not tired. Not stressed. Ruined.

His eyes are bloodshot, face hollow with exhaustion, beard grown in rougher than usual like he hasn’t moved from this hospital in days. There’s dried blood still trapped in the cracks of his knuckles. Probably his. Probably someone else’s. You can’t think hard enough to care. What does hit you is the look on his face. Pure terror. Like he’s still not convinced you survived.

“…Hey,” you rasp weakly. That absolutely destroys him. Frank lets out this awful broken sound halfway between a laugh and a sob and bows his head harder against your hand.

“Don’t do that,” he mutters shakily. Your brow furrows faintly.

“Do what?”

“Act like you gotta comfort me right now.” His voice cracks clean apart on the last word. “I’m the reason you’re in this bed.” The medication makes your thoughts swim slow and heavy, but even through the haze you shake your head a little against the pillow.

“No.”

“Yes.” Immediate. Fierce. Frank finally looks up at you then, eyes wet and burning. “Yeah, sweetheart. I am.” Your chest tightens painfully. You remember enough. The fight. His face when he told you to leave. The way the apartment door sounded shutting behind you. You swallow hard. Instantly regret it. Frank notices immediately.

“Hey, easy.” His entire demeanor changes on a dime. Softer now. Gentle in that instinctive way he gets when you’re hurt. One hand carefully cups the side of your neck without disturbing anything. “Don’t move around too much. You got a concussion, couple cracked ribs—”

“What?” you mumble, horrified.

“Mmhm.” His thumb strokes lightly beneath your jaw. “An’ you scared about ten years off my life.” You stare at him for a second. Then, despite everything, your mouth twitches weakly.

“…You’re old enough that ten years probably isn’t catastrophic.” Frank actually chokes out a laugh. A real one. Wet and disbelieving and exhausted.

“Yeah?” he murmurs. “That right?” You nod faintly.

“Silver fox territory.”

“Oh, fuck you.”

“Can’t,” you whisper. “Hospital.” Another broken laugh escapes him before he suddenly presses your hand hard against his mouth like he’s trying to physically hold himself together. And that’s when you realize— Frank’s crying. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just silent tears slipping down his face while he tries desperately not to let you see how bad this wrecked him. Your heart cracks clean down the middle.

“…Frank.”

“I thought you died.” The confession comes out immediately. Raw. Unfiltered. “Matt called me an’ said car accident an’ I—” His breath shudders violently. “Baby, I thought the last thing I ever said t’you was get the fuck out.” Tears sting your own eyes instantly.

He looks haunted.

Actually haunted.

“I didn’t mean it,” he says quickly, voice turning frantic again. “You gotta know that. I was angry an’ scared an’ I said the worst shit I could think of because I knew it’d hurt you and—” He cuts himself off hard, jaw flexing. “I never wanted you gone.” Your fingers tighten weakly around his. Frank goes dead silent. Like even that tiny bit of forgiveness is more than he deserves.

“You came,” you whisper. His face crumples.

“Course I fuckin’ came.” He leans closer carefully, forehead pressing against the edge of your mattress beside your arm. “There ain’t a place on earth that coulda kept me away from you.” You close your eyes briefly. Tired.

So tired.

Frank notices instantly.

“Hey.” His hand smooths gently through your hair, avoiding the bandages with terrifying precision. “You rest, alright? I’m not goin’ anywhere.” Your eyes crack open again.

“You promise?” That one hurts him. You see it happen immediately. Because promises are the thing that broke between you. Frank leans in closer instead, resting his forehead carefully against yours.

“I’m gonna spend the rest of my life makin’ sure you never gotta ask me that again.”

--------

You get discharged a few days later.

Getting discharged turns Frank into something vaguely resembling a paranoid retired attack dog. The nurses wheel you toward the hospital entrance and he’s hovering so close behind the chair he practically clips their heels the entire way down the hall.

“She can walk a little,” one nurse says kindly.

“No she can’t.”

“Frank,” you mutter.

“She got hit by a car.”

“I noticed.”

“She’s dizzy.”

“I am literally sitting down.” Matt snorts from beside him. Frank ignores him completely, too busy glaring at every crack in the sidewalk like it personally offended him. The second the wheelchair stops, Frank’s already crouching in front of you.

“Arms up.”

“You are not carrying me to the truck.”

“Try me.”

“Frank.”

“Baby.” Dead serious. “You got three cracked ribs.”

“You say that like I’m eighty.”

“You say one more smartass thing an’ I’m bucklin’ you in like a toddler.” Matt actually laughs at that. Loud enough Frank shoots him a filthy look over his shoulder.

“You enjoyin’ this?”

“Immensely.” By the time you finally get home, Frank has somehow transformed the apartment into a recovery bunker. Extra pillows. Water bottles everywhere. Medications lined up with military precision. Blankets folded on the couch. He even moved the coffee table because “you could trip.”

“You think I’m gonna forget how furniture works?”

“You got a concussion.”

“You’ve had like six.”

“Exactly.” He doesn’t let you do anything. Not one thing. The first time you try making your own tea, he appears behind you so fast it’s genuinely alarming.

“What’re you doin’?”

“…Standing?”

“Sit down.”

“I can pour hot water into a mug, Frank.”

“Counterpoint: no you can’t.”

“You’re being insane.”

“You got stitches in your head.”

“You are literally covered in scars.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“I’m tougher than you.” You stare at him flatly. Frank stares back for exactly two seconds before muttering, “Alright, that sounded bad.”

“You think?” But even while you complain, you let him guide you gently back toward the couch, one hand warm against your lower back like he’s terrified you’ll disappear if he loses contact for too long. That’s the thing now. He’s always touching you. Not possessive. Not sexual. Just… checking. A hand against your knee. Your pulse. Your shoulder. His fingers brushing your hair back carefully away from the stitches every couple minutes like he needs the reassurance you’re still here. The nightmares start on the third night. You wake gasping from twisted flashes of headlights and screaming metal, heart pounding violently against your ribs. Before you can even fully orient yourself, Frank’s there instantly.

“Hey.” One hand cups your jaw carefully. “You’re alright.” His voice is wrecked with sleep and panic. “You’re home.” You start crying before you even realize you’re doing it. Frank gathers you against his chest immediately despite your protesting ribs, holding you with impossible gentleness while you shake.

“I got you,” he murmurs into your hair over and over again. “I got you, sweetheart. I got you.” After that, neither of you really sleep properly. Not until the fight finally comes back up. It happens almost two weeks later. You’re sitting on the couch wrapped in blankets while Frank changes the bandage near your hairline with terrifying concentration. His big hands are absurdly gentle for someone capable of breaking bones with them.

“There,” he mutters softly. “Looks better.” You study him quietly for a second.

“You hungry?” You blink.

“What?”

“I burnt dinner.” A pause.

“You burned cereal last week.”

“It was on the stove too long.”

“You can’t cook cereal.”

“I was experimentin’.” You start laughing so hard your ribs hurt. Frank immediately panics.

“Hey— hey, don’t do that, you’re gonna pop a stitch.”

“That’s not how stitches work,” you wheeze through laughter.

“You don’t know that.”

“I absolutely know that.” Frank points at you immediately like you’ve proven his point somehow.

“See? Too much attitude. Doctor said rest.”

“The doctor said light activity.”

“Yeah.” He folds his arms. “An’ bein’ a smartass is clearly strenuous for you right now.” You laugh again despite yourself and immediately clutch your side with a groan. Frank is beside you in half a second.

“Jesus Christ.” His hands hover anxiously near your ribs. “Baby, c’mon, I told you—”

“I’m okay,” you promise, still smiling weakly. “Ow. But okay.” Frank eyes you suspiciously for another second before helping you settle more comfortably against the couch cushions. The apartment is dim and warm around you. Quiet. Different somehow. Softer. You’ve only been home a few days and Frank has already nearly committed several crimes in the name of taking care of you. Including but not limited to:

trying to physically carry you to the bathroom

fluffing your pillows every twenty minutes

glaring at your pain medication like he personally intends to fight it

following you around the apartment like an extremely large, emotionally devastated guard dog

At one point you stood up to refill your own water and Frank looked so betrayed you almost apologized. Now he’s hovering again, staring at you like you’re made of cracked glass.

“You keep lookin’ at me like I’m gonna explode,” you mumble.

“You were in the ICU four days ago.”

“And now I’m home.”

“Yeah.” His jaw flexes. “Still don’t like it.” You study him quietly for a second. Frank looks exhausted. Not physically. Soul-deep exhausted. Like the last few days hollowed him out from the inside. But he’s trying so hard to keep it together for you that it aches to look at him too long.

“Hey,” you say softly. His eyes snap back to yours instantly. Always instantly.

“What?”

“I’m okay.” Frank goes very still at that. Then he sits beside you slowly. Careful not to jostle your ribs. One hand settles automatically along the back of the couch behind your shoulders.

“You almost died.” The words land heavily between you. Not angry. Not manipulative. Just true. You look down at your blanket quietly.

“I know.” Frank exhales hard through his nose and rubs a hand over his face.

“I keep hearin’ Matt say it,” he admits roughly. “‘Your girlfriend’s car is wrapped around a guardrail.’” His voice catches briefly. “An’ all I can think about is you out there by yourself thinkin’ I didn’t want you anymore.” Your chest hurts for entirely different reasons now.

“I didn’t think that.”

“Yes you did.” His eyes find yours again immediately. “An’ I gave you every reason to.” Silence settles softly between you. Then you say, carefully,

“We both said awful things.”

“Yeah.” Frank’s mouth twists bitterly. “Difference is mine almost got you killed.”

“That wasn’t your fault.”

“I told you to leave.”

“You didn’t make that guy get drunk and run a red light, Frank.”

“I still—”

“No.” Your voice comes out firmer than expected. He stops immediately. You swallow carefully. “I need you to stop saying that.” Frank stares at you.

“It’s not fair,” you continue quietly. “You already punish yourself for everything. I’m not gonna let you carry this too.” Something shifts painfully in his expression. God. There’s that look again. That wrecked look he gets whenever you love him in ways he doesn’t think he deserves. His hand slides carefully over yours on top of the blanket. Warm. Rough.

“I don’t know how t’do this right,” he admits after a long silence.

“Do what?”

“This.” He gestures vaguely between you both. “Us.” His jaw tightens. “Every time I think I got it figured out, I screw somethin’ up.” You lean your head back against the couch slowly.

“I don’t need perfect.” Frank looks over at you immediately. “I need honest,” you say softly. “I can’t do the lying anymore.” Your throat tightens a little. “I can’t sit at home wondering if you’re dead because you decided I’d ‘protect me’ by keeping me in the dark.” Frank drops his gaze.

“I know.”

“No more disappearing.” Your fingers tighten around his slightly. “No more promises you don’t mean.” He nods once. Slowly.

“Okay.”

“And if you’re going out…” You hesitate. “You tell me.” Frank’s brows pull together faintly.

“You want me t’tell you when I’m goin’ out t’do this shit?”

“Yes.”

“That’ll just scare you more.”

“It scares me more when you vanish.” That hits him hard. You see him thinking through it in real time. “I don’t need every detail,” you continue quietly. “But I need the truth. I need to know when you leave. I need to know when you’re coming back. And if something goes wrong…” Your voice wobbles slightly. “I need to hear it from you.” Frank stares at you for a long moment. Then nods again.

“Okay.”

“You mean it?”

“Yeah.” His thumb rubs slowly over your knuckles. “I mean it.” You study him carefully. “And maybe…” You exhale softly. “Maybe you stop acting like you have to carry everything alone.” Frank huffs quietly.

“Sweetheart, that one might take a little work.”

“I know.” Another silence settles. Gentler this time. Then Frank clears his throat awkwardly.

“…I also maybe gotta stop tellin’ you t’get the fuck out.” You snort despite yourself.

“Probably.”

“Yeah.” He grimaces hard. “That one’s on me.”

“A little.”

“A little?” Frank looks scandalized. “Baby, I basically supervillain monologued at you.”

“You really did.”

“Meanest shit I ever said in my life.”

“You called our relationship ‘playing house.’” Frank physically winces.

“Jesus Christ, don’t repeat it back t’me.”

“You said it!”

“I know.” You laugh quietly again and Frank watches the sound leave you like it physically eases something inside him.

“There she is,” he murmurs softly.

“What?”

“That laugh.” His eyes stay fixed on you. Warm. Devastatingly soft. “Missed hearin’ it.” Your face heats a little. Frank notices immediately, because of course he does.

“C’mere.” You shift carefully toward him and Frank immediately wraps an arm around you. Slow. Protective. Like holding you is still something sacred. Your head settles against his chest instinctively. Steady heartbeat. Safe. After a minute, he presses a kiss into your hair.

“So,” he says quietly.

“So?”

“We agreein’ I should never touch a stove again?” You smile against his shirt.

“I think that’s the healthiest choice for everybody involved.”

“Alright. Takeout it is.”

“You ordering because you love me,” you murmur sleepily, “or because you committed atrocities against cereal?”

“…Both can be true.”

taglist !

There is never a moment in which I do not adore you.

- Marie Antoinette

You knew it was going to be a bad day by about 3am. Mostly because you woke up convinced someone had stabbed you.

A soft sound escaped your throat before you could stop it, your eyes squeezing shut as a particularly vicious cramp twisted through your lower abdomen. Jesus Christ. For one disorienting moment, you couldn't tell what the heavy weight pressing into you was. Then your brain slowly caught up.

Right, of course. Matt. Apparently your uterus had seen fit to remind you of its existence in the least dignified way possible. You remained perfectly still for a moment, breathing carefully through another cramp while trying not to wake the man sleeping behind you.

Matt was warm against your back, one arm draped heavily over your waist beneath the blankets. At some point during the night, you’d rolled around and onto his side of the bed, your head even on his pillow. He’d compensated by wrapping himself around you like a particularly handsome weighted blanket.

You shifted carefully, immediately regretting it, grunting uncomfortably into the darkness. Matt made a soft sound behind you, somewhere between a hum and a sigh, his hold tightening instinctively. “You okay?” he murmured, voice rough with sleep.

You froze. Technically, no. But he’d had an impossibly long week, and there was something kind of silly about waking your old man at three in the morning just to announce that your reproductive system had declared war. “Mhm,” you lied quietly. “Go back to sleep.”

Matt was silent for a moment. Then, still very much half asleep, he pressed a kiss to the back of your shoulder. “You’re... terrible liar.” The warmth of his breath against your skin made something in your chest ache.

“I’m fine.”

“Mm.” Clearly unconvinced. His breathing remained slow and steady against your back as another cramp rolled through you. Whoever designed the female body had some serious explaining to do. There was another moment of silence before Matt’s hand slid beneath the oversized t shirt you’d stolen from him, settling over your stomach.

Warm. Heavy. Comforting. “Better?” he mumbled. You could’ve cried. “Yeah.”

“Mm...” A pause. “Need anything?” The question was slurred with exhaustion.

“No.”

“...Heating pad?”

“It’s three in the morning.”

“So?”

You smiled despite yourself. “You have work tomorrow, go to sleep." He sighed dramatically into your shoulder. “Y'very... difficult to take care of.”

You giggled softly at that. Matt’s arm tightened around your waist once more before his breathing slowly began to deepen again, sleep reclaiming him almost immediately. Unfair. Some people could apparently fall asleep any moment.

You remained awake for another twenty minutes, listening to the soft rhythm of his breathing and mentally drafting a strongly worded letter to your uterus. Eventually, exhaustion won.

By morning, things had somehow gotten worse. Your head hurt. Your back hurt. Your stomach hurt. And, perhaps most offensively of all, the scale in the bathroom informed you that you’d somehow gained six pounds overnight. You stared at it in betrayal.

“No.”

The scale remained unmoved by your suffering. Dilly, who had followed you into the bathroom for reasons known only to herself, offered no opinion on the matter. “You don’t understand,” you informed her. “I’ve retained about half your body weight in water.” She blinked. “Exactly."

By the time you shuffled into the kitchen thirty minutes later, Matt was already dressed for work. Of course he was. The man woke up looking like he’d stepped out of a magazine spread. Crisp dress shirt. Tie hanging loose around his neck while he made coffee. Rude.

You leaned heavily against the kitchen island and watched him for a moment. He was in an unusually good mood. His movements lighter. There had been a lot of that lately. Small smiles when he thought you weren’t paying attention. Quiet moments where he’d simply pull you into his lap for no discernible reason. Looking at you like he’d won something.

Matt paused for a moment in the middle of pouring coffee. He set the pot down and turned toward you then, coffee in hand, his expression softening almost immediately. “There she is. My grumpy girl.”

“I am not grumpy.”

“Princess, you’ve spent the last ten minutes arguing with a scale.”

“You heard that?” You crossed your arms over your chest, cheeks warming. “Well... For the record, I still maintain that six pounds overnight is completely ridiculous.”

“It’s water weight.”

“I know that. I don’t care.”

Matt’s smile softened further, almost amused and endeared at your attitude this morning. There was that look again. “What is that?” you asked immediately.

“What's what?”

“That.”

“Very descriptive, thank you sweetheart.”

“You keep looking at me weird.”

His eyebrows lifted. “Weird?”

“Fondly.”

“I’ve been looking at you fondly for almost a year.”

“More fondly.”

“Is that measurable?”

“Stop answering my questions with questions," you huffed.

“I’ll consider it.” He crossed the kitchen then, setting his coffee down before gently taking your face between his hands. “You really don’t feel good, huh?"

“Mm.”

Matt stifled a laugh before pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Take it easy today, princess. I’ll text you later,” he said softly, reaching for his coat. “and if you start feeling worse, call me. That's not a suggestion by the way.”

You rolled your eyes. "Yes, sir.”

Matt cleared his throat, suddenly looking very interested in finding his glasses. “What did I tell you about calling me that?" You grinned despite yourself as he crossed back over to steal one last kiss. “You can’t tell me what to do.”

“I can certainly try.”

And with that, he disappeared out the front door, still wearing that strange little smile you’d been trying to figure out for the better part of three weeks. You watched the elevator doors slide shut. You immediately began to make your way to the couch when another cramp hit. “Ow- fuck me.” you plopped onto the cushion with a pained groan.

Dilly meowed sympathetically just as your phone chimed with a text. “Thank you,” you told her while reaching for it. “At least there is one other lady in this house who can understand my suffering.”

Matt♥️: That can certainly be arranged when I get home.

You stared at your phone in complete disbelief. Then, because he had quite literally just left less than thirty seconds ago, you simply opened your mouth and yelled, “Are you sexting me before nine in the morning?!” Your phone buzzed almost immediately.

Matt♥️: You started it.

“I absolutely did not!”

Another buzz.

Matt♥️: You said and I quote fuck me.

“THAT WAS A COMPLAINT.”

Matt ♥️: It sounded like a request.

You narrowed your eyes at your phone. “I hate him,” you informed Dilly. She blinked slowly. “You’re right. That’s not true.” Another cramp promptly doubled you over. “Ow- okay, maybe I hate him and everyone a little today.” Your phone buzzed one final time.

Matt♥️: I love you too sweetheart.

You spent the next several hours trying your very best to be a contributing member of the family. It went about as well as expected. By ten you’d answered at most six emails and approved two wholesale invoices.

Your heating pad had become a permanent accessory at this point, wrapped around your waist beneath one of Matt’s sweatshirts while you sat curled into the corner of the couch with your laptop balanced precariously across your knees.

Dilly had claimed the remaining half of the couch as her own. “This is discrimination,” you informed her while replying to an email from a supplier. “If men had periods, there’d be government funded recovery centers.”

A few minutes later you took a call. "...we’d be happy to discuss a larger wholesale order for the blackberry lavender syrup...." Another wave of cramps hit and you muted yourself immediately, groaning in pain.

By 1pm, you’d somehow agreed to a meeting next Tuesday with a bar interested in carrying your syrups, answered three more customer emails, and consumed enough peppermint tea that you knew the sharp minty smell would linger in the house for Matt and his sensitive nose the rest of the week.

Your migraine, meanwhile, had settled firmly behind your left eye. You realized you’d spent the last four minutes rereading the same email without retaining a single word of it. You slowly closed your laptop. A nap. Just twenty minutes, that's all you'd need.

The bedroom was cool and dim when you finally crawled back into bed, curtains still drawn closed. You held the covers open for Dilly, who immediately settled herself against the heating pad on your stomach with the self importance of someone fulfilling a critical medical role. “Thank you, baby.” She purred.

You pulled the blankets up to your chin and closed your eyes. Just twenty minutes.

The first thing you noticed when you woke up was that the room was darker.

The second thing you noticed was that your heating pad had long since gone cold and was somewhere out of reach beneath the blankets. The third thing you noticed was that Dilly was no longer asleep beside you. You frowned. That seemed… concerning. Slowly, you reached for your phone on the nightstand.

5:47 PM.

You stared at the screen. “…Excuse me?” You had somehow slept through the entire afternoon. Matt would probably be home soon. You pushed yourself upright with a groan, everything still hurt. Wonderful. But something else felt… off. Warm and damp. You frowned and shifted slightly beneath the blankets. Oh. No, no, no.

Very slowly, you pulled back the comforter. The dark stain against the pale blue silk sheets stared back at you in silent condemnation. Not just any sheets.

No. These were the sheets. The extra set of those ridiculously expensive silk sheets Matt preferred. He had bought these three months ago because you’d casually mentioned liking the color of them while scrolling through home decor online.

“They’re pretty, Matty. Blue like a Monet pond.”

“Mm.”

Three days later, they’d appeared on the bed.

You sat there in complete horror. “No-” You launched yourself out of bed with significantly more energy than you’d possessed all day. “Oh my God.” Panic. Immediate and all consuming panic as you stripped the comforter back with frantic movements. Could silk be bleached? Was that a thing? You gathered the fitted sheet into your arms, staring at it in despair. Matt loved these sheets.

Correction. Matt loved that you loved these sheets. Which made you feel even worse. You were halfway through contemplating whether it was possible to throw these sheets out before Matt got home when the elevator dinged.

“Sweetheart?”

Your eyes widened. Fuck. Even if you threw the sheets in the hamper with hopes Matt wouldn't pick up on the smell of blood, your own clothes were completely bloodied too.

"Princess?"

“Don't come in here!”

Silence. Then, immediately sounding more concerned, “Are you hurt?”

“No...”

You heard him set something down in the entryway and you tightened your grip on the offending sheet. Then you heard the unmistakable sound of his footsteps moving farther into the penthouse. The footsteps stopped in the bedroom doorway. For one long, awful second, neither of you said anything. You couldn’t make yourself look at him. The fitted sheet was still clutched against your chest, your knuckles white around the silk.

Matt didn’t move immediately. You knew he didn’t need to. His senses had already done the work for him. The uneven hitch in your breathing. The tears you’d been trying to blink away. The metallic scent lingering in the room. “Oh, sweetheart.”

His voice was so gentle that your eyes immediately filled again. “I ruined the sheets.”

“You didn’t.”

“I did.” You held the fitted sheet tighter against your chest like somehow that might undo the damage. “They’re ruined.” Matt crossed the room without any urgency whatsoever. He was quite unflappable considering there was a crime scene currently balled up in your hands. By the time he stopped in front of you, his attention was still entirely on you.

“Princess.”

Your chin wobbled. “I got blood all over our sheets. The blue ones. You bought them because I liked them.” A tear slipped free despite your best efforts. “And I slept all afternoon. I’ve literally accomplished nothing today.”

Matt’s expression softened even further. He reached up slowly, brushing a tear away with the pad of his thumb. “You’ve been in pain since three this morning.” His voice stayed impossibly calm.

“I slept for four hours.”

“Then your body needed four hours.”

“I shouldn’t have.”

Matt finally frowned. “Why?”

“I just…” You looked down at the sheet again. “I feel lazy.”

He didn't look annoyed, instead genuinely sad you’d even thought that. “You got through a miserable day. I’d call that productive.” Your throat tightened all over again. He reached for the sheet and instinctively you pulled it away. “No.”

His eyebrows lifted. “No?”

“I’m not letting you touch it.”

He waited. “Why?” Your face immediately burned. “Because... It’s,” You gestured helplessly at the sheet. “it’s gross.” Matt was quiet for exactly one second. Then when he spoke it was warm and amused. “I have bled on my sheets more times than you ever will.”

You stared at him. “That is not comforting." A tiny smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “My point is that the bed has survived significantly worse.”

“But this is…” You looked away again. “It’s different.”

Understanding settled over his expression almost immediately. “This is because it’s period blood.” You groaned and he reached up again, gently tipping your chin back toward him. “There is nothing embarrassing about this.”

Another tear escaped. “Oh, angel…” The endearment came out almost like an exhale. He always hated seeing you cry. You’d learned that months ago. It wasn’t even that he needed to fix every emotion you had, but every single tear seemed to land somewhere directly behind his ribs. “You’ve been hurting all day and you're hormonal.”

You let out a miserable little laugh. “When you say it like that…”

“It sounds exactly as fixable as it is.”

He tried reaching for the sheet again and this time you let him. The second he took it from your hands, another realization hit you. “…Oh my God.”

Matt paused. “What?”

“The sweater.” He tilted his head. "The one I’m wearing.” Your voice climbed another octave. “I got blood on your sweatshirt too.”

Then you looked down at the faint stains near the hem. Fresh tears immediately spilled over. “I’m so sorry.” Matt actually looked alarmed now because you were crying harder. “I’m ruining everything.”

“You are absolutely not.”

“What if it doesn’t come out?”

“I’ll buy another sweatshirt.”

“But this is your Columbia one.”

“The one you keep stealing?” You nodded miserably. He couldn’t help smiling. “Then I suppose you’ll just have to steal the t shirt too.” You laughed a little despite yourself and he smiled a little wider at the sound. You sniffled and he was quiet for a moment, thoughtful. Then he gathered both the sheet and your hands in one practiced movement. “Here’s what’s going to happen.” You looked up. “You’re going to take a hot shower.” You opened your mouth. “No arguments," he continued smoothly, “I’m going to strip the bed meanwhile.”

“Matt-”

“I’m gonna start the laundry.”

“You don’t have to-”

“And then…” His thumb rubbed slow circles across your knuckles. “I’m gonna take care of my sweet girl, and make sure she stops apologizing for having a body.”

Your eyes immediately stung again. A tiny smile tugged at his mouth. He leaned down and kissed your forehead, then rested his forehead against yours. “And for the record…”

“Hm?”

“I am not remotely bothered by your blood.”

Your eyes narrowed as you pulled away. “…What is that supposed to mean.”

A slow, amused smile appeared. “I’m not opposed to your blood, sweetheart. At all." Your entire face burst into flames. “You’ve officially become weird.” His smile widened, but he didn't elaborate. “Now.” He nudged you gently toward the bathroom. “Shower.”

You took two reluctant steps before glancing back over your shoulder. “…You’re sure?”

Matt didn’t hesitate. “Sweetheart.” His voice was quiet and certain. “If the woman I love is hurting enough to sleep for four hours in the middle of the day, the absolute least I can do is wash the sheets.”

You stared at him for another heartbeat and then crossed the room and threw your arms around him without another word. He caught you immediately. Holding you close for a long moment, one hand rubbing slowly up and down your back while the other rested against the back of your head. “You’ve got me,” he murmured into your hair.

“I know.”

“And I’ve got the sheets.” A tiny laugh escaped you.“Now go get warm.”

This time, you listened. You stayed in the shower longer than you meant to, letting the hot water soothe the worst of the cramps until your fingers pruned. When you finally stepped out, you found one of Matt’s softest t shirts, a pad, and a fresh pair of underwear already waiting on the large counter. You smiled and got dressed.

The bedroom was dim when you padded out, but it was no longer the scene of a crime. The bed had been stripped and remade with clean, crisp sheets-the regular dark gray silk ones this time-and the comforter was already turned down on your side. A heating pad sat in the middle of the bed like a throne, and on the nightstand was a tall glass of ice water with a straw. And then there was Matt.

He’d already changed out of his work clothes. Shirtless, in just a pair of low slung grey sweatpants, and he was standing at the foot of the bed like he’d been waiting for you. The sight of him made something in your chest ache in a completely different way.

“Hi,” you said quietly.

“Hi, sweetheart.” His voice was warm. “Come here.”

You crossed the room without argument, and he immediately pulled you into his arms. The second your cheek met his bare chest, you sighed. He was so warm. Like a living, breathing heating pad. You pressed closer on instinct, and he chuckled softly, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your head. “Cold?” he asked, even though it was the middle of summer.

“My feet are freezing,” you mumbled into his skin.

Matt didn’t even hesitate. He steered you toward the edge of the bed, helped you sit, then disappeared into the closet for a moment. You didn’t see the way he paused at his own drawer first, pulling it open just enough to let his fingers brush over the small velvet box tucked at the bottom as of today. His thumb lingered on the edge of it for half a second. A soft, secret smile flickered across his face before he closed the drawer again and grabbed your socks.

When he came back, he was holding your favorite fluffy socks, the obnoxiously thick ones with little devils on them. You'd never told him that's what was on them, though.

You watched, a little stunned, as he knelt in front of you without a word. He took your right foot first, sliding the sock on with careful fingers, then the left. He smoothed the fabric up over your ankles and gave each foot a gentle squeeze. “Better?” he asked, looking up at you. Your throat felt tight. “Yeah. Thank you.” Matt rose and kissed your forehead, then nodded toward the bed. “Get in. Food’ll be here in twenty.”

You climbed under the covers while he adjusted the heating pad so it rested perfectly over your lower stomach. He walked around to his side and climbed in after you, immediately pulling you against him so your back was to his chest, one of his arms draped over your waist. His skin was warm everywhere it touched you. You let out a long, shaky breath. “This is nice.”

“Good.” He pressed a kiss behind your ear. “I ordered from our dumpling spot. Extra chili oil on the side.”

You made a small, grateful sound and burrowed back against him. His free hand found yours under the blankets, lacing your fingers together. “Matt?”

“Hm?”

“You’re kind of the best.”

He smiled against your shoulder. “Only kind of?”

“Don’t push it. I’m still hormonal.”

His quiet laugh rumbled through your back. “Noted.”

You closed your eyes, letting the steady thump of his heartbeat and the warmth of his body sink into you. The worst of the day finally felt like it was loosening its grip. Matt’s hand rested on your stomach, just above the heating pad, his thumb tracing slow, absent circles. “You still in pain?” he asked quietly.

“Comes and goes,” you murmured. “Right now it’s… tolerable. Especially with my personal furnace holding me.”

He chuckled again, the sound vibrating against your spine. You let the silence settle for a few minutes, broken only by the occasional soft hum he made when a cramp rolled through you. His fingers stayed gentle, patient. “You know,” he said after a while, voice deceptively casual, “I do have a solution for the cramps.”

You hummed, already almost half asleep from his warmth. “Is it more peppermint tea? Because I think I’m ninety percent mint at this point.”

“Better.” His hand slid a fraction lower, over the heating pad now, warm palm pressing just enough to make you notice. “Orgasms. Very effective. I’d be happy to volunteer my services.” You snorted, but a tiny spark of interest flickered through the ache. “Of course you would.”

“Scientifically proven,” he added, sounding far too pleased with himself. “And if that doesn’t appeal, there’s always the more permanent option.” You cracked one eye open. “Permanent?”

“Mm.” He pressed a kiss to the back of your neck. “I could just knock you up. No periods for a while. Problem solved.”

Your hand flew back without hesitation, smacking his thigh hard enough to make him grunt. “Matthew Murdock!”

He laughed, catching your wrist before you could swat him again and rethreading your fingers through his. “What? I’m just offering solutions.”

“You’re being ridiculous.”

“Am I?” His tone stayed light, but there was something warmer underneath it now, something that made your stomach flip despite the cramps. His hand drifted lower again, this time sliding under the hem of your shirt to rest against bare skin. Slow, idle strokes. Testing. “I could make you feel good right now, sweetheart. If you wanted.”

You shivered, leaning back into him even as another faint cramp tightened low in your belly. His fingers traced higher, brushing the underside of your breast in a way that felt deliberate. You sighed and he responded with a pleased hum.

“Matt-”

The buzzer from the front desk for the elevator cut through the moment. Dumplings. He sighed dramatically against your shoulder. “Saved by the food.” You giggled, breathless. “Go get it before I change my mind about letting you near me again.”

He kissed the top of your head, then untangled himself with obvious reluctance. You watched him stand, grey sweatpants slung low on his hips, and couldn’t help the appreciative glance as he padded out toward the elevator. He threw a smirk over his shoulder like he knew exactly what you were doing. “Be right back, princess. Try not to miss me too much.”

You rolled your eyes, but the smile stayed on your face as he disappeared. The worst of the day didn’t feel quite so heavy anymore.

notes: he's such a flirt oh my God. and Matt... you gotta hurry up old man, there's only one chapter left... 💍

taglist: @rowancp @princess-aurora-varient @quicksilver21 @superherosdystopiafreak @sa1ky @peterftpercy @miriamckle @margaret811 @cheleanortruther @gothy-froggy @mrmeowzalot @that1weirdweebgirl @moth-murdock @iamdarknessiamdeath @arigoldsblog @xjyuto @fallen-nine @muffinbrown @hellskitchenswhore @adelaidehawthorne17 @khonshuswill @sotragedynut @thegirlwiththeeyes1297 @whyareyoulookinguphere @sharksausages @m1sund3rst0od @sleepinginstardustwrites @nerdytrash-panda @addiiove @bigsloppycrush @akahlisworld @omicore @charmolipiiridia @ovryoon @aelladrift @ifyoulovemeletmebinge @ash-tuhn @mixedfandxms @prettyflowerlily @alldayeverytae @snowwythegloww @exhaustedfangirl

Sure, he had obstacles: his job being one of them.

He wanted to scream whenever he remembered that's why he was doing all of this. Carson was his in to the crew, yet still... she always made him forget that. She made him forget that he was undercover and that they could truly get lost in the world they were building.

And that's what was messed up.

It wasn't real.

Not really.

But it was to her.

And so he wouldn't let it go. Of their dream, their life, their love. Even if his guilt was gnawing at him to stay focused and pull away. But sitting with her now, under the moonlit sky, on the bonnet of her charger he leaned in, with his lips twitching up into a smile as they touched hers.

The kiss started off gentle and tender, like always. But he could never hold back for long, guiding her onto him as he shifted backwards, pouring more into their passionate kiss. His hand latched onto her cheek, stroking the soft skin. As soon as her hand covered his, he moved it to his chest, then lower.

Brian let out a shuddered breath when she tugged back. It was abrupt and sudden. The teasing smile on her face made his head tilt.

"Not here," Carson whispered, "And not in the car either. I know what you're thinking in that head of yours. That stare won't convince me," She sassed, wiping the smudged gloss off her lips. "You're trouble."

"I didn't say anything," He weakly defended, before cracking a smile and letting her wipe his lips. "And I can't help but stare. Look at you."

"Still not convincing enough," She muttered, not believing him.

There were times when she didn't. Almost like she knew it was all too good to be true. But for now, she would remain unaware: lost in the dream.

"C'mon, blondie, I'm tired. You're taking me back to Harry's. And I'll let you drive this beauty, only if you promise not to crash her."

"Oh, I promise."

a/n:

taken inspo from the deleted scene after mia and brian's date when they go to the beach.

He was looking at his phone, waiting for a text message from you. The room was dark but silent, his heart beating pitter-patter, filled with anxiety. Dex, placed his phone down, getting comfortable lying in his bed. He laid on your side. You were never coming back.

He brushed his hair away, as he stared into the ceiling in complete silence. You had taken everything, it wasn't supposed to be like that. Elektra was your sister, while Dex was your lover. He killed the only family that you had. She died in your arms, begging you to avenge her death.

Soon, Dex closed his eyes, his mind filling up with happy memories. He never knew happiness, he never knew love, or had a real friend. But he had found that in you. He regrets his actions, but nothing can bring you back. He drifts off to sleep, dreaming of you, of the memories he had with you.

Starting of flashback:

One memory includes the time when he surprised you for your birthday. You hated celebrating your birthday, but Dex made sure to make you feel special. When you were sleeping, he decorated the room, filling it with roses and candles. A big banner that said Happy Birthday, Y/N. And in the middle, table filled with your favorite breakfast, along with a small cupcake, with a candle.

He had woken you up with kisses, climbing on top. As he kissed all over your face, you smiled while mumbling his name. "Stop, Dex," you said as you laughed and grabbed his face, kissing him deeply.

Then he carried you out of the room, making sure you sat down. As soon as you got comfortable, he started singing happy birthday. Deep down, you never felt this before. No one makes you feel special. Your family was never there for you except for Elektra. She has taken responsibility for you since you were 10. But even then, you never celebrated. This was all so strange to you.

Blinking back tears, you got up and jumped into his arms. Hugging him tightly, kissing him all over his face. He brought up the cupcake, asking you to make a wish. You did not make any wishes but thanked the universe for giving you a man like him.

End of flashback:

The dream kept going, until he was shaken out of it, falling to the floor as he heard your voice screaming and begging for help. He started panicking, looking around the room. Checking all areas if you were there. But he couldn't find you.

Dex didn’t like the way the waiter had his body turned towards you.  He wanted to say something, to add distance between you two but it was too much too soon. He had to keep his obsessive tendencies to himself. 

He was trying to push the specially fish onto you but you were too polite to interrupt his script. 

“She’s a vegetation” he states with absolute certainty. 

The waiter halts his talk, still facing you but now with a stupid grin that Dex wanted to punch off. 

“Oh so no good for you” the waiter joked. 

“No, no good” Dex agreed in a hard tone, “she’ll have the penne pasta- that’s what you wanted right?” He checked. 

You nodded quickly with an uncomfortable smile, fixing your cutlery to be straight. A quick muttered thank you but you made no eye contact. 

“She’ll also have another martini and I’ll have the stake medium rare” Dex commands, offering the menu back with a hard stare that told the waiter to disappear. 

“Thank you” Dex says when the menus are taken but he doesn’t mean it. Politeness was important to you so Dex would follow your lead. 

“Thanks” you smile at the waiter which had Dexs stomach curling. 

“I’ll be right back with those” the waiter confirms. 

“How did you know I was a vegetarian?" You giggle reaching for your drink. You don’t remember mentioning it. 

“Ah, you give off the vibe” he dismisses, “gentle”. 

Dex reaches for his drink but he never lifts it off the table. It gave him something to look at that wasn’t you. 

“So, ah, what do you do for work?” He asks. 

“Social work” you confirm, “and you?”.

He already knew. He knew the address of your workplace. Your colleagues name. How long you’ve been there. What your day to day looked like. He knew your good days and your bad. 

He used to see you on his morning runs. Too early for most but you were there always talking to a man in a tent. Bringing him blankets and food. Sitting down on the ground and talking to him. Seeing him. Listening to him. Laughing with him. 

Dex hasn’t realised that he has grown so accustomed to you until one day you and the tent were gone. He spiraled quickly. You played on his mind. He couldn’t stop thinking about you. Panicking that he would never see you again. 

The day you disappeared, Dex had to take the day off work and book an emergency therapy session where he couldn’t really discuss what was bothering him. 

He was paid to be violent. To take down bad guys before they could do serious harm. That’s what they trained him to do. That’s what they ordered him to do, kill, maim, find and torture. But the reality of your disappearance had him crossing boundaries that got him suspended for a week to decompress. 

The week was enough to find you using the FBI databases. He knew it was a job. You always wore a badge and professional clothing. No private company would care about the homeless. So social services was your employer. He only had to find which one had the outreach at Central Park. Then hack into their employee portal until he could find your photo and match you to a profile. 

Your employee profile had everything he needed. Your phone number and email. Your address. Your next of kin and where they lived. Past employment history and degrees. Dex was obsessed to know every detail. 

The week wasn’t long enough. He found himself sitting in the patrol car going through your social media with bodies lying broken and bruised while whoever was his partner that day was forced to take over the questioning and paperwork. 

Violence Dex was good at. Understood. Violence was his nature. That’s why he needed you. Someone to guide him. Someone to inspire him to be good. 

You were nothing if not good. He couldn’t find fault with you and he examined every inch. You made every right decision. Choose kindness in every possible situation. 

He wanted to get close to you. To be your rock in times of trouble. Someone you would turn to and return home to at night. 

When he wasn’t working. He was with you. Albeit apart from you but always in close proximity. He would watch you as you went through your routine imagining walking side by side as you went grocery shopping, laughing and talking as you walked down the isles together. He imagined the drive home although you walked currently due to not being able to afford a car. He imagined unpacking the groceries. Nights in front of the tv. Eating take out and snuggling under the blankets to watch a movie. He imagined the domestic life you could share. 

Dex has never had much of a home life. He had no friends. No family. No dog. He didn’t ask much. Just one person he could share with. Someone who he could devote his life to who wouldn’t abandon him when he revealed too much of himself. He knew it was you. He just had to get you to realise it. 

“I work for the FBI” he mutters, avoiding eye contact. 

“Oh no way” you use the voice reserved for difficult clients. He was turning this date into a session, “that must be very interesting”. 

“It’s not” he dismissed. Eye contact he reminds himself, forcing his eyes up to you, “so social work. That’s great. Do you like it?” 

He tried to keep his voice upbeat. 

You take another sip of your drink trying to ease your nerves. 

“Yeah, I do. I love it. I work in housing so it feels good to walk past empty spots where clients used to be”. 

You downplay your role. He has watched you do so much more. You play therapist. Help these people find food and clothes. Sit and listen to them when others wouldn’t even look in their direction. 

“I hate to think of anyone left in the cold”. 

He feels his heart spread with warmth at your words. 

“Wow that must be difficult” he offers. 

You shake your head no with a smile that almost floors him. 

“It’s not hard to care”. 

He wanted to reach across the table and kiss you. His hands itch to reach for you so he rubs them on his suit pants. 

His mouth felt dry. He had no idea how to keep the conversation going although he desperately wanted to. 

“So Dex” you offer kindly, “do you shop at Kerri Conner often?” 

You refer to the place he bumped into you, having nothing else to talk about. He had been planning it for months. Every second metrically calculated right down to what he had in his carry basket. He knocked into you hard enough for you to drop the bag of apples but not enough to bowl you over. Calculated. Measured. Perfectly planned and in control. 

“I try to support local businesses where I can” he panders. 

“Me too”, you exclaim.  He already knew that. 

“I’d rather pay a little more with the knowledge it’s going to a family rather than the pockets of a CEO” 

“Me too” he agrees. 

Dex was never very good at talking. Thankfully it was part of your job description so you could easily carry the conversation on with little in put from him.

In his head you had been his girlfriend for years. That’s the day dream he trapped himself in. This was just another normal night. Maybe it was an anniversary. Should he have brought you a gift? The ease the thought brought was replaced with panic. Next time he assures. This wasn’t even a real issue. 

“So I am outside in my Pj bottoms and a shirt I stole from my brother that reads ‘hunt more sharks” with three fish on it and”

“Deer” he corrects before he realised he did something stupid. He watched you sleep in the shirt a hundred times. 

“Yeah right. Deer. How did you know that?” You ask suspiciously. 

“I’ve seen the shirt before” he lies, “sorry I interrupted. Please continue”.

“Ah nevermind. It was a silly story about embarrassing myself. I shouldn’t tell it. You should tell me more about you”. 

Dex shifts uncomfortably in his chair. He could talk about you for hours. Himself was an forgin and cold topic. 

“There’s nothing really to tell”. 

“Oh come on. I am sure that’s not true. What do you do in the FBI? Analysis? You are very observant”. 

“I am a sniper” he confirmed. 

You seem taken back by it. Sliding further into your chair. He wished he could go back and lie. 

He takes a deep breath trying to centre himself. Your apathy skills went into overdrive seeing his panic. You forward once more helping him regain his breath. 

“Wow I never would have guessed. So you kill bad guys then” you jut unsure what to say. 

Dex scoffs. His eyebrows raise and looks at you with a fierce expression. 

“I am not sure” he admits, “I get given a profile. I don’t ask too many questions after that”. 

“Yeah but it’s the FBI they wouldn’t send you out unless they were. Sorry, I can see you're uncomfortable. Let’s move on”. 

He sighs a breath of relief. Moving forward in his chair so he was closer to you. 

“Thank you. I don’t mean to be weird. The last thing I would want to do is make you feel uncomfortable. I just,” he begins to panic unsure what to say. 

“Say no more” you assure. “ I understand. I shouldn’t have pushed like that. Knowing you have that sort of job. It was completely my fault. Let’s just move on”. 

“Thank you” he says again. 

He panics again. Fingering the table cloth as he leans forward toward you. Half on the table trying to get as close as he can. 

“You look really beautiful tonight” he offers. 

“Hm” you grin at him, “you’ve said that three times”. 

“You look beautiful enough to say it three times”. 

“You’re sweet” you dismiss him, “I had to dig this dress out of my closet from my sisters wedding. When you suggested a date I didn’t think it would be this fancy”. 

You mentioned you wanted to come here to a co worker. Was it too much pressure for you? Were you not telling your coworker the truth? 

“Is it too much?” Dex asks softly. 

“No, no!” You assure him, “I have been dying to come here. It’s just fancy. A good excuse I reckon to look as good as you do and throw girls off their game” you tease, having another sip of your drink. 

His heart pounds. He stutters stupidly. He wasn’t expecting you to flirt with him. To openly admit you find him attractive. He would replay your words for the rest of his life. 

“Have I figured it out?” You joke. 

Dex lost for words was glad to see the waiter coming back with a tray. 

For the minutes it took him to set the table up, Dex could retreat into himself. 

“Enjoy” the waiter expresses before he leaves. 

“Man, this looks good” you announce picking up your fork. 

He looks down at his stake, unable to cut into it. Should he have ordered this? Were you offended? Would it reduce his chance of a kiss? 

“Are you okay?” You ask him. 

Dex clears his throat, throwing his eyes up to you. 

“Ah yeah, do you mind me eating this?” He asks. 

You laugh at him with your delightful soft laugh which floors him with devotion. 

“No, you’re fine. To each their own, I say”.

Dex was relieved he wouldn’t have to sneak meat around you. He didn’t want there to be any secrets. Although he brought multiple vegetation cook books and practiced recipes, he needed meat to feel fully satisfied with a meal. 

“How long have you been vegetarian for?” He asks. 

“10 years”. 

10 years. It chilled him to think there was 10 years of life lived that he had little clue about. 

“It’s a protest against the treatment of animals which I won’t bore you with now”. 

“Tell me”, he requested. 

“Another time. Another place” you promise. 

The promise of another time had Dex’s leg bouncing under the table. 

You were good at conversation. You held the burden on your back while Dex struggled through. It was light and comfortable like one of your sessions. 

Dex avoids questions about his past. You didn’t push him on it. If he hesitated you moved on. 

He wanted to touch you but pulled himself back. Instead he sat straight in his chair and tried his best to practice his conversation skills taught in his years of therapy. 

You finish the last of your pasta. Placing the plate on top of his to the side for the waiter’s convince. You were always doing that. Little things to help others. 

“Do you want desert?” Dex asked, flicking open the menu left on the table. 

“It’s actually getting pretty late”. His heart dropped as you said it. You were ditching him. He was too much. Too damaged. Too unloveable. 

“Don’t say that” he begged softly. 

“I have to” you smile at him, “I have a lot to do tomorrow but I had fun”. 

He knew it was a lie, you reached for your coat on the back of your chair too quickly. 

“Wait” he begs. He hand sprung out to grab your wrist as you reached for your phone on the table. 

“Don’t leave” he begs. 

“Dex, hey that hurts a little. Can you loosen your hand please” you spoke, calmly , gently but with authority of a mother telling off a child. 

He does loosen his hold but he doesn’t remove his hand from your wrist. 

“Please don’t leave. I am sorry. Ask me about my job. Anything”.

“Hey, hey” you soothe, “everything is fine. You are fine”. 

His chest tightened at the familiar panicked feeling. This was his only chance. You couldn’t leave. 

Your wrist turns up, latching on to his. The touch calmed him instantly. He smiles in relief up at you. 

“Why don’t we go for a walk. Get out this nervous engery” you offer. 

“Yeah” Dex breathes, “I would like that”. 

Without releasing you he looks around for the waiter, signaling him to come over. With his listened hold you were able to pull your arm from under him, reaching into your purse. 

Dex snatched the bill quickly, placing his card in and handing it to the waiter. 

“How much was it? I have cash” you offer. 

“Please” Dex offers, “it’s on me”.

“This place is expensive. I can’t ask that of you”. 

“It’s my pleasure” he expressed earnestly, “anything for you”.

You smile tight, placing your wallet back in your purse. 

“Thank you then. That is very kind”. 

The waiter is quick to return. Eager to clear the table for the next couple. 

“Shall we?” Dex asks.

He follows you out, close. He instantly worries about the cold air. It was too cold to walk on in. 

“Here” he says, sliding his coat off his shoulder. 

“Don’t Dex” you tell him, grabbing the front of his coat and pulling back around him “I have a coat. I don’t need another”.

He holds out his arm but you pretend not to see it, walking in the direction of town. 

“Come on” you call, “I saw markets setting up on the way in. Let’s check them out”. 

Like a puppy he follows. The market was lit up with lights and packed. He knew you wanted the security of having other people around. It was smart for a frst date although he would never let any harm come to you. He even walked you here just in case. Not that you knew that. 

“Look at this. Isn’t it cute” you point to a trinket on the table. 

“I’ll buy it for you” he said reaching for his wallet. 

You ignore the comment, pointing onwards to the lights that hung above. 

“Look there. Aren’t they pretty. Can you smell pancakes?” 

He scoffs as he picks up on your plan. You were trying to ground him. What can you see. What can you hear. What can you smell.

His therapist taught him that one when he was a teenager. 

He humours you. How were you supposed to know that he had a doctorate in being a psychiatrist patient. 

You stopped by a van selling hot chocolate, fighting Dex overpayment which you lose. Even playing he was much stronger than you. 

You both find a empty stoop to sit on. He sit far to close but you don’t mention it. 

The drink went down in silence as you watch people pass. 

“I think it’s time to say goodbye in five minutes” he heart broke as you prepared him, “markets closing. It’s getting cold”. 

“All those things you have to do tomorrow “ he mutters .

“That’s right” you laugh but there was no humour behind it, “but thanks for the night. We will have to do something soon”. 

“Tomorrow?” He asks hopefully, “I could help you get through your to do list?”

“Yeah. I mean you’ve got my number so just let me know when your free and-“

“I am free all day” he interrupted, “I can meet you early tomorrow morning”. 

“I am not even sure I will be awake early tomorrow. I’ll call you when I wake” you stand up from the stoop. 

“Let me see you home”. 

“No, that’s fine. I’ll catch a cab this time of night”. 

“I can take you”. 

“No. It’s all good” you place a hand on his back rubbing it gently which turned him into a puddle. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow” you promised. 

“Yeah” he agrees softly. 

All too soon your hand was gone and you were walking away from him. He lets you go a comfortable distance before slowly trailing behind you. He needed to see you home. Ensure you were comfortable in bed before he could leave. 

You don’t take a cab like you promised him. Social work doesn’t earn much. You were always cautious about how you spent money. 

When you are his girlfriend he would drive you anywhere you wanted to go. No longer having to take the train in to work: he would drop you to the front door and pick you up on time. He couldn’t wait to fall into a familiar pattern with you. Something soft and comfortable. Unlike his current rigid routine that the special forces and bureau instilled in him to make him the perfect weapon. 

He would make you breakfast every morning. Wake you with coffee and a kiss. He would do the dishes while you got ready and you would head out the door together as a couple ready to face the world. You would anchor him. Ground him. Be his comfort and guiding star when he gets lost within himself. 

He watches as you enter your key code into your apartment block. You would have to move in with him. He didn’t like the security of your building. When he first broke in it took him less than five minutes. 

He stands outside in the cold watching as your light in your apartments flicks on and your shadow moves around inside. 

When he could no longer see your shadow he switched to the security camera video that he installed in your apartment. You were in the shower. Your hair was tied up so he knew it would only be quick. Enough to remove your makeup and warm your cold skin. 

He had seen you naked plenty of times. It never held any lust for him. Just a warming feeling of utter devotion and love. That body was his. There was no desire to be had. 

Wrapped in a towel you grab your pajamas from the end of your bed. Your brothers shirt was held still in your hand  as you gazed oddly at it before throwing it to the corner of your room. Instead you dress in your long pajama pants and a tank top before crawling into bed and switching off your lamp. 

Dex pulls up on the screen, minimising the window so he could send you a goodnight text. 

‘Hey,  Thanks for tonight. I enjoyed spending time with you. I'll have your coffee ready tomorrow when we meet up. Sleep well, beautiful. See you tomorrow :)” 

He watches on the screen as your phone lights up and your roll to reach for it. A certain thrill hit his bones watching you read a text sent by him. 

He eagerly waits for a response. An exchange from you. Anything. A smiley face. A kiss. Even if you just liked his text. Any sort of an acknowledgement of him would do. 

Instead you place your phone back down and roll back to your side. 

His heart sinks. The feeling of losing control creeps back over him but he reaches for his techniques. Three big breaths. Clamping of his hands against his palm. 

You were tired. You would text in the morning. You weren’t withdrawing from him. 

Once you’re asleep Dex returns back to his apartment. Meticulously  kept. Not one handle the wrong way. Control was one thing Dex craved the most. 

Everything had a place. A routine of use. Dex liked routine. Order. It made him feel safe in a life of chaos. 

His keys went to the same spot by the door every day. Never anywhere else. His shoes and coat  were put directly back in the cupboard in their place. Before his clothes went to the hamper for washing on Sunday at 9am. 

His military training had him efficient in every manner. His shower was productive and never ran over three minutes. 

After his shower he dressed quickly in his designated nightwear- a white shirt and track suit pants. 

He always touches the spare spot in his wardrobe that he kept reserved for you before closing the draw. 

With his teeth and hair brushed and all the light turned out, he finally makes it into bed where he checks his phone to make sure you were still sleeping. 

He runs his thumb over your image as if he was petting you before placing his phone on charge and breathing heavily out.